Tuesday, March 31, 2009
It's for the best
So today I found out that I did pretty well on my chem exam haha...I was expecting like a 70 instead I ended up with a B+ WOOT! I will leave you all with this video to express my feelings
Monday, March 30, 2009
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Consideration
So, I'm sitting here, not able to sleep. Again. Its been a weird thing for me, sleep. Anyway, that's not the point. I'm going to buy a notebook, and write a ton of poetry, enough to fill a book. I don't think it will be very good, because I want to have a good amount before my next birthday. Octavio Paz published a book of poetry by the time he was 19. I want to at least compete with that. I might finish my Epic poem, about Lou, and his experience. Also, just finish alot of my odes, and free verse, and refine the crap I litter across the internet. I was also thinking about writing a sort of short story about an owl, and his adventures with cats, foxes, doves, mice, and his reflection. I think it would be cute, but have some weird undertones. I also wanted to start my dream sequence, about a guy that falls asleep and finds himself in a long hall with a bunch of rooms, and in each room is a different muse, or inspiration; for example, education, experience, grief, regret, jealousy, love, piety, art etc. Each time the speaker speaks with the muse, he'd fall into a vision, a story that is inspired by that particular muse. Something like that. It's still in the works, and I would imagine something would come from that, that would blend all the ideas together. or maybe each vision would be part of a life that the speaker is dreaming about. I've yet to decide. Anyway. Thats what I'm considering. What do y'all think? (Seby you beautiful bastard.)
Monday, March 23, 2009
Time flew by...
Yo people....hi Javi...welcome home lol. So for the past two days I've read 93 chapters of Full Metal Alchemist on onemanga.com and doing homework and what not. FMA is probably one of the best series I've ever been exposed to. I'm envious that some folks have spring break this week while I am stuck in school preparing for a chemistry exam on Wednesday...I hate you all unconsciously haha well have a nice break anyways maybe our paths will cross sometime this week.
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bye
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bye
Friday, March 20, 2009
Can't Wait.
I'm sorry, but anyone who sees this, MUST watch this movie. It even has Nine Inch Nails in the Trailer. I mean, COME ON! And that whole Christian Bale rant was too cool. It made me like him more. Not that The Prestige wasn't enough. So you all should watch this with me. Lovers, Friends and Strangers alike.
I've got a man-crush.
I've got a man-crush.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Clock
A portrait hangs on the white wall,
bordered by the blackest bold frame.
A portrait of Her fair porcelain skin,
a white face, blurred by stained glass.
A portrait of a pure true smile,
shrouded by the cobwebs quickly forming,
in a matter of a week.
All that can be seen of the portrait,
indubitably shown, are integers
circumnavigating my love.
Traveling the globe, hands strewn
across grasping for a way to flee,
still only circle the forgetting figure.
One, I wake and eyes are pried wide,
Three, still fail, but now full of pride,
though false and an obvious defense.
Six, I'm sick staring at the time circle,
Twelve, to sleep, and only hear, her incessant ticking.
Time alleviates, and imprisons,
A lion caged paces clockwise,
as the human mind, that dwells,
on situations that form her bars,
Her soul that cased the encarceration.
Ticks and tocks, echoing louder now,
why has this seemed harder now?
The hands, suffering and tired, reaching out,
but still are bound, to Her portrait in doubt.
Thoughts in cadence, pounding spikes in mind, to the rhythm of Her Clock.
bordered by the blackest bold frame.
A portrait of Her fair porcelain skin,
a white face, blurred by stained glass.
A portrait of a pure true smile,
shrouded by the cobwebs quickly forming,
in a matter of a week.
All that can be seen of the portrait,
indubitably shown, are integers
circumnavigating my love.
Traveling the globe, hands strewn
across grasping for a way to flee,
still only circle the forgetting figure.
One, I wake and eyes are pried wide,
Three, still fail, but now full of pride,
though false and an obvious defense.
