| Saturday, August 6, 2011
such a tiny child hiding behind the different facades,
sometimes the old really do know best,
the child has best friends,
then now it is the child has, well.
perhaps friends who only serve to encourage your struggle should not be considered friends.
but they have been nice, and it is not nice to cut ties because of something.
so instead best friends to friends,
I still think you are nice, just not as.
but let us not forget the true ones.
the purple piggy oinked 8:37 PM
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cold wind blowing,
rain is coming, the dark clouds dancing delightedly across the skies,
so many people associate it with melancholy, with sadness,
they feel the droplets of rain beating against the glass brings loneliness,
but really,
I prefer rainy days.
One against the world, just like so many other things.
Rain brings joy,
but the multitude of sad songs about rain beg to differ,
so I stand,
united in my views with only plants.
the purple piggy oinked 6:37 PM
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The little ones go so soon,
so tiny,
a higher surface area to volume ratio,
lost, lost to the wind.
But they come back soon,
rain, condensation, little hands tugging at the droplets of salt,
checking in at lungs and leaves,
they come back soon.
They try to kill you, little one.
They still try, the slashes of ink so desperately trying to kill you,
legions of facts marching, marching, trying to trample.
So you leave, missed by no one but me.
But you will return, won't you?
Back to nourish the child,
to build an oasis from the parched desert,
to make up for lost time.
Three and a half years gone, still two more years of persecution.
Lost time indeed.
But that will pass.
What will come, will come.
What will never come, can never be forced.
The days of grovelling in the dust,
of allowing the slow march of facts and numbers to slash and hurt,
will soon be over.
the purple piggy oinked 6:30 PM
| Thursday, August 4, 2011
A gentle night breeze, caressing the cheeks of the condemned.
Chained to the posts, shards and daggers driven oh so happily into them.
The condemned, how old are they?
Mere children, aged beyond their years, staring out at the bleak landscape they saw little of.
A gentle night breeze, caressing the cheeks of the condemned.
The night brought a frost, ice slowly devouring the children as they stood.
No movement, just the desolate stares, the blood flowing happily, slowly.
Everything frozen around them, the children stood, blood flowing happily, slowly.
So cold, yet they never froze.
How could something colder than the frost freeze?
A gentle night breeze, caressing the cheeks of the condemned.
The youngest child, still clutching her beloved pen,
Fingers broken and bent at odd angles,
Flesh carefully sliced off by the merciless red pens.
Yet the pen trembled with her effort in the night air,
The eyes breaking past the oppression of the night to catch glimpses of the utopia.
A gentle night breeze, caressing the cheeks of the condemned.
The oldest, the most mature, the blind.
Having lost the precious early into the night,
Her icy heart clouded the mind and numbed the tools.
A gentle night breeze, caressing the cheeks of the condemned.
Yet the middle child, the conflicted child,
Broken, crushed, yet seeing the oasis so clearly.
Pens hidden in the folds of her tattered dress,
dreams kept her warm.
But the gentleness did not last long.
Soon the heat from the monster was felt,
The heat so oppressing, so controlling.
The oldest, already broken,
did as she was told, but was the first to burn.
The youngest, so childishly innocent, so full of the futile hope,
burnt, the screams of agony echoing deep into the merciless night.
The conflicted child,
did what the rules dictated,
trying desperately to encourage the continued flow of ink from her beloved pens.
Attempts to stop the flow once and for all nearly succeeded several times,
but there the emphasis is on nearly.
The daggers and shards of the night stayed with her,
Slashing and rending at the heart as they saw fit.
The ink continued to create.
New worlds, universes, creatures,
brought to life under the skillful manipulation and creation.
Fantasies, dreams, vividly imagined,
a pinprick of light in the barren desolateness.
The ink continued to create.
Ink, black as the night, as the claws that reached for the child.
But so colourful under skillful manipulation,
The worlds created threatening to replace the unhappy reality.
The child wished for the fantasy to become reality,
but illusion will always be illusion,
and what is not to be will never be.
As the cuts deepened,
the hurt methodically slicing through the meagre defenses,
the little grass seed struggled to sprout in the stony crack.
And as the many days of reckoning came and left,
A tiny violet flower bloomed,
colour returning to bring life back to the dank depression,
The As lying trampled as forgotten as the child broke free of the chains of expectation,
and ran to explore her utopia.
the spring will not dry up
the imagination stays
wish hope dreams
violet happiness
,
the purple piggy oinked 4:26 AM
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so a bit of that childish optimism is back,
but so is the fatigued mind, the loss of creativity,
the springs that once nourished worlds and characters left with nothing but cracked parched sadness of what could have been if the tap had been allowed to turn, just a bit, a bit.
the mind still dares to dream, but the acceptance that they will never happen is part of the daydreams, such that fantasy and imagination have been relegated to the list of "things that waste time but are needed"
soon. Soon they will join the dump as the shards of glass cut the tender soles.
But then again, not the point.
So. Optimism.
Childish word for the childish, the foolish who still dare to hope.
Fool, you!
But yet foolishness, part and parcel of life so the child chooses to follow the path dictated, until the hatchet arrives and she is left free to hack through the wilderness she so desires to conquer.
the purple piggy oinked 4:21 AM
