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3 a.m. rambles on a bus ride home from NYCIt's 3 a.m. and I'm somewhere in Pennsylvania, probably,
dozing off every few minutes and cramped into a small bus seat
that is very uncomfortable.
Trees pass me by, few lights of homes appearing and passing,
or the blinking of telephone towers off in the distance.
We pass by small cities, the street lamps illuminating the silhouettes
of hotels and restaurants right off the highway.
The world beyond the bus is black, endless black.
The skies are clouded, not a star in sight, and I am
three days more into missing you.
The time blurs as minutes tick by, and I know if I fall
asleep on this cursed vehicle I will get sick,
so I continue to write to you,
to try to convey what the deepness of the night
does to my thoughts.
I miss you.
I miss you.
I hope you miss me, too.
InfinityWe can create universes.
Infinity flows through our veins and only when we dig deep enough in the crevices of our very existence do we find the stars, nebulae, planets roaming within the particles that make up our DNA. These homes, these stories, they are a part of us. Every cell in our bodies can contain so many other worlds, so many other us's that we don't know about and that they don't know about and that's incredible, so very incredible.
Some days, however, a bit of this world may find its way into our life. We feel the sudden urge to create, to release the energy that's been pumped into our veins and itches itches itches to find a way out. It crawls its way into our brains and the nerves find it's too much, too much, so it sends it back and it courses through along our life streams and down to our arms or our legs and further to our wrists and ankles our hands and our feet our fingertips and our toes where we can't hold it in, our fingers
Falling: Prologue“If everybody minded their own business, the world would go around a great deal faster than it does."
Saturday, June 9th, 2057: 5:17 A.M.
I woke to silence and knew I was alone. Of course I was used to this: waking up each and every morning to an empty house. It was almost as though one could hear their own breathing and, if they’re lucky and listen to the quiet hard enough, hear the sound of air hissing past their ears like when you place your ear to a conch and imagine that it’s the ocean.
Stiff joints popped and I flexed beneath the blankets- arched my back and let out a small grunt as sleep-ridden muscles were forced to work again. With much effort I worked my way out of the bed and lumbered to the bathroom across the too-quiet, too-dark hallway to relieve myself and look into the mirror with a scowl. My reflection scowled back.
Still half awake and barely functioning, I put my
The Stages of SpringI. Autumn's presence
Nothing but the crisp smell of
Fallen leaves and the in-and-out
Patterns of warm days laced with chill
II. Snow storms in March
Cold and ice when and where
It just shouldn't be
III. Lengthening days
And screwed up sleeping schedules
As night comes later
And an hour is lost from the day
Try not to have an early schedule that week
Because deep regret will follow with the first morning
IV. Flowers blooming and birds returning
Trees coming back to life with buds of pink
And chirps of winged beauties
Blessing the steadily-warming mornings
Warmth of the oncoming summertime
Unsure of a titleYou held my very existence within calloused fingers
And palms roughened from both playing stringed instruments
And catching yourself as you tripped over life’s speed bumps.
I wasn't broken, in the beginning.
Glued together and delicate, but not quite ruined.
You were gentle with my being and you cared
But I began to grow dark with age
My fingers grew slender from typing away my mind
And my limbs grew lined and dotted with scars
That were either intentional or accidental, I stopped keeping track at one point.
Eventually, it chased you away
And despite you staying, you weren't quite there with me
As the cracks grew more prominent and my mind grew heavy with beautiful thoughts
Of falling from your hands and crashing down into the icy dark of life’s ruthless grasp.
Of shattering upon impact and leaving everything behind.
You put me back on the shelf from which you found me,
Damaged and too close to the edge and left to collect dust.
Not that I minded; it
Squeaky Shoes and Vacant EyesSqueaky shoes and vacant eyes
Earbuds that hide a mind that lies
Music so loud to block out the noise
Caused by the judging girls and boys
Pale pink scars and shaking hands,
Snapping wrists with rubber bands.
Hair cut shorter, sleeves bought longer,
Hiding away so they can sit and ponder
The life they want to leave behind
But each day life will be sure to remind
Them to go outside with a smile and a lie
And to go back home and never cry.