Six, I'm sick staring at the time circle,
Twelve, to sleep, and only hear, her incessant ticking.
Time alleviates, and imprisons,
A lion caged paces clockwise,
as the human mind, that dwells,
on situations that form her bars,
Her soul that cased the encarceration.
Ticks and tocks, echoing louder now,
why has this seemed harder now?
The hands, suffering and tired, reaching out,
but still are bound, to Her portrait in doubt.
Thoughts in cadence, pounding spikes in mind, to the rhythm of Her Clock.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Michael W/ his WOW buddies.
Ignorance justifies EVERYTHING.
Sounds deep, but meant nothing. Can mean everything.
Sounds deep, but meant nothing. Can mean everything.
Me liking a song, and trying to see if i can do this haha.
You ever stop and think about the repurcusions of even the slightest choices you make. Can my saying hello change her day? Can my handing him the pen just out of reach, really create this cheesy chain of generosity like on that insurance commercial. I hope so. (smiley face)
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Response to Fake Plastic Trees
I can easily say that I subscribe to Kevin's analysis, and his own proclamations of life as superficial. It seems now, myself included in this generalization, that what we own, and what we have has become a supplement for who we are. I am how I dress, the drugs I use, the books I've read, and what I fill in my room with. That can't be true. I at least can hope not. I am too many things to see what I am, but I know that in the philisophical sense I can think, so at least I can exist.
But as to the extent of that statement's implications, I don't know what it means. What responsibilities do I inherit as knowing of my own, and others' existence, and to what extent can I be held accountable? Should I be judged for the materialism that I so ashamedly display, just as every other lost soul trying to hoard as many "things" for myself as I can?
Damn it Kevin, why'd you make me think about that crap?
But as to the extent of that statement's implications, I don't know what it means. What responsibilities do I inherit as knowing of my own, and others' existence, and to what extent can I be held accountable? Should I be judged for the materialism that I so ashamedly display, just as every other lost soul trying to hoard as many "things" for myself as I can?
Damn it Kevin, why'd you make me think about that crap?
Fake Plastic Trees
Her green plastic watering can
For her fake Chinese rubber plant
In the fake plastic earth.
That she bought from a rubber man
In a town full of rubber plans
To get rid of itself.
It wears her out, it wears her out
It wears her out, it wears her out.
She lives with a broken man
A cracked polystyrene man
Who just crumbles and burns.
He used to do surgery
For girls in the eighties
But gravity always wins.
And it wears him out, it wears him out.
It wears him out, it wears . . .
She looks like the real thing
She tastes like the real thing
My fake plastic love.
But I can't help the feeling
I could blow through the ceiling
If I just turn and run.
And it wears me out, it wears me out.
It wears me out, it wears me out.
And if I could be who you wanted
If I could be who you wanted
All the time, all the time.
Oh, oh.
Radiohead
...good song to wake up to isn't it? i think this song is the world, and reality that we live in....a reality that's created from our minds gradually since birth. most of us derive our reality from social "norms" and philosophies promoted in our society today. this song alludes to the fact that our world today is indeed superficial and commercial. now isn't the time to succumb to the materialistic reality that media wants us to be. we should all follow our own endeavors and stop pretending to live life in a false sense of reality.
For her fake Chinese rubber plant
In the fake plastic earth.
That she bought from a rubber man
In a town full of rubber plans
To get rid of itself.
It wears her out, it wears her out
It wears her out, it wears her out.
She lives with a broken man
A cracked polystyrene man
Who just crumbles and burns.
He used to do surgery
For girls in the eighties
But gravity always wins.
And it wears him out, it wears him out.
It wears him out, it wears . . .
She looks like the real thing
She tastes like the real thing
My fake plastic love.
But I can't help the feeling
I could blow through the ceiling
If I just turn and run.
And it wears me out, it wears me out.
It wears me out, it wears me out.
And if I could be who you wanted
If I could be who you wanted
All the time, all the time.
