the star gazing ancestor of utter lightness.

your so very reckless and I am aware of that, Halom.
dear Halom, you have become the surreal invasion of torment, because in this world, in which I daily watch you lose more and more of your recklessness, of your carelessness and child-like ness.
in a world where I see them, shove guns in your palms, force you to trigger bring you back heavy, onto me, you poor endlessly, and I say, halom, child of life, blue haired, eye piercing beauty, please stop screaming, forget the sound of guns and terror of them following you, chasing you in the pitch , crept , dark, corriader of there secret hiding,they lurk onto the ground pooring their everything and anything on to you.
and I attempt, I run to the big men, with their big chairs, and I plead, your a child, and I am a child and their taring the fundamental pices of our world apart.
if I may add, I have given you, the last pieces of my gloomed down heart.
do balm it onto you, halom.
you are, the star gazing ancestor of utter lightness.

if I were a little fish.

if I were a little fish like you.
perhaps the world would have been a phenomenal place.
if I had flushed my soul within constant dampness
perhaps I would`ve seen nothing but the brightness of her face.
if I had lived within the deep sees and let hope guide my every reluctant step
perhaps I would have enjoyed the sound of  the irregular beats of my own heart.
if I were a little fish, like you
perhaps nothing would stop or start.
If I were a little fish, like so many fish.
perhaps courage would have been a natural act.
perhaps happiness wouldn't be so uncommon.
perhaps I would travel all the great sees
in a great swift, graceful motion.
where I would dance, slumber and dine
and perhaps she would  easily have been mine

PTST

the slim man, between truth, and deception, between reality, and tender fantasy, coldly sips his strong coffee, pulls his greasy hair behind his abnormally large ears, and gives very little care, for life is hardly ever worth, losing your cup of coffee.
he sits on his movable chair, his gray bleak chair in his gray bleak apartment, and quietly , anxiously stairs at the black and white footage within his palms, he turns around him, paranoid, runs to the pallor old curtains and shuns the sun out, and the unwanted unseen glances.
he gets off of the chair and crawls under the table, he pulls the footage with him, along with the book hes been difficultly reading, researching, desperately looking for a piece of harsh information to explain the terror he`s been in, some sort of medical explanation, rare scientific research, anything.
he pants as he reads words, slightly sheltered beneath his old mahogany disk table, and struggles to understand their otherwise simplistic meaning.
"schizophrenics experience delusions with constant sound of what they refer to as'whispers'" he pants some more, and takes a few seconds to self diagnose, "ahh, no..no I dont hear whispers, but but, but time, I cant tell time, I I never can one day its Saturday afternoon, and then its Monday evening, and I dont know if its October or November, I ..I" and he breaths in deeper, and clings to his coffee mug, afraid, terrified that they`ll come back, all of them, him, and him, and her and him, and the little girl with her dog whose never quite
and they said, they said, they`ve chosen him, on on some sort of mission, he thinks, recalls, abseloutly terrified, holring his head between his fingers, he sips his coffee to calm him self down, he spills a few drops on his shirt and the terror within him overshadows any sort of physical pain towards the immense heat of the coffee touching his skin, he reaches for the phone and dials the number...
"nayome, common  nayome goddam answer the phone" he whispers shivering \ underneath the table "hello" the silky voice of the independent blond rises "nayome, nayome, you gotta help me, naymoe they`re coming for me , please!" "noah, is that you? have you been drinking again?" "no nayome there were these people who came over, and I dont know what they did to me, I am so terrified  , I cant, tell what time, date is is, is it november, is 99?  1998, I dont, I dont know what they did to me naymoe" he says beginning  to weep,  squashed under the tole of the events.
"noah, calm down, I ll be there in a second".
the thin man wakes up, its the middle of the night, what night? what day, he dosenot begin to know.
life is hardly worth losing your cup of coffee.





author note:
as it says on the labes, this was inspierd by a movie, you wouldnt even guess, but it`s the ring.

 there is something about the atmosphere of this movie that inspierd me, I realize that its not exactly the most, artistic movie or whatever, but not to blow my own horn, I am not even sure if its a complement, but I sorta see shit in movies that most people dont, its probably not even meant to look like that,

cunning

composed. with two cubes of sugar, the perfect cup of tea, in a perfect evening looking afternoon, hardly any sun, an overdose of wistful, shimmery, stark, pallor, snow.
she crosses her bony legs, peeking through her oversized fur coat, she reaches towards the cigarette and imprisons it  within the opening of her chapped crimson lips, she looks around, and suicide beautifully inhabits the corners of everything in sight, a side effect of winter, she thinks, and in this town it`s winter 80% of the time, so in other words, suicide is always around.
suicide is the time between your finished cigarette and your unlit one, suicide is stuffed inside the compressed partecels of expensive high heal shoes, suicide is larking threw the empty corners of a consumed cup of coffee.
suicide is widely drawn across every word on every page of every book she`s ever read.
suicide is beautiful.
suicide is seductive.
suicide is inevitable.
suicide is cunning.

to make you feel my love.

I take my oldened blazer off, and I sit. as simple as it gets, I sit, and I sip yesterdays rotten cold coffee, and I let loose all captivated thoughts, my saviors, my retreat. I escape, to a dimension entirely estranged to this world.
life is cruel, and I some times just choose not to feel.

snow

I am on the roof, and I observe the coats of snow randomly scatter across houses, streets, lamp posts, mail boxes, rooftops.

Eternal wistfulness bubbles within, longing for a place I've never seen, so melancholy, I am berried within a coat, a shawl and a berate,

 seasonal depression and a cup of coffee.