And after all this time with every lie
They wait for the day they can say goodbye
To squeaky shoes and vacant eyes
And earbuds that shield a mind that wants to die
Don't Fall In Love With A Writer Just because they will bruise your neck with pearls of metaphors; and splash palettes of colours onto your chest with reckless waves and boundless twilight. They will smear ink onto your lips as you kiss them because that is how they leave hickeys. They are wildest in their 2 a.m. diary, and liveliest in book racks of novels; they have butterflies in every heartbeat and they breathe living poems. They leave trails in libraries and coffee shops like Hansel leaves crumbs in forest and they have undying lovers because every love story is ever living in their abyssal oceans of analogies and similes. They know every clichés like the sunset knows the moon rise, and every wound in their heart like blood in their veins. They are terrifying because they weave you in splinters of fires rolling down their cheeks. They are weird because they don't smile much but sometimes you could catch their smiles in poems or tales. They are psychotic
A Rapist Wears PinkA rapist can wear lipstick, make up, dresses or skirts,
Her nails can be painted brightly, her eyes can still harbor hurt.
A rapist can walk with heels, that click as she drags her feet,
A rapist can have a feminine voice, that comes pouring from her vile teeth.
A rapist can be a woman, that much should be clear,
Yet a few ignorant people, will choose not to adhere.
A rapist can pick her victim, as easily as the next,
She can claim she’s just lost or stranded, then force you into sex.
A rapist can cry wolf, as long as she cries feminist first,
A rapist can ruin your life style, make day to day living worse.
A rapist can put you in jail, with one tear of her eye.
A rapist will claim that you’ve hit her, that you wanted her to die.
A rapist is a liar, she hides behind her make up.
A rapist will be in your dreams, even when you wake up.
A rapist has the ability to avoid the clutches of the law,
A rapist can claim you’ve hit her, if you didn’t stand for her at
Avoidant Personality DisorderI've never gotten to explain this to anyone before, since every time I try, I break into some sort of sobbing fit. If my explanation sounds a little funky, that may be why.
Yeah. So, I have APD, or Avoidant Personality Disorder.
To summarize, it's a disorder that makes people want to avoid social contact and criticism by all means.
Unfortunately, that includes me.
I didn't know about the disorder until I browsed through psychological disorders for writing purposes, and happened to find it. I matched every single symptom.
Every last one, period. And I believe, wholeheartedly, that I have it.
This isn't your WebMD diagnosis, not when you feel so badly.
It's a really difficult feeling to describe.
Whenever you so much as try to make conversation with any person, you feel like chopping your head off. In my case, you're afraid to say hello. Or goodbye, or thank you, or I love you, or things that people should be able to say without stopping to think.
You feel unworthy o
everything is temporaryi have never been one to yell, it hurts my throat, or maybe i just lack the passion to get that mad at something. you always did bring out things that i never knew were inside though. we had matching bloodshot eyes, and the same fuck the world attitude running through our veins as if the world owed us something. it didn't then. but it does now. my blood is thick and burning and i want to try and flood it into yours to get the colour back into your cheeks that i just watched drain. i kicked the wall, and opened the window and screamed at the sky-scrappers and i don't know how the world can just keep fucking turning without so much a skipped rotation or a fucking stutter.
you turned small, minor things into giant fucking events that made my chest even tighter. a tickle in my throat, a spreading wildfire on the nape of my neck, a distinct lack of words or feelings to anything more than a lingering heaviness. i lost count of how many times i contemplated stepping in front of that car, bus,
My alter-egosYou see, I have these beings in my head I call alter-egos. They're parts of me that appear whenever I need them. They represent me, they come from the deepest side of my soul. It might seem crazy, but that's the best way I can describe them. They're very different from my other OCs (Vince, Renka, Alice, ete); they're very special to me. Sorry, I'm not good at explaining things myself...
Keiko: can I? Can I explain it? Pleeeeaseee?
Okay, go ahead.
Keiko: okay, we are special beings that live inside Sandra's mind. We were formed of her subconscious, so that makes us different of her other OCs she created herself. We're here to protect her, to make her feel better when she has her episodes of depression. Recently, she decided to make us public because we told her it was a good idea.
Now we will show a list of all the alter-egos Sandra has:
-Abyss (Gloomy Apocalypse): Demon
-Angel (Pulsar Majoris): Male version of Sandra
-Astrid (Star Lollipop): Birdwing
-Dana (Harmonic Holic): Human with
Prayer For PeaceThis is not a pledge for peace, though I wish it was.
A pledge is adhered by everyone, those low and above.
