When it's your turn to go, when your time is at its end,
what kind of mark do you want to leave on this world?

And at once I knew I was not magnificent.

And so we're broken.
But maybe, just maybe, we could be fixed.
Is it bad then, that I'm not sure that that's what I want?

baptism.

Eyes closed, head bent, and limbs shaking,
she stands ready;
feeling the menacing and chilling wind
as it spirals around her, on her, through her;
lifting, off the moist earth,
all the leaves and twigs that once had branches to cling to;
trees to call home.

Her feet are bare;
the wet soil slides, snake-like, up between her toes,
and her night-gown, once softer than down, once as stark as fresh snow,
is drawn by the wind, and wraps around her form
trying to pull her with it, leaving her
uncomfortably exposed.

From here on the edge
the water is black, deep, still.
The light of the moon,
creeping through the arms of the aching, dying trees
makes the surface serene and unpenetratable.
And she knows that underneath, the silence will be loud enough
to block out the pounding voices in her mind,
to bring her back, out of the darkness.

So in she goes, feet first, and her hands on her heart,
that beats slower as she goes deeper, and the water gