Beauty in Entropy

I've got a question. Why is everybody's baby so beautiful? Let me tell you I'm pretty nervous, heart racing, blood pumping, I feel like I need to puke, but here I am before you as children on the street are dying, the earth is losing its essence and teenage love gets more "complicated". As newborn babies are being fucked, women are forced to eat their own shit, and people made to eat their own flesh. 

Here I am! Standing tall like a man, screaming thoughts that don't even follow the plot I made. Here I am crying, weeping, sorrowful because I can barely see what's next to come. 

Here I am curled up in fear, scared to the point that my hair stands erect. I shake till my mouth start to collect dust from the grinding of my teeth, since I too have my own insecurities. I stray off point as every second moves to a minute and my pencil stops writing.

Here I am! Still angry about every single thing I was wrong by. Be it the tax man comes my hands can't move and my thumb goes stiff. Be it candle wax drips, hot, piercing like a needle, falling upon my tip. Be it you ate all the lion animal crackers and I'm forced to eat a llama.

Here I am as happy as can be as all these fucked up things are happening. There's only so much I can give before I concede and I'm always finding it hard to breathe.

Here I am making you the object of my love, when I know making you such will never be enough for all the love I can give will always be in myself. I love, I forget to add the you for I haven't got a clue as to who you are. All I know is that you're my reflection in the mirror, when I wake up in the morning to fix my barely existent hair. All I know that when I call you'll never answer the phone, I bet you never really cared. 

Because all I know is all I need to know, nothing more, nothing less. We've all been blessed by shapes pointing us in the direction of our real choosing. I'm sick, yes, I'm also dis-eased, but that doesn't mean while I'm speaking none of this is happening. The cannibals, the necrophiles, the pedophiles, and rapists aren't out there. But remember there's only so much I can take that I may no longer be able to take it. So let me ask one of more. Why is everybody's baby so beautiful? When the rest of the world is so fucking ugly? Maybe it's time to sit back, relax and see the beauty in entropy.

I can feel.

I'm shaking,
crying,
hurting,
but I'm happy
at least I'm feeling

I can feel,
what does it mean?
everything I see
finally affects me

I opened it,
felt it,
yet I stand still,
Terrified.

Her

A thought to start off with,

Her eyes created with a little universe in each socket. One second they're as brown as the bark of the acacia tree that produces the DMT which makes me recall past memories. The next they're green, the kind of green you'll see when you're riding a bangka in the tropic islands nearing the shore, where the coral is vibrant and life runs free. As mine eyes, meet hers, each time, a new memory emerges, and another created.

Her face, a soft jawline merging perfectly rounded toward her neck, ears pierced on both sides, cheeks bones soft, and the lashes extending like fingers towards the sun. Physical qualities appealing to many but noticed by a few, her rare beauty like a crystal formed throughout the years grown slowly, yet flawlessly.

Her hair, tied around and tucked into a simply elegant knot, dyed lightly as if slightly touched by the sun. A supplement to her crescent moon smile, her teeth barely showing unless she really feels it. A smile even angels can only dream of, while demons envy such an alluring expression. When let down her hair makes a natural amazon, strength and purity exposed from an otherwise less revealing action.

Her voice, a natural soprano, warm in tone, and spoken at cut time. Addictively sweet like the first time you inhale your soul through the pipe. Her choice of words, so well calculated that timing seems to be something she never had a problem with.

Her passion, like a river flowing into the ocean, a struggle to have a certain amount of freedom internally. At work she'd tie her hair, focus, strong enough to burn through the paper she would write on, only to throw it away shortly after, reminding me that nothing is permanent.

Things I observe as I sit quietly on the floor watching as she rests in front of my eyes, dreaming about things that possibly bother her, fingers twitching and hair still tied. Resting from her graceful night at a gathering for peace, love, unity, and respect.

As a quiet observer, I watch from afar and take note of each quality, and how I relate it to the music played in my head with her voice as the lead. A choir with an added chorus and delay to give a floating effect.

A quiet observer, younger, but able to love more fully than others. I'll keep watching, waiting, until this message is received by it's recipient.

Her.

The Fix

I'm having a bad day. Can I just have a bad day? It seems to me that when shit hits the fan I gotta stand tall. I fail to do so and I crash on the pavement lost in thinking that I never put my hands down to cushion the fall. It hurts at times, I can stand up but the bruises, scratches, and abrasions keep getting bigger. I learn, but I never heal. The cuts opening each time I pick at them so I can get the dirt out, but instead it just pains me more.

The point?

Nothing, Something, Everything.

There's always a point that just sticks out and punctures your kidney left to burst and your internal system drowns in blood. Everything choking while the red river flows out the only way it'll go.

