Sunday, July 19, 2009
Saturday, June 20, 2009
LOL
[23:33:40] zayde: shake your bon bon
[23:33:44] zayde: oooo ya
[23:33:52] salina: ..
[23:34:41] zayde: shake your bon bon
[23:34:45] zayde: shake your bon bon
[23:34:56] Ronan[bbl]: bongo bongo
[23:35:38] salina: ....................
[23:38:54] Ronan[bbl]: chestnuts roasting on an open fire
[23:39:14] salina: ...........................LOL WHAT
[23:33:44] zayde: oooo ya
[23:33:52] salina: ..
[23:34:41] zayde: shake your bon bon
[23:34:45] zayde: shake your bon bon
[23:34:56] Ronan[bbl]: bongo bongo
[23:35:38] salina: ....................
[23:38:54] Ronan[bbl]: chestnuts roasting on an open fire
[23:39:14] salina: ...........................LOL WHAT
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Life - Written March 3, 2009
Her insight is imagined,
Her ignorance is key
To the lock of imagination,
Fabrication;
Illumination.
The opened mouth,
Of gluttony;
A paralyzed destiny.
Born from wishful dreams.
Shot against a backdrop,
She is not good.
A convention of evil.
Obscene, and true, but lewd;
And so she widens the gap,
Between truths and lies, and heaven,
Discipline like
HALOS.
Confined within her brethren.
Until she asks herself:
Is this life?
Her ignorance is key
To the lock of imagination,
Fabrication;
Illumination.
The opened mouth,
Of gluttony;
A paralyzed destiny.
Born from wishful dreams.
Shot against a backdrop,
She is not good.
A convention of evil.
Obscene, and true, but lewd;
And so she widens the gap,
Between truths and lies, and heaven,
Discipline like
HALOS.
Confined within her brethren.
Until she asks herself:
Is this life?
Resolution - Written January 1, 2009
The sea was a deep mixture of soft hues that scathed her fingertips. It swished back and forth, soothing calluses that had engraved her soul with mordant whispers.
The snow was a shallow murmur of wistful dreams. It burned her spirit with waves of fever, exaggerating her heart until it piqued with forgiveness.
The stars were a multitude of forgotten wishes, each shooting spark pulsing with complexity. They brightened the sky but for a moment, before disappearing behind clouds dense with the hideous weeds of uncertainty.
The depth of her pond is shallow, vulgar and incomplete. She wishes on the star for the deep sea to freeze over with snow. Entwined they become, surging from the very elements that make up her heart.
She will stop waiting for someone to save her. She will save herself.
That is her resolution.
The snow was a shallow murmur of wistful dreams. It burned her spirit with waves of fever, exaggerating her heart until it piqued with forgiveness.
The stars were a multitude of forgotten wishes, each shooting spark pulsing with complexity. They brightened the sky but for a moment, before disappearing behind clouds dense with the hideous weeds of uncertainty.
The depth of her pond is shallow, vulgar and incomplete. She wishes on the star for the deep sea to freeze over with snow. Entwined they become, surging from the very elements that make up her heart.
She will stop waiting for someone to save her. She will save herself.
That is her resolution.
Oblivion - Written December 26, 2008
A continent of discontinuity.
Perception is as jagged as desire, while hope froths beneath the surface. A fountain of ambiguity pools beneath her hairline where it gathers and eventually falls as perspiration.
Her effort is gradual and precise, though secretive and obscure. She strokes the sky with her paintbrush and creates the sunset, decorated with wishes and stars.
A whisper whips and spirals, collecting the dregs of autumn. Fragments scatter as snowflakes, littering her deepest secrets on the tip of his tongue. He does not taste them.
Her dreams melt through his fingers, tracing the curve of his palm before slipping away. Each delusion is a fairy tale of happy endings.
When she is gone, he cannot fathom the lingering taste of bruised apples behind a blanket of snow.
Perception is as jagged as desire, while hope froths beneath the surface. A fountain of ambiguity pools beneath her hairline where it gathers and eventually falls as perspiration.
Her effort is gradual and precise, though secretive and obscure. She strokes the sky with her paintbrush and creates the sunset, decorated with wishes and stars.