Oh, oh.
Radiohead
...good song to wake up to isn't it? i think this song is the world, and reality that we live in....a reality that's created from our minds gradually since birth. most of us derive our reality from social "norms" and philosophies promoted in our society today. this song alludes to the fact that our world today is indeed superficial and commercial. now isn't the time to succumb to the materialistic reality that media wants us to be. we should all follow our own endeavors and stop pretending to live life in a false sense of reality.
Monday, March 16, 2009
A Poet to His Love.
You've led me far into this fog,
And the closer I've gotten, so far,
The more wondrous I have found
Our path. I've watched forests burn
Shades of aquamarine, of jade, and turquoise.
I've seen those same fires burn black
And spew out fibers, like a spiders web.
You've brought me through, and out,
Away from me, that recluse.
You've shown me child's laughter,
And I learned to see it in your light.
I sought to hear it, in Her thigh.
And the promise you made me,
Was never quite clear.
The promise you made me,
I could never hear.
It was one I always wanted,
And never wanted lost.
You showed me how life rang through
The trees, leaves, and even you.
Where I saw you, I once saw shadows,
Now I see the rainbows, of your color,
Like hollows carved in bark,
Filled with jewels..
I hear it now, that was my laugh.
I hear you now, that was your height.
But love, where are we now.
I do not see a single face
Familiar, or a single tower
I have seen before or ever.
This place is cold, Love.
And I want to go back.
If nothing more, just take me home.
To where I stood before you woke.
To where I should be,
3 years prior.
I don't know my way back.
Love. I cannot see you now.
This fog is too thick,
I cannot breathe now.
Just holler if you hear me.
I don't know where I am.
Just let me know you're there,
I'm so afraid of falling.
The only fire's at my feet.
Follow the sound of me burning.
I'll wait here now.
I'll stay here now.
Oh! Let me sing my songs of
What you have always shown me.
Can you hear the words,
Can you hear my song,
Over the sound of me burning.
Follow my voice and come back to me.
Follow my voice and come bring me home.
I'll wait here now.
I'll stay here now,
With the fire at my feet.
And the closer I've gotten, so far,
The more wondrous I have found
Our path. I've watched forests burn
Shades of aquamarine, of jade, and turquoise.
I've seen those same fires burn black
And spew out fibers, like a spiders web.
You've brought me through, and out,
Away from me, that recluse.
You've shown me child's laughter,
And I learned to see it in your light.
I sought to hear it, in Her thigh.
And the promise you made me,
Was never quite clear.
The promise you made me,
I could never hear.
It was one I always wanted,
And never wanted lost.
You showed me how life rang through
The trees, leaves, and even you.
Where I saw you, I once saw shadows,
Now I see the rainbows, of your color,
Like hollows carved in bark,
Filled with jewels..
I hear it now, that was my laugh.
I hear you now, that was your height.
But love, where are we now.
I do not see a single face
Familiar, or a single tower
I have seen before or ever.
This place is cold, Love.
And I want to go back.
If nothing more, just take me home.
To where I stood before you woke.
To where I should be,
3 years prior.
I don't know my way back.
Love. I cannot see you now.
This fog is too thick,
I cannot breathe now.
Just holler if you hear me.
I don't know where I am.
Just let me know you're there,
I'm so afraid of falling.
The only fire's at my feet.
Follow the sound of me burning.
I'll wait here now.
I'll stay here now.
Oh! Let me sing my songs of
What you have always shown me.
Can you hear the words,
Can you hear my song,
Over the sound of me burning.
Follow my voice and come back to me.
Follow my voice and come bring me home.
I'll wait here now.
I'll stay here now,
With the fire at my feet.
Drum (revised, universalized)
Its violence.
Its violence muted like mutilated newscasts turned all the way down.
He stands above that instrument of burden.
This is his curse.
That is our incarceration.
His hands shoot up.
Heavy and worn, his palms brace for his furious swings.
BANG..
