Parallel Lines

I found a funny parallel in how we live:

With no money and endless time, we smile in the winds of joy and create memories with those just as poor us.

With money and no time, we smile in the absence of energy and look back in the scrapbook of memories while thinking how true life felt with those just as broken around us.

The parallel is a circle with no beginning, nor an end, but consistent like tears atop the hill.

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Excerpt from “Love.”: Lost Spring

Love and Cupid are terrors among fragile minds. They spread hope and new horizons like the turn of the century and the titanic. Risk takers jumping into a leap of faith like drug addicts to needles and the tormented to joy promised in pills.

For me, there’s no joy in a hug and no cheer in reassurance. I sacrificed my mind for hope in a flame that everyone saw dying out; not through opportunity wicks, but through the trust in the candle wax. Faux is falsity in brown eyes, and foe is what created her in tears.

“I miss you.”

“But I nearly lost it all…”

“I miss you though.”

“But I nearly lost myself.”

“Just thought you should know I miss you.”

wordsworth’s call

whether it be day, night, or dream, I wish for winds of silence to cover sound; all sound, so that I may hear nothing but ideas written in psalms of those who dreamt of successes that drove them to graves; the graveyards are where success huddles it’s eyes and ears to reminisce on the hours spent with gears turning pages in books that speak to none that believe in the words of human feeling; what is feeling, and where has it gone?

love and fear live in melted molds of simile and metaphor of those that speak from hidden journals of lovers and scholars that hated traditions of youth.

gone are the poets of honesty and bridge builders between feeling and language.

lyricists are in a scholar’s journal and read more than write.

Fall Breeze

I bought a book over the summer, each page copied like the last couple hundred of years. 

I bought a book over the summer from a store, each floor different than the last and the same as when it opened it’s doors for the last time.

I bought a book over the summer from a store with an ironic name, the fourth and fifth letter the same as the city I was in.

I bought a book over the summer from a store with an ironic name and it was the same place that they had went together a year prior, and I felt the difference and saw her face of joy without her being there.

I bought a book over the summer from a store with an ironic name and it was the same place they had went together a year prior as a planned experience with a group they founded, and oddly enough it’s where I met them all and her especially that stood out to me.

I bought a book over the summer from a store with an ironic name and it was the same place they had went together a year prior as a planned experience with a group they founded and vowed to keep together, but it fell apart once she and others left and stayed in new areas.

I bought a book over the summer from a store with an ironic name and it was the same place they had went together a year prior as a planned experience with a group they founded and vowed to keep together as the hopeful 4, in their own circle of support and a strengthened sisterhood.

The book was for her.

It was a collection of sonnets by Shakespeare.

Either way the story plays out, it’s still just a book.