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DemeanorThe frame of mind
we have inside
can change the way
we see today.
A gloomy cloud
can cause a frown;
the sun above
fills us with love.
The outside world
changes us within,
but it should be
Our self inside
can change the world as we know;
we just have to let it out,
and let it roam.
Today was a good dayI slip,
into the vacancy of the cosmos,
where the sun,
a burning cyclops eye,
I soar, and,
when I return,
I speak of my journey
around the stars, behind the moon,
to a place where Pluto
is no bigger than my thumb,
and a star can be crafted
into a beautiful diamond ring.
DoubterScattered, fragile dreams,
destroyed, on the ground
no more. Alas,
reason shot them dead-
a spray of skeptic bullets
coming from our mouth, our mind,
our friends, our enemies.
"Nothing is impossible
but everything is distant."
REALity IS reLetIvE"Eat healthy," mom always told me. "Eat healthy, because I don't want you to have a heart attack in your teen years." And I always listen to her, even after my teen years, and eat healthy by barely eating at all, and having a cup of herbal tea once in a while like she says. Because mom's always been here with me, walking where I walk, sitting where I sit, following me with her advice always handy, and I don't want to disappoint her while she's here.
But at the same time, I know she isn't-is she? I saw her dead all those years ago, I saw her lowered in the ground, her calm face looking up from the shiny black coffin, which lay on the green tarp they use at funerals, and I put a blue rose on her grave, which cut my finger, and I knew she would never be there to bandage me and kiss my cuts and scrapes.
Or did I? Because after the funeral, she joined the others who walk with me, one of the many who speak to me, and told me to make sure that cut didn't get infected, to put some Neosp
Ashes to AshesI stood in the middle of my soft forest clearing, soaking in the pleasant night as I waited for my guest to arrive. Ignis isn't going to be late, is he? I wondered, running my fingers through the creases of my brown dress, and looking up at the moon-less sky. No, he's never late; he always comes when least expected, though, according to Tempus-
"Terra." The sound of his smooth, light voice made me turn my head, and there he was, standing at the leafy entrance of the clearing. He wore a silky black tuxedo and shined black shoes, along with a red tie to match his orange hair. A perfect smile was stretched on his face, and for a few seconds we simply stared at each other, he with his green eyes, and me with my dark brown ones.
"I'm here," he said finally, walking into the clearing and towards me, stopping about a yard away from the place I stood. I resisted the urge to smile in delight; he was comp
RFS- Part 3She snapped her fingers, and the chain immediately released the grip on the Streamer's windpipe, returning to normal size around his neck, and he collapsed on the ground on all fours, gasping for breath; he was mostly breathing up sand, she noticed, which caused him to break into a coughing fit after a moment.
His breathing slowly quieted as air refilled his lungs, and soon the sound of his breath mixed with the light breeze that had picked up. She turned away from him, thinking of the right way to answer his question.
"You know I was asleep, brat; don't try to deny it," he snarled quietly, causing her to wince a bit. Even when they'd met four years prior, he'd liked to call her "brat". "You still have that stupid sensor in your glasses, don't you?" he snapped, starting to stand up.
Soon he was at full height, towering about a foot above her, and she looked up into his eyes, calmly meeting his glare. "Yes," she said, straightening the glasses, which sat on the bridge of her nose
Broken RecordInsanity is doing something with a lack of reason
A deranged state of mind; everything's an illusion
Doing it over again, expecting a different end
Almost like a broken record that you're trying to mend
You set the needle back, hoping for a tune
But only vast, empty silence fills the room
They say the broken record would never be fixed
But still the insanity continues, leaving you transfixed
A different result you expect, from setting the needle back again
But never did it hit you that the attempt was vain
Endless trying, never succeeding
Perhaps it was just the insanity speaking...
CancerI remember the time that you touched the stars
Stark white, skin-tight; they hit you too hard
With a splintered cry, falling from sulfurous Mars
And the Fates ran screaming back into the dark
I remember the sound
The thrum and the pound
I remember the morning you woke in blood
When the lies in your eyes were unbearably rough
And the marks of the hypocrite far from enough
'Til you wept as Moses e'er fires and flood
I remember your song
You thought you were strong
I remember much further than Man ever dreams
You forced out your flesh, and I wept at the screams
The soul and the sorrow to memory clings
A light in the night, like Insanity, beams
I'll remember your cry
'Til the day I, too, die
Different is GoodWhy do people seem to think
That its good to fit in?
That being different is evil
That not conforming is a sin
All people that conform
They are sheep, you can't trust them
But one who dares to be themselves
Now there's a hidden gem
Just think of who you'll meet
When you decide to just be you
So many fascinating people
And friends who love you true
Those who have a dream
Or a passion, or an art
They bravely face their fears
And can truly touch your heart
If you just be yourself
And love to live and learn
That is truly beautiful
And you help the world turn
Being different is good
Despite what people say
I'm different and I like it
It's easier that way
The fence in my yardThere’s a fence in my yard
My father taught me to build
With a gate in the front
And a back strong-willed
Where the inside and outside
Love and hate of the world collides
Just like my face
It has two sides
One of welcome and safe inclusion
One of absolute defiant seclusion
Both built to last paid with sweat
Nails driven with pounding regret
But isolation has left this yard alone
The laughter of my children echo no more
Because as they all matured
They walked out the door
StoriesWhen you walk by
and see someone,
do you ever wonder
about the story behind that person?
What put them on the road
to where they are now in life?
How did they gain their fame and glory
or why are they filled with pain and strife?
That homeless man
lying there in the street
may have at one point
served in our naval fleet.
When he came home,
his wife had divorced him
and that is the very thing
that completely destroyed him.
Then there's that secretary
who's flirty boss is her pet peeve,
and you may wonder
why she doesn't just leave.
Her family is poor.
They need the money.
So she is stuck with that job
and her boss's promiscuity.
Of course there's that boy
who sat in the corner
and the girl who spoke to him
despite what they told her.
Many years later,
they are happily married
and have two kids
named Robert and Sherry.
Every person you see
has a story to tell
about how they reached heaven
or how they're damned to hell.
So the next time someone
talks about their life,
No LimitsSet me boundaries if you wish,
but it won't do a thing.
My imagination is always going far,
past almost everything.
Borders, they won't hold me
back from what I think.
I have to many ideas in my head
and I'll have to spill my ink.
I might mess up the first few tries
of saying what I know.
But practice always make prefect,
and I think that's going to show.
I want to go past my borders,
beyond an empty sheet.
I want to cover it with writing
that makes you want to think.
So give me boundaries if you wish,
but of them I will break out.
I have too many ideas to hold back,
and with them I'm going to go all-out.
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
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