Splotches of Sepia

The word vomit of a self-proclaimed cynic.

This is about you.

Your trees
And your winds
And your woods words whisper well

Your ebb

And your flow

And your steady scene swell
Electric indigo arts from hell

hm.

I want to experience life outside of the cyclone–or in the very center of a hurricane               Inside of the calm eye, staring outward, down, inward. out.

To just be a spectator, which comes so naturally to me.                                                               And to allow myself to be just that.

Triangles

Originally posted on Splotches of Sepia:

Floating in the ocean of sleepless dirt–

This glorious day, a spectacular display of green

Sparks eternal among the bark

Gold eyes and gold hair

Tea time in the park at all times

Crafty kids

Sand-jellies

These kids are little dragons.

Upwards

Through land trees and earth revealing rebirth.

Hot stones of harmony

Like light shooting out from a star.

 

 

 

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Pluto

For the trees are the wise ones                                                                                                                                                and we are the seekers of the sap

Bowling in a field of weeds surrounding

and roots of trees astound me among their leaves.

Glorious green goodness.

Triangles

Floating in the ocean of sleepless dirt–

This glorious day, a spectacular display of green

Sparks eternal among the bark

Gold eyes and gold hair

Tea time in the park at all times

Crafty kids

Sand-jellies

These kids are little dragons.

Upwards

Through land trees and earth revealing rebirth.

Hot stones of harmony

Like light shooting out from a star.

 

 

 

Yes, Looks Like Chess.

You are a chess piece in a never-ending blame game.
Frantic and sopping wet with unlegitimate panic
Hunting for the scapegoat.
Shivering in squalor for all that is you.
The lie you told as truth,
To gloat.
But you are  just a pawn.
The moves you should have taken before are now gone.
You lost your knight in the fight
To keep your pride and your mind right.

To Say I Love You Is Like Saying That the Sky Is Blue

It’s magnificent how at one moment in your life, everything is inconclusive-Consecutively without rhyme, following an elusive line of numbers, rebelliously straying out of line.  

And just a few handfuls of thrown stones later, nothing is without absolute relevance to everything.                                                                                 

Granted no new knowledge of this relentless ebb and flow, where to stay is ultimately the desire to go–where nothing is everything too…

In these moments, not giving a damn who is looking at you–what they think you did or will one day do….If it is true or untrue. The relationship between nothing and everything consumes the sound and willing mind and envelopes you for an eternal time– which will one day reach an abrupt end, with no definitive answer when or if, it will begin again.

Pursuit

Isn’t going anywhere the same as going nowhere?

Isn’t running away from everything the same as running toward everything?

What can one do aside from pass through?

Who can understand me?

The romanticism of illegality


….we flee in search of last summer or next summer.

 

If the rest of my life were summer and I rode toward everywhere, how would the world open up for me?

I’ll find true love in a golden land.

A webbed ficus tree made of flies is growing into me.

Like the Nomads.

I suppose I’ve written- As in the action of “writing”; Placing pen/pencil to paper swirling letters like mixing paint to form words that eventually construct a sentence. Or a few. But I, myself, have done no real writing in a long time. This. Right here. This is the realist thing that I have written in close to six months. Not for it’s content–mainly for it’s energy. The flow. There are pieces of my heart on this page, in these words you are reading or listening to someone else read. And this is what it really is to write. And I don’t know what it means. I really don’t give a fuck–and more importantly, I think that’s the key. You need to break up pieces of your heart and mind and intertwine them with the ink inside of your pen, so they are felt and seen with intense purpose to you and to others. You shouldn’t worry about what it means–Just write the fucking shit down and keep going. Feel it. In every syllable. As if your lover is kissing you on the nape of your neck–Or caressing you with their fingertips on the small of your back. The key is to not know what it means and to not give a fuck anyway because that is knowledge accompanied by acceptance. Acceptance into/of what, you say?

I don’t know. And I don’t give a shit.

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