Soundless, warmth, and charmed dreams, exceeded…. splendidly, pictures of silence; epitome of purities…. My blue intimacy, sizzling sparkles of wonders in rumbles …tranquility, exchanges of syllabic intent; rivers’ craving ……scent of strawberries. Mischievous dispositions of crafted souls in discovery, Climax ……the exquisite of chivalry, The verbal painting of horizontal limit’s identity, Identical ……. voices of hearts… connected motions of The mental, Instinctive nominations, of songs creation, amid frozen, vigor. ...
This is a fictional situation about an individual who is on the brink of suicide. He holds his (HER) gun to the head, waiting to point their middle finger at the world as they pull the trigger. They are alone. They are in this alone. They do not pull the trigger. They keep the middle finger down. ---still alive---next scene---archie23 Read poems by archie23
All nights are bad, though some worse than others. I can’t sleep. The seconds and minutes pass in silence. I long for winter. For the damp and cold and rain and wind. Snow and sleet and frost. The summer heat is suffocating, reminding me of that other summer twenty years ago.
Tonight, I see them; not only Dawn, but her sister as well, both fair skinned like their mother, hair the colour of hay. The girls hurry along the lane above the coast, sandals scraping on tarmac in the July heat. Ahead of them lies the sea, the tide out, water...
I wasn't here, my bad Just a second caught in the slipstream Guess what I had Left in the vault of a childhood's memories Sometime searching For any conclusion or what does it mean Just to be happy But I'm back on square one, I failed to see
Just what is my bag A feat in itself that's a mystery Why can't they shut up? Listen for once what's deep inside me Standing like pillars The stars will never ever let you go 'Cause we're all stuck here The Universe is in firm control
He called Cassie from the van, but she was refusing to answer his calls. He followed the late afternoon traffic up the Edgware Road and considered what to do about Cassie and her constant mischief making.
He came to a set of red lights by a chemist's. The lights were warning him about Cassie, saying she was dangerous, that she was one of the people who had sent him to the House where he had first met the Bone Man. The Rag and Bone man, dirty and unshaven, climbing up the rickety staircase to play Hide and Seek.
At around this time I learnt Beethoven's piano sonata, The Pathetique.
The dramatic opening reminded me of the opening in my novel Secrets. The protagonist making his way up Whaley Hill in Lancashire in the November chill and fog in search of the man he'd helped put behind bars sixteen years earlier. The angry, almost violent, chords that answer the pathos of the melody in the Pathetique. The build up of rain, the promise of a storm on Whaley Hill. The continuing intensity of emotion in the Pathetique as lyrical despair alternates with irate harmonies and...
It's another harvest of emotions here In the gray side of our lives With the bitchin' and whinin' and babies cryin' Over mothers who recently died In the arms of chaotic dreams With no cares to say "goodbye" For the numbness soon resides
Shared in patterned tales They dispatched all their laboring units As you will almost certainly Prepare for today In love with the freedom Excuses prepare away But there are unseen ways That exist somehow Since you hold the keys Will you show the way now?
Can't stand the dark and the damp and the dust. Claustrophobia; the imagination offering countless possibilities. The ceiling caving in, burying me. If the floor gave way as well, I would fall into blackness, panting and suffocating, knowing that I'd never escape. Certain death.
Buried alive. Like in the famous Rachmaninoff Prelude. Pounding chords as the man attempts to fight his way out of a grave.