I miss it at times when I wasn't so worried. When I was a creature of carelessness, a person that can look at something and not be shook. Nowadays I'm a cat, peeking and hiding, prowling, playing with objects. I'm the type of cat that'll lie down on your laptop make it overheat, forcing you to reboot, but it's too hot to even turn on. That's the kind of cat I am. A lazy cat knowing that his time is worthless when his children will never see the day.

I've been fixed.

Not in a good way, fixed like put into a norm that just ends up being the same.

I'm fixed. My path stops, I'm stuck, I've been fixed.

It takes a moment to think about what I've been doing and what I haven't, what I can improve on and what I'm good at. It doesn't matter when you can't do anything without something. Regaining that something might not even help, maybe it will.

I just get too paranoid and I'm unable to speak to anyone. I take things to heart, even when people don't mean it.

I guess the real point is to never get fixed

Sometimes

Sometimes.
I think about the sea,
tides and currents
pushing me.
Take me deeper
the deeper I breath
a bubble
Ambition
during sleep,
but not
A dream

Fear

All I fear, all I'm afraid of, glimpses of just a faint figure as which is the number that I call to help me end it. Every time I walk in the rain it scares me that I might get struck by lightning. I'm scared I may get sick, I'm scared as the thunder growls and the drizzle turns from a whistle to a loud, mournful cry.

 Every time I meet someone new I'm paranoid with thoughts like, if I look like a fool, like, if I made a good impression, or even, if I scare them. I'm afraid to say anything since what I say may not even matter to them. I'm afraid of the long awkward silences where I can't do anything but twiddle my fingers around the other.
 Every time I eat I find it hard just to take a bite, all i can think about is, if the animal was well taken care of, or if the cook was happy while preparing the food. I'm afraid of possible chemicals  inside everything that I just end up not even eating.
 Every time I speak I'm scared to death that my grammar is incorrect or if all the shatter pieces of glass, my words, form the proper mosaic which I chose for the portrayal of my sentence. I'm afraid to remain silent, unable to get my words across when they may be needed. Afraid that words aren't enough for the expression of myself and all feelings will sound perverse.

 What a curse it is to live in fear of the hearse and the coffin. Fear of death, fear of life, and fear of that in between. Fear of every pain caused by fear creating a stain upon my window. Every cry for joy empty from the fear that it will never last. Every situation a die is cast making me fear the outcome. Misinterpretations, miscommunications, misunderstandings, all the same, making my body and mind stink of fear. The odor consumes me so that I may no longer be able to face my fear, my eyes glazed over by the smoke which contains the smell of a slaughter house, or maybe even a hospital. Where each creature awaits their turn for Death to open the door and in a sweet, yet plastic, smile he says "You're next"

The Pane Stained Window

Staring out the pane stained window. My heart pours itself on the field of grass. I feel the zephyr through the glass as it brushes through the leaves of the tree, standing in the middle, aged to perfection. Every leaf discolored as the autumn air fills the atmosphere. I can tell the day had just begun, but I feel its end coming whilst I reach for the cup filled with nothing. My eyes dilate as I fix my gaze upon the cup that had once been filled with dreams. Unfulfilled ideas of reality, because my mind is the only real thing I see. My heart is the only thing that feels this breeze. The sound of birds chirping pierce the house, yet I know every single crack had been sealed.

Wandering through old images of what my eyes had thought to be there. My hair, my body, my movements. Do they exist? Or am I just trying to cope with all of this and claim it's bliss? Small insects chatter outside, but in here there's nothing. Just a cup filled with nothing, a bed filled with memories, a light filled with words I had once read, a notebook filled with words I had once written, and a self that was once filled with ideas that it was real. My only connection to the world outside, the pane stained window, and beliefs that it's there.

Scratching noises, reminding me of my beliefs, as if they are trying to speak. What are they saying? "You've been inside for way too long, come out and play." A temptation, I feel, must not be acknowledged, a faint glimmer of the dream I created outside my own reality. Cryptic Morse code from the branches, saying all the things I want to hear, but never what I need. I've been in here long enough to know my cries will stay as cries, and that I will not leave, get on my knees and plead for my ideas to just leave me.

Yet I still ask myself these same questions. Why am I here? What am I doing? Where are you? but being stuck and far away is the best way I see fit to my dilemma. Outside there is nothing but mayhem and destruction, hidden away behind these disguises of beauty, hidden away my brief moments of happiness. Was seeing all of it worth it? Yes. Was staying in here any better? Yes. But still I find myself drifting into the deeper parts of sleep, where every moment awake is asleep, and every moment of sleep is a new period of awareness.

Maybe.

Just maybe.

This really is just a dream where I record my thoughts and feelings.

Maybe,

Just maybe,

The pain stained window is the manifestation of said thoughts and feelings.