| Enjoy it's sketchiness. As if it were drawn after a nightmare mist. Something wicked you couldn't fully grasp. |


Midnight ContemplationThe symphony of skytears plucking the ground woke me up, ever so gently to the empty room drowned in this heavenfelt heart strings melody.Midnight Contemplation
The city's pouring against our windows, erasing the world in waves of grey. Something like the eyes of the widow: Distant, damp and gone astray.
Street lights waltz in through the glass, painting shadow curls upon my skin. Melancolic memories washed into my pores from the cold colours running across our floor.
Drifting along the pearls going down, I lost myself in waterdrop contemplation.


A Short Essay On Real LifeI was once told that real life starts when the hard times come. Told it was when you have to pay your bills when you have no money, bring the kids to school when the car's at the garage, clean up the house when there's 20 minutes left before visit arrives. I felt it wasn't true.A Short Essay On Real Life
I understand now why, but first: What's real life? I can't help to think of a line of Boris Vian: "Je ne veux pas gagner ma vie, je l'ai." ("I do not want to make a living, I already have it (my life).") Which simply (and in a witty way) says how we're already living, from the moment of our birth we're alive, and it's not about reaching for ha


Don't Disappear.What do you tell a broken heart? When there are many paths of healing And not everything always ends up alright What do you say? When you know youDon't Disappear.
dont
know. When you see chests split open this way, You cant just sew it all back into place And alone, sewing your own chest back together, You just might not have the time to keep your blood from running free.
Yet the scar left afterwards is found on every living soul Words had nothing to do with it Because the pain is understood But it brings no answers, no solution. What do you say? &n


Simo Hayha, The White DeathSimo Häyhä, The White DeathSimo Hayha, The White Death
I lie in the cold powder motionless I am the snow they will call this the Winter War and the invaders of my land will come to call me the White Death like olive paint they spilled westward
Soviet greed surging for ports and resources I answered the call and left my fields to fallow I was given my rifle and was ordered to hunt
And so I hunted in white camouflage, my eyes and a fingertip exposed red and numb from the biting cold it waited motionless &

No problem
Thanks.
How are you?
Plus I'm meeting my kind of mentor (which is a great poet that published alot here and is well known... >.> ) next week for my publication.. so I gotta work on it..
And really you can only catch me on msn. (Haven't been on dAmn in forever)
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