His hand crashes down.
His plight takes a shattering sound.
Around his wrists, beads clatter.
They are singing for freedom,
But their notes hit far from tranquil tones.
BANG, BANG
"When will she break? When does this,
This fearful dance burst open.
When does release come."
He begs for some kind of emotional cleanse.
BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG
Pain starts to sink in, his palms burn,
His blisters form and pop and callous.
He is reminded of the life over his shoulder,
Burdens, hunts, tears, lovers, all massing-
Becoming the black ravenous vulture,
Clawed into his back, taking nutrition from the
Blood seeping from his wounds.
BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG
This is his life, his pain. He beats the wooden, leather bound,
Beast of burden with every bit of fury. Tears soak his cheeks
And mix with the blood now soaking his music.
When will this antithetical Pandora's box give way, and pierce the darkness
With hope. With her light.
He cries for blind cathartic relief
Bang, Bang, Bang,
He forces his mind to wander- let go of his pain.
Work, Work, Work,
Sex, Sex, Sex,
Spend, Drink, Eat, Fuck
Earn, Sleep, Run, Repeat.
BANG, BANG, BANG
These furious swings are empty mugs, clanging on iron bars.
All to one beat. Imprisonment, Futility.
Beat after beat, only mark the leather head.
Bang after Bang, leave blood on the messy face
That is so tormenting, staring back,
Empty- impervious.
BANG
This drum refuses to burst open
BANG
This drum refuses to let him go
BANG
This drum refuses him.
This drum encompasses him.
…
This drum is empty bottles littered along the dirt.
It is a blank screen and white noise at 3:15 in the morning.
This drum is the bible on a white marble podium.
It is the porn trampled underfoot.
This drum is the last cigarette.
It is the fifth call of the night.
This drum is the stumble up the stairs that are so much longer tonight.
It is the refusal of life.
It is the token of life,
That won't go unheard.
Its violence muted like mutilated newscasts turned all the way down.
He stands above that instrument of burden.
This is his curse.
That is our incarceration.
His hands shoot up.
Heavy and worn, his palms brace for his furious swings.
BANG..
His hand crashes down.
His plight takes a shattering sound.
Around his wrists, beads clatter.
They are singing for freedom,
But their notes hit far from tranquil tones.
BANG, BANG
"When will she break? When does this,
This fearful dance burst open.
When does release come."
He begs for some kind of emotional cleanse.
BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG
Pain starts to sink in, his palms burn,
His blisters form and pop and callous.
He is reminded of the life over his shoulder,
Burdens, hunts, tears, lovers, all massing-
Becoming the black ravenous vulture,
Clawed into his back, taking nutrition from the
Blood seeping from his wounds.
BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG
This is his life, his pain. He beats the wooden, leather bound,
Beast of burden with every bit of fury. Tears soak his cheeks
And mix with the blood now soaking his music.
When will this antithetical Pandora's box give way, and pierce the darkness
With hope. With her light.
He cries for blind cathartic relief
Bang, Bang, Bang,
He forces his mind to wander- let go of his pain.
Work, Work, Work,
Sex, Sex, Sex,
Spend, Drink, Eat, Fuck
Earn, Sleep, Run, Repeat.
BANG, BANG, BANG
These furious swings are empty mugs, clanging on iron bars.
All to one beat. Imprisonment, Futility.
Beat after beat, only mark the leather head.
Bang after Bang, leave blood on the messy face
That is so tormenting, staring back,
Empty- impervious.
BANG
This drum refuses to burst open
BANG
This drum refuses to let him go
BANG
This drum refuses him.
This drum encompasses him.
…
This drum is empty bottles littered along the dirt.
It is a blank screen and white noise at 3:15 in the morning.
This drum is the bible on a white marble podium.
It is the porn trampled underfoot.
This drum is the last cigarette.
It is the fifth call of the night.
This drum is the stumble up the stairs that are so much longer tonight.
It is the refusal of life.
