I had a dream
in which I had built castles and empires out the broken bones of children and adults of people who could not let go of our life I had a dream in which everyone had broken teeth and prominent bruises in which we would share for show and tell I had a dream in which my 13th hand heart was stitched back together at it's center and was wrapped in a cast of broken promises a cast contained within a broken body
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the overwhelming exhaust
of the mind's wonders is enough to blow anyone away and within every twisted question the brain can wonder some will stand out among the rest what is it like to fly? what is it like to have powers? what is it like to murder? Wings play a curious part in the role of Earth. They launch masses of life into the air to rise and fall above the single world below. The view of the ground and water of your home beneath you can leave anyone breathless.
We usually, being the curious and adventurous beings we are, wish to fly. We even think of the most ridiculous and preposterous ways to fly, from gluing feathers to our limbs, to jumping off the Grand Canyon to see if we glide safely to the other side. But I can assure you, if you're patient, wise, and have the ability to think outside of the box, you will fly higher than anyone you could ever imagine. Higher than birds or planes. Higher than clouds. Because sometimes, you don't need wings to fly. Sudoku is a perplexing and rather different choice of puzzle. The point of the pencil glides across the paper, aligning numbers into a specific order, allowing a feeling of victory to come over the solver. No physical prize is given, but a wave of beaming delight overwhelms the holder of the puzzle, resulting in a warm smile-- and sometimes, even a laugh.
There are many choices of puzzle to choose from. One is a puzzle we're constantly playing. The puzzle, or game of life is composed of a melody of multiple problems and solutions-- and sometimes, they just can't be solved. Every person is a puzzle, and each and every trait and slightest piece of information about them is a piece to completion, the final image. But sometimes, the pieces can go missing. Forever. So some people, just like you and me, walk around. incomplete and insecure-- waiting for the brisk push of wind to blow them apart. The pieces to them are somewhere, and it's up to you to find them. Where are they, you ask? That is your own road of the adventure. If only I could release every wretched
twisted thought condemned within my bellowing lungs If only I could glare deeper past the exterior of the skin to snap apart the bones inside If only I could release my words from my swollen throat onto your limp skin if only I had the courage to tear this world apart My crayon box was a very untroubled place. Short stubs of colored wax, oily to the touch crowded one another in the tight cardboard pockets, each color dimmed from the wear and tear of the paper they pressed upon. The points grew weary from their constant use, coloring and drawing to a creator's desire.
But, one crayon stood perfectly fine. Unused. The white crayon. The white crown was lonesome. It simply had no use. It's white point stood prominently, it's outer wrapping of paper untouched by the soft, pure hands of an artist. It sat quietly, it's patience a true virtue-- a heavy but particular skill that no other crayon could master. Too tired to cry, he simply stood and waited. He waited for the single touch of a creator to use him to manipulate a masterpiece within a notebook. He was made, but never used. Not even he could grasp a single purpose for his existence. Sometimes, I feel like a white crayon. |
about the author.i'm nothing more than a writer, poet, and artist. please, enjoy your stay. archives. |