It seems as if madness is our only connection. Not person. People. It's the push and pull. So many strings and fibers attached to one another. All heroes and villains in tragedy, comedy, and romance. We are parts with an ever changing plot. We want to scream and shout our innocence. Deny our abominations. So that we can walk with our heads held ( Read more... )

Sleepless night.

All I can think about is a room being overrun by people.
Bursting through these 17 foot doors.
Pushing them aside.
These doors with towers of windows within it.
And an old style drap covering each side.
Something you would see in an older fashion hotel.
The light hitting as if someone was holding a candle close by.
I am in this ( Read more... )

For it is a tragic fate that holds us, unable to escape
The more I go, the less I want to be
With every smile and laugh I falsely grow
Only wishing the opposed
Trapped

Though, truly I am far more free than ever
An option of evasion is always mine
I feel I am looped on you.
Only wishing
Riding the wind.

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;

Coral is far more red than her lips' red;

If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;

If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.

I have seen roses damasked, red and white,

But no such roses see I in her cheeks;

And in some perfumes is there more delight

Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.

I ( Read more... )

I have bent over, doubly so, to pick up the many fallen hats. Each with different fibers and times of me ( Read more... )

 He shuffles and walks as I imagine Abe Lincoln would do.
With cane and thick black souls.

 To breathe is something I desire.

Who am I but a man twisted by words.
Who thinks but does not act upon thoughts.
Who resigned wants to fate.
Who's hopes and dreams have been placed atop a sieve to be panned.
What's left is substance abuse.

  From there, after six days and seven nights, you arrive at Zobeide, the white city, well exposed to the moon, with streets wound about themselves as in a skein. They tell this tale of its foundation: men of various nations had an identical dream. They saw a woman running at night through an unknown city; she was seen from behind, with long hair, ( Read more... )

To walk forward, sometimes you walk backwards.

Life's but a walking shadow, a poor prayer, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more; It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.          -William Shakespeare