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TutoringMalik
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Name: Topher
Country: United States
State: Illinois
Birthday: 11/13/1984
Gender: Male
Interests: denim and polyester
Expertise: scorpion wrangling. what else?
Occupation: Student
Industry: Education/Research
Message: message me
Website: visit my website
AIM:  binkfast
Member Since:
11/5/2004
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| somedays i feel like a pink nebulae of fury. hundreds of thousands of miles of roiling boiling anger pointed at myself. a pot perfectly stewing because of the faulty ingrediants. i imagine that quite a few stews have been angry at themselves for being only decent. it's set on the table and it realizes its not all that it could should or would be and then gets swallowed unhappily realizing that it will only be able to fulfill one of it's two roles. poof, a pillar of ash rolls off the strange cold thought and i put on a scarf to ward away the chilling breeze of truth. the turbulent cloud fits into a thimble then is dumped into a bathtub and all is forgotten, because all is forgiven, this pink cotton candy mood.
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| this is from a while ago. i just thought i'd bring it out.
#52
“Beauty,”she said
is what I want
I laughed and walked away
that’s how things went between us
she was gone, with my laughter
but I wasn’t laughing yesterday
I read it in the letter
she said she found her beauty
she found it in a bottle
of small white submarines
a wolfpack down the throat
to kill the heart
the torpedoes weren’t duds
and the letter was real
the ink was blood on the paper
from a black pen
and now, she’s found beauty
in a three by six patch
of manicured grass.
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| Robert Frost wrote a poem about swinging on birches, and sometimes, sometimes I feel like I do. Like nature will never conquer me because I have swung it. I have warped it to fit my calloused tiny little hand and now it is bent in frightful submission. That's how I feel sometimes, because those birches, those white papered trees have nothing that I don't. They have hearts and skin and breath. And they do what I show them to, because I bend birches. I make their tops kiss the ground and force them to thicken, to heal in that broken fashion, because I can change nature. I am stronger than a hurricane and mightier than a monsoon because I have conquered the birch. I am king of the forest. Until the forest starts dying. The birches, heads bent in sorrow and subjection, gasp their last and tip sideways their benediction sung by the mushrooms and salamanders that live inside it's rotted carcass. Yes, I am a swinger of birches. I am the destroyer of nature, and somedays I know, I just know that I am that forest. That each birch I bend is another piece of me I destine for destruction. A carefree swinger of birches, destroyer of dreams, and obliterator of hopes. And then the sun comes up over the horizon and two words are caressed into my ear by the fresh breeze..."But God!" | | |
| lets dig, i screamed, placing my pail right next to the perfect digging hole. my sand shorts rolled up to match the vest that was creeping up my belly grain by grain. lets go real deep this time. to the moon and the sun, way past china to pluto. lets dig to forever. forever and ever lets dig further, beyond my mind. watch it explode with the sound of the cosmic eighties. watch it explode to the neon vomit that created a culture of mullets and rockstars...and me. lets not forget the all important me. with my sandy shorts and belly. up to my elbows in sand. the water reaching with it's folds and creases to drag my hole out to sea. i am independent. i am strong. i am three foot four, defiant, small, like a tiny little firecracker, waiting to be lit. i dared the sea. it's immense power. i dared it with my diligent digging. further down i went. deep to the core, i cry, my plastic shovel held as a crusader's lance. faster, past the core, past the stars, past forever. then my teeth clench. they grind and they bite at my lips. i don't fight the sea of water, but of thoughts, of intangible ideas. as slippery as water, and as hard as a wave. my little foxhole of truth slips away, falls apart, and i'm left standing in the truth i created. i pool the minnow that the surf washed into my failure, and i talk to it. i tell it not to try anymore. that if a three year old can't make it, then why does it think, the one of millions, the tiny egg that survived, why does it think that it can go out into the big sea and float? or is it like me? fighting the sea to live, to breathe in the fresh air, the God gift, to survive against the waves that fight against it to remember that once the waves were drained, and the ocean bed lay dry and conquered. captivated by two innocent baby arms beat into venerable old wood. i fight because the hole is not done. because i've stopped digging alone. | | |
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this one is on it's side, you have to either use your imaginatino, or you have to download it and switch it yourself. i tried to do it on here and all i got was REJECTED!
umm...yeah, this one's not done either. | | |
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