It is the token of life,
That won't go unheard.
Beast of Burden
Woman, tradesman, addict?
A wad of paper tossed along, kicked through the dirt
Without a message sketched, without a voice of reason,
Can be trampled underfoot without reason or need.
The air is cold now, and its gotten easier to breathe.
But these breaths are empty and shallow,
Like transient spirits sustaining life, but not
Lingering long enough to infuse them with light.
I've been walking here for long enough
To assume I've reached what can be measured.
But this tower of babel is less than termite mounds.
And much more fickle apparently.
Permanence, and comfort, are images now.
Memories now.
Where can I call home, when can I see it.
The drunken nights and trivial smoke, and
Images of falsified and self proclaimed art
Blemish time and experience of life.
Is this my story? Or my life?
Is it worth watching?
Is this medal shining my prize or knife?
But, with hope or despair, I am.
Steeled image of life, in empty glory,
In ancient archaic honor.
I shield myself in intellect,
And wield condescension
Like isolating weaponry, proudly,
And feebly.
Can I still sing your song?
It fails to elevate life now.
Can I live in light of experience,
Or is it muddling life now?
I've sought my image,
And what it means, but stop
Short of seeing my skull.
The flesh, of flame and old dead cells,
Is falling away, but I still can't find
The skull.
Look harder now.
Look deep.
Like the ancient lion's image,
All I have,
Is the inability to fall asleep,
A life of dreams.
My first one
Twenty four hours, 1440 minutes, 86 thousand something seconds...all this time in a day and I find myself doing the same shit each day. School, eat, games, study, sleep is the daily routine, plus fitting in time to post here thanks to Javi, very special intelligible man haha...very tender poem by the way. Wish I was creative, but I am writing away to you people in front of your monitor screens...many more post to expect...this one is bad, but I will end it right here cause Heroes is on...peace.
Nighttime Cliffs
I had started out to the cliff tonight,
It was colder than I expected while
I was inside. But that has been the case,
These past few weeks and months before.
The view was jet black, silvery like large
Mats of obsidian fields reflecting internality.
There was my new friend, our old Pacific.
I've made love to that view once prior.
I've made love to that sound once prior.
When Mother Ocean sang her low songs,
And flashed her vivid green, bright red, ancient azure.
It was so diff'rent then.
Now obsidian fields flashed back,
Like a dark slippery face, unrevealed intentions
That moved inches below the black tarp.
This friend, ancient and old, replaced
My mothers hands, my sisters grasp,
Her bosom.
This friend is my externalization.
Slivers of silver line across the tarp,
Going in and out of view like
Christmas lights far off at distance,
As fish awakened and empow'red
By the bright moon, standing steeled above.
I watch myself from that white light in black,
So inspired by blackness, so bright,
So visible, as Milton's hell,
Lightless fires emitting cold.
But I see Eden from where I stand.
I can still remember life before the Fall.
I just don't want it anymore.
It was colder than I expected while
I was inside. But that has been the case,
These past few weeks and months before.
The view was jet black, silvery like large
Mats of obsidian fields reflecting internality.
There was my new friend, our old Pacific.
I've made love to that view once prior.
I've made love to that sound once prior.
When Mother Ocean sang her low songs,
And flashed her vivid green, bright red, ancient azure.
It was so diff'rent then.
Now obsidian fields flashed back,
Like a dark slippery face, unrevealed intentions
That moved inches below the black tarp.
This friend, ancient and old, replaced
My mothers hands, my sisters grasp,
Her bosom.
This friend is my externalization.
Slivers of silver line across the tarp,
Going in and out of view like
Christmas lights far off at distance,
As fish awakened and empow'red
By the bright moon, standing steeled above.
I watch myself from that white light in black,
So inspired by blackness, so bright,
So visible, as Milton's hell,
Lightless fires emitting cold.
But I see Eden from where I stand.
I can still remember life before the Fall.
I just don't want it anymore.
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