I guess this is a prayer, something that I hold true,
A prayer for peace for everyone, for peace for me and you.
I’ve seen this world and its twisted ways,
I’ve seen more than 295 lives vanish in just days.
I’ve heard of the bombs flying across borders,
Making the lives of the innocent, quick and sorter.
I’ve seen the leaders of the world turn away,
Perhaps they’ll help out if they’re given better pay?
I’ve seen planes vanish, and fall from the sky,
I’ve seen their families mourn, their villages and cities cry.
I think to my self, is this the world God has made,
Is this the world we live in, if so, what have we paid?
We’ve ruined it with wars, hatred and destruction,
We’ve plagued it with chemicals, violence and combustion.
So I do not ask, nor pledge for what I want,
But I pray for peace, for a world that is so gaunt.
TrustIt's almost impossible to make your mark on this world,
The true art in what I do is gone.
Once it was skill, and knowledge mixed with science that created the still image,
You had to know what an f-stop did, you had to know about depth of field.
Now everyone has a camera, everyone is a photographer,
What I pride myself on, is still striving to be better.
Trying to bring my own life's experiences to my images,
Finding the right people, people with soul, people with hurt inside them.
Encouraging those people to let down their walls,
To cry, to laugh, to be sexy, and sultry, and scary and mean and passionate for my lens.
To reveal themselves, sometimes for the first time ever, sometimes for the last time ever,
Some reveal their hearts, some reveal their bodies, all reveal something.
Because if you think I'll just have you just standing there, you are wrong,
You will be encouraged to let go.
Know that I know my art, the technical side, the science behind a great shot,
Trust that for a fle
anyway.there are things i know too well about you, and most of them break my heart just remembering them. i knew the look in your eyes right before you would cry, or how it would snap and change from a look of swelling tides to unfiltered rage, aimed directly at me. cause i was the closest thing that you could bruise or throw your words at that wasn't a wall, or yourself. it wasn't damaging you, and as far i was concerned, that was worth a few flourishes or a swollen eye.
the alternative just wasn't worth mentioning or comparing.
there was something not right in your head, maybe the vodka or whatever you drink dissolved a synapses or two, because the notion of cause and effect didn't seem to make any sense, and empathy was just completely lost on you. i did love you, the best i knew how to, the best i could with the cards you gave me. i don't know if you returned those feelings when you were sober and weren't forced to be honest. drunken words are apparently the truths we can't admit when we'
I Can't Lose to You.My blood rushes.
My head is light.
I can't think straight anymore,
My only thought is; Fight.
Fight your criticism.
Fight your words.
Fight your taunting.
I hate myself like this,
Where all I see is red.
It only reminds me,
How I wish I were dead.
That way, I can hurt no one.
I can not give in.
I can not lose.
I can't. . .
I can't let you win.
I want to scream,
But I don't want to lose again.
A Turning Point in the Clockwork WarA war of attrition
depends on supply and drawdown,
how much you have and how much you use up.
With personnel, the balance concerns
the influx of recruitment versus
the outflow of casualties, deserters, invalids.
There is only so much loss
that a fighting force can sustain
and still fight.
Pilot Claude Archer was the first
to challenge his invalid discharge.
"I don't need legs to fly," he said,
patting the healed stumps of his thighs.
"My Osprey runs on elbow grease."
The members of the discharge board
paused and looked at each other.
What he said was true.
The Osprey-class fighter jets
relied on hand controls,
and a sharp eye and iron nerve.
Fingers flicked through the stack
of discharge papers -- so many, many pages.
So many soldiers lost, never to fight again.
They could not afford to let slip even one
who might be retained, somehow,
to face the front line once more.
Far less could the war effort spare
one of its best pilots.
So they put Pilot Archer back on the roster,
may as well buy another packcollapse, and breathe into the carpet:
sunday mornings are not
for falling apart, but damn
the amphorics, this
is not an atmosphere.
you fell in love like you always
wish you didn't, made all their
smiles replaceable, interchangeable,
fell asleep with shadows and kept
drinking, just letting yourself sleep
with blue pills
and tried not to scream.
(keep this image in your head:
fire and nectarines, a sudden jerk
of realization, inspiration
breaking your neck and leaving you forever
breaking bones is not so different
from breaking hearts - it's all about
the leverage, the angle, the mode
(and at least it wasn't personal;
it can color in your own guilt
for starting lines and never ending
Keep in Touch!