Invisible Smoke
Category: Writing and Poetry

26^th September 2005

She said she was addicted to second hand smoke

even though the fumes tear up her green eyes.

She wore a red skirt that made her happy and free

when she twirled around underneath the florescent light.

Her smile was timid and shy as she hid inside

her books filled with words that brought her to life.

She was the strangest girl he had met in life

and she filled his lost head with lavender smoke.

He could not bring himself to let her inside

so he glanced upon her hoping to catch her eyes.

Maybe it was the way her sandy hair grabbed the light

That had her growing within his mind so free.

Her delicate speech, so sweet and soft, was always free

to anyone who listened to her stories of a make-believe life.

It did not mater what the time of day was, the light

was always on in her house filled with incense smoke.

Her home was never empty; it was filled with a pair of eyes

belonging to an orange tabby cat who always lived inside.

One gloomy Friday she had touched him softly inside

the pub where they had hid from the rain falling free.

He did not know what to say, words lost in his eyes,

but she knew to well that it had been a hard life.

Eventually the night droned on in the smoke

filled bar shadowing their kiss with no light.

Morning awoke through her window bringing light

that shed upon the two awkwardly barricaded inside.

Their nude bodies wisped around each other like smoke

from a campfire left to burn in the desert, open and free.

It had been a night neither would forget for all their life

but the spark was to intense and it faded their eyes.

He went back the next day looking for her eyes

but he found it odd that her house had no light.

He knocked on the door patiently waiting for life

to stir and for her smile to emerge from inside.

A note found on the porch said she must be free;

he did not fight the tears, he blamed them on the smoke.

Tears of smoke filled both their eyes

when they were free to see the light

lost inside and swallowed by a broken life.

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The Beautiful Dead

This poem is inspired from feelings of disenchantment, and about the moment when a person relies that there is more to life then the material sensations of a hedonistic lifestyle. It is about how out of place one feels having found this new knowledge but still going through the motions of the previous life with the sneaking suspicion that there is more, always in the back of the mind. You knows this, but are confused as to how to find it.

The Beautiful Dead

6^th October 2005

1.

The beautiful dead

I see them every were

They crowed the streets

They dance in the clubs

They sit in coffee shops

They read People magazine

I see them every were

The beautiful dead

I hear them speak

They say hello to me

They talk about nothing

They sing shallow songs

They verbally abuse everyone

I hear them speak

The beautiful dead

I feel them near me

They touch themselves meaninglessly

They group each other in loneliness

They grab for meaning from flesh

They sense nothing but emptiness

I feel them near me

The beautiful dead

I smell their sweet stench

They adorn themselves with perfume

They hide their sent behind movement

They attract others to them with denial

They permeate the room with lust

I smell their sweet stench

The beautiful dead

I taste the ash they leave behind

They endeavor to entice and seduce

They simmer their minds with alcohol

They all ware masks of trendy fashions

They only offer bitter love

I taste the ash they leave behind

2.

The beautiful dead

They dont see me

I move quietly around them

I hide my tears away

I sneak past them my knowledge

I cover my genuine heart

They dont see me

The beautiful dead

They do not hear me

I cannot speak their tongue

I do not understand what they write

I reject their ideals of truth

I protect myself from their words

They do not hear me

The beautiful dead

They do not feel me

I keep my emotions away from their fangs

I silently mourn away from their sight

I love behind closed doors

I send my soul into exile

They do not feel me

The beautiful dead

They do not smell me

I havent the will to share with them

I keep inside my sensuality

I grasp at strands of reality

I wrap my arms around myself

They do not smell me

The beautiful dead

They do not taste me

I crave nothing from them

I nourish myself with seeking

I consume the voice of the Earth

I starve myself with frustration

They do not taste me

3.

The beautiful dead

Am I one of them?

Do I see them with envy?

Do I hear them with understanding?

Do I feel them with lust?

Do I smell them with empathy?

Do I taste them with fear?

Am I one of them?

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Fun With Personal Adds!

Today at work, I was doing nothing, as usual, and board out of my mind. I picked up the paper to look for another part time job to get paid to be board with as well. That is when I came across the personal adds. There isn't may of them in the GJ Sentinel, but I found one amusing; it said SUGAR DADY 62 seeks sweet trim thing. So I got to thinking, If I were to post a personal in the GJ Sentinel what would it say. I came up with this:

Broke, cuddly 26 male seeks intelligent nymphomaniac female to have conversations with over breakfast

What would your personal add say? Make it honest, funny, bizarre, disturbing, just damn fun and reply on my blog.

4:56 PM - 3 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

My Winter. . .
Category: Writing and Poetry

I stand alone as I always

the world spins around me.

The cold is my old friend

who laughs and ridicules me.

The rage was seeded by those

who branded me an Apostate!

The taste of their spawn will

be administered to them by me!

The wind blows through me

cutting upon my edges.

There is this unquenchable desire

growing within me.

My feet are week as I stare

into the oblivion of the crowd.

Not one person can I find

who seeks out and looks at me.

Devastations of a past lost to me

lays behind me in my wake.

I gaze into the future painted in the sky

seeking the path for me.

Affection, a warm embrace, companionship,

and a kiss are all that I seek.

Bound at the legs and bound at the wrists,

nothing but my prison awaits me.

The moon light sheds my blood

and the sun sheds my soul.

I lay trembling inside

where the retched hollowness gnaws at me.

I do not belong to this world,

where rules and laws apply.

I came from a place I do not remember

and seek that home for me.

My shackles resist the passion

that exists for my pleasure.

They weaken ever so slightly

but it is not fast enough for me.

Why cant I bee free to myself

and amongst my self?

I hold back so much from my environment;

I terrorize me.

The song is heard, faint and soft,

in the distance beyond dusk.

I strain to hear its sweet melody

from lips that part for me.

Fog settles down a blanket of intrigue

as I close my eyes.

In the distances the dew

gathers into mist calling me.

I cannot go on,

in this state of sorrow and fluctuating misery.

Will the phantom opens her eyes

and opens her bosom for me?

I question if that time will ever come,

hidden amongst the lies.

Will I find myself blackened and withered

and invisible even to me?

There is a glimmer of hope

that these times of winter will soon end.

The spring will come fast

and swift upon the land and surround me.

Let the snow fall and surround me.

Let the sun shine and discover me.

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