Poetic Relief

I figured, since I was cleaning my desktop, and discovered so many files, documents, pdf's, etc. I need to share. My poetic relief for you:

Peach. Plum. Papaya. Pear.
Fruit was one thing, alliteration a complete other.
Down the fire escape, down the stairs, creaking, creaking, creaking, creaking. They walked hand in hand, in fear of what was to come. Would they escape, could they escape, would an alarm sound, would there be large floods of people from the press wanting to interview them, and talk of nothing other than their escape. They would try to remind them of their other qualities that are news worthy, but they wouldn’t listen, they would turn up their noses, and bite their thumb at them. Was it especially rude to bite ones thumb at a psychopath. Was it especially rude to bite ones thumb at an escaped psychopath; this story may be more questions than answers.
Strawberry. Satsumas.
What other fruit could one think of that starts with an ‘S’? And don’t say star-fruit.
Was it really a fire escape? Where was the fire alarm, then? Why wasn’t it going off, then? Where was the fire alarm, then? Why could they just walk on out, like simplicity. Why couldn’t the building really be on fire? Wouldn’t that be great if the building were actually on fire? They would set it on fire after they escaped. And they would free all the other victims in the place, letting them be real, alive, sane, without doubt, and free from the question of the men in the white coats. They would do it, you would see. They would, they would, they would.
Watermelons. Fire escape.
What was the big deal with fruit anyways? I’m sure a fire escape is quite the delicacy in some foreign land.
Well, now they were smooth sailing. Although, neither of them could honestly, and frankly, remember them being on such a high level on the building. The building only went up three, four, levels. How was it they were already cleared five flights? Was this the ultimate escape route? Were they imagining the past three flights? Because now it was getting colder and colder as they got to the bottom of the building. There wasn’t even a door to leave the flight yet- until they reached stair case seven. And there was a door. No more stairs. Just a door. And behind the door was black. As black as the last guy’s pupils. And Silence was silent. And Patience was patient. And it was the first time the two bonded. In a moment of fear and utter horror.

--

It would be closer and closer as one approached it. You didn’t even have to know what it was, but you would love it. it could trick one person into doing anything it wished that one person to do. It was a trickster, a thief, but it kept drawing anyone nearer and nearer. It was a drug, one with no antidote. One that you became permanently addicted to in the first inhale, shot, drag, swallow, however you wanted to inject it into your body, to rot it. It would rot your body, and it would kill all common sense. Not only would it have an affect on you, but while you were tripping over the stuff, anyone who looked into your eyes would become contaminated, and it would be a sick, disgusting thing. Sick and disgusting, those are two words, three with the and. Two, three words were nothing in the common world. They would drown, be spit on, become already chewed bubble gum under the handle of the big blue dumpster on Main street. What are words, anyways? Who am I to say words, when I don’t even know what they are, where it originated, who was the first human to come up with the term, or even thought, of ‘word’. It’s unfair, how we cheat people out of their discoveries. The Americans, how they claim the land that was rightfully the Natives’ land. It’s sick. And it’s disgusting. And those are just two words in the search of this instantaneously addictive drug that you can intake in any form your bloody brain can think up. It’s legal.

--

There it was. There was that one feather, floating about like they do, coming toward my finger which is out erect, waiting. It will land, it will land on my finger, and the harp that still plays in the background to this day will get louder. My mind will become fuzzy, and so many things will be going through it that I learn to tone it all out. Not there is nothing. Nothing at all running through my head, and I wonder how that is possible. I know it is always possible, and it confuses me more. Then I remember my mind is blank and nothing is confusing. Everything is in perfect sense, and I still do not know what it means. What does it mean to be perfect, to be pure and kind, to be flawless. What is flawless?
The silence no longer creeps and the vocals and the harps and the other things are all foreign to me.

And I can dance. I can dance perfectly, never missing a step, and it is all okay, because I know it is. I want it to be okay, and then it is. Nothing is never not okay. Everything is always okay, and it is the best feeling I have ever felt. And I can remember my old feelings, and that is all I can remember, and I like it. There is no time, there is no sense of time, there is only air, there is only the feather on my finger tip. And that is okay with me. That is okay with me. That is okay with me. That is okay with me.
I know that nothing is ever over too. I know that because I discovered that. I am the first to discover, and I love it. I love it all, but I still cry.
I cry because I am sad, there is no happy crying, everything is sad. Everything ends with a sad ending. Everything ends with an ending. Everything ends with a sad ending. But I am happy because sad endings make me cry. And crying makes me happy. Without the tears, I would be nothing. My life is made of tears, smiles, and swaying back and forth, back and forth. And there is the feather there in my life as well. But the feather only stays on my finger all the time, and that is the only place it will go now because it loves my finger, and I love that feather, because it was the first thing I ever saw when I opened my eyes for the first time, and I am still so happy that I ever found that feather floating toward me. I waited for days for it to finally fall amongst my finger tip, and when it did I cried. I cried because I was happy that is was sad.
I discovered that nothing is ever done. Nothing ever ends. There are no endings. Nothing ever ends.
I bite into the fruit.

--

Onto the open path, I set foot. I can feel the warmth of your embrace already. The path is narrowing quickly, and I have nowhere else to make my way. I wonder deeply what has permitted me to become so lost. Not only on this unknown path, but in my mind, in my life. I thought everything was as good as it could get! However, I am wrong. I have been wrong before, in which case, this is no surprise. I have often been presented with the question "Does God exist?" I tell them no. God does not exist. I do not know the answer to this question, really I do not. I am often forced to lie, make up, or indulge my opinion. My opinion is harsh, crude, and cryptic. I advise you stay away from my thoughts as much as possible. They are unhealthy to the mind and soul. I then hear the question "Do you believe in God?" I tell them yes. I believe in the idea of God. Just maybe not his existence. Glancing down at the my inner-twined fingers, I think. In my thoughts, there is music. Pleasant music? Not one bit. I sense my tongue dancing behind my lips. Can I control it? Not one bit. I feel scared. Cuddling in my arms, wrapped around my legs, crying and screaming. Could it be possible I am dreaming? Could it be possible? How can I fit all of these sacred ponders inside this very full mind. I cannot. I will not. Yellow as thought. Red as blood. Black as death. I wonder carefully why people have so many horrible thoughts of death. It will happen, no matter what you expect. It is only the unknown and fear of the crime they have committed. If God is not a fan of crime, why does he allow it? How do we really know that Jesus lived? When we cannot find any evidence. Let us go back to the middle ages, shall we? Everyone depended on religion. When we look back to the middle ages, we think how stupid, right? well. How is this world of religion any different? Everything is a branch off of Christianity, so why don't we go back to that? How do we know the people who put together random pages from random "holy books" weren't drunk, sick, or confused. I would only like to speak my mind, my mind is all I would like to speak. I sit. The floor is dank and moist. An odd sense of odd things are racing through my pounding veins. I see pictures. Hands. Touching various objects and holding them with all power and passion. They love these objects. The picture goes out of focus, then back in focus. Arms against arms, legs against legs, lips to lips. I ache. I can smell your blood. I am craving it. The colors are shouting down from the creases of the wall. I beg for your help. It does not come. I shout. I scream. The blood is falling. It is torturing me. It hurts. And I realize. I love you.

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These are the better ones- less morbid than some-, and if yens like it, I could post more in time. When they come. I think these ones will be going into my book of poetry this year.

RESOLUTION #12: Publish a book of poetry