A whisper whips and spirals, collecting the dregs of autumn. Fragments scatter as snowflakes, littering her deepest secrets on the tip of his tongue. He does not taste them.
Her dreams melt through his fingers, tracing the curve of his palm before slipping away. Each delusion is a fairy tale of happy endings.
When she is gone, he cannot fathom the lingering taste of bruised apples behind a blanket of snow.
The Feminist - Written November 12, 2008
She carves her identity in ink.
Neat rows of letters march across the page, uniform and elegantly curved. They bend at her will; they are fluent.
Only she can see them.
Poised at the center of her imagination is a pencil. It pivots near disaster. It lands on tragedy. Often it is attracted to the bizarre mind of a romantic, where the strings of reason become brittle.
Heartfelt words linger in her thoughts, for she loves with her mind. Her heart is merely an organ, as unimportant to her as the very lungs she breathes with. For, though they are vital to her life, they are not her lifeline.
Carefully, she turns the page. Wet images flash in unruly candle light. They smudge and become distorted, reflecting her turmoil. Words as significant as the sky are ruined, and she does not care.
Because she knows only she can see them.
The ink runs dry, and she does not finish her last word. It glimmers obscenely, a mark so destructive to her efforts that she retires.
Years later, when she is a part of history, her words are discovered.
And it is not until then that she is heard.
Neat rows of letters march across the page, uniform and elegantly curved. They bend at her will; they are fluent.
Only she can see them.
Poised at the center of her imagination is a pencil. It pivots near disaster. It lands on tragedy. Often it is attracted to the bizarre mind of a romantic, where the strings of reason become brittle.
Heartfelt words linger in her thoughts, for she loves with her mind. Her heart is merely an organ, as unimportant to her as the very lungs she breathes with. For, though they are vital to her life, they are not her lifeline.
Carefully, she turns the page. Wet images flash in unruly candle light. They smudge and become distorted, reflecting her turmoil. Words as significant as the sky are ruined, and she does not care.
Because she knows only she can see them.
The ink runs dry, and she does not finish her last word. It glimmers obscenely, a mark so destructive to her efforts that she retires.
Years later, when she is a part of history, her words are discovered.
And it is not until then that she is heard.
Fireworks - Written November 6, 2008
Viscous are her dreams.
Thick and unfulfilled, a creamy texture that slithers down the bent corners of her palm. They settle in her hand, small and wistful pools of accomplishment, but she cannot grasp them.
They are unattainable.
Her fingers do not flex. They unfurl and lay open, exposing her weakness to the glaring sun. Flowers forget to blossom, and she is alone in the middle of a grassy stretch, where the buds of potential nip at her ankles.
She is a beggar. Her palms outstretched, she pleads against the moist soils of the earth. Who she is and who she’s come to be are outrageously different. Who she wants to be is a parallel.
Plumes of sand cloud the sky. Like fireworks, the display startles her into appreciating beauty. Unlike fireworks, the painted image does not disappear but is scarring. Even when the dust falls away and leaves the air misty with grains of sorrow, the moment will be forever.
She imagines a future. And it is a great task for one who lives day-by-day.
Or who lived today.
For tomorrow, she will step on a landmine.
Thick and unfulfilled, a creamy texture that slithers down the bent corners of her palm. They settle in her hand, small and wistful pools of accomplishment, but she cannot grasp them.
They are unattainable.
Her fingers do not flex. They unfurl and lay open, exposing her weakness to the glaring sun. Flowers forget to blossom, and she is alone in the middle of a grassy stretch, where the buds of potential nip at her ankles.
She is a beggar. Her palms outstretched, she pleads against the moist soils of the earth. Who she is and who she’s come to be are outrageously different. Who she wants to be is a parallel.
Plumes of sand cloud the sky. Like fireworks, the display startles her into appreciating beauty. Unlike fireworks, the painted image does not disappear but is scarring. Even when the dust falls away and leaves the air misty with grains of sorrow, the moment will be forever.
She imagines a future. And it is a great task for one who lives day-by-day.
Or who lived today.
For tomorrow, she will step on a landmine.
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