Read on if you'd like; if so, thank you for taking the time to do so. Best of days to all.
The bus veered around a series of winding corners, and they slowly and methodically snaked their way deep into the trees. He surprisingly managed to drift in and out of sleep periodically with each bump and sway of the ancient machine as it rocked him to sleep. The old driver tamed the turns like a seasoned pro, and managed to swerve deftly around each craggy bend; any driver with normal nerves would surely not have attempted that type of road with the type of speed that this guy was able to conjure up. It was actually quite a shock that the old scrap heap was able to generate any speed at all, he mused. One look at that thing and you’d think it must’ve been George Washington’s motor coach. That fucker had to have been at Valley Forge. A good jolt jarred him from his sleep, and he sat up wide-eyed in the seat. He gave a quick, slumber induced glance around the bus in order to get his bearings, and noticed that her eyes had closed and her head was tilted back against the seat. Her head shifted gently from side to side with each curve of the road, and she looked so peaceful like that, he thought, her head dancing along with the movement of the bus. The breeze forced its way in and caught fragile tufts of her hair in its grasp, and sent it flying rapidly in front of her face. She was beautiful.
Just a random excerpt from an as yet untitled story. Kick back and enjoy, and thank you for reading.
The phone's ringing jarred him unpleasantly from his daydreams, and he carelessly decided against answering it. His thoughts were much more interesting than any words on the other end of the line. He looked over his shoulder at her, and watched as her hair fell gently over her eyes, and he longingly watched as she guided the strands softly behind her ear. He drank the image of her in like water, and silently admired her beauty. She was the stuff of his daydreams, and he watched her fingers delicately glide across the keys on her keyboard, beautiful hands that were very much a major player in his thoughts. Her eyes were so welcoming…the kind that you want to lose yourself in. The kind that make you want to say “to hell with the world”, and remain in forever. They were a world in themselves, a secret refuge. She caught him staring at her at that moment, and flashed him the loveliest of smiles, so inviting, so genuine, a smile that opened the door to her own secret world.
Originally posted on 1-7-12, with music.
What is flesh, but a creation?
A limited fuse lit by an unseen hand-
Can it heal?
Can it grow?
and we don’t have to lift a finger.
What is flesh, but a wrapper,
much like a candy bar,
or a tiny mint-
a mask for something more defined
a shirt for our thoughts,
socks for our feelings,
a jacket for our innermost workings-
we can spend years crying tears of all
or smiling moonlit smiles…
with or without the courage to move
forward, or backward,
with or without the strength to stand on
What is flesh, but a creation-
what is creation, but a thought turned into
and action, a collection of concerted
and all we have to do is continue to
The sun…it always shines*
Originally posted on 10-8-12, this poem is a little reminder that there is hope at the end of every dark tunnel, no matter how small or insignificant it may seem. The key is to keep moving forward; pushing, clawing, grinding…whatever it takes, until your eyes can see clearly once more. Always reach out to those going through troubles; lend a helping hand, and make a point to uplift rather than put down. Make an effort to find your peace…and help others discover theirs. And remember to never fear the journey.
Twenty years imbalanced.
Twenty years spent roaming the stillness and
bedding down in a locked room.
Twenty years imbalanced-
a steaming brew boiled within those walls,
bubbling over and staining the pot with its
Bubbles rose to the surface and exploded
spirits rose and fell like ocean tides,
and emotions rode those waves like daring
surfers in search of that unattainable thrill.
Thoughts and hopes and dreams appeared and
dissipated like gobs of rain under a hot sun-
twenty years imbalanced-
parched and afloat, drifting along choppy seas,
surrounded by irony, and unable to take a sip-
the know how just wasn’t yet there,
so he treated himself like a book,
and became an encyclopedia-
and yet dusty and unread,
his pages stained with longing and mystery.
He learned to read himself, word for word,
until a detailed silhouette materialized.
A volume was left open on a table one
close to an open window-
a ripe plum purple morning, threaded
with the orange mists of dawn, and streaked
with whispering winds-
winds that meandered through the window and stirred
the sediments of dust and waste…
an eager gust crept along the table and
managed to turn a page…
Twenty years imbalanced.
Twenty years unsteady, unguided, unheard-
twenty years locked behind silent, mirrored walls,
examining and learning the words of himself-
the opening of that window flipped a page,
just a random page,
with a new one resting calmly beside it-
a new chapter-
waiting eagerly under
the brilliance of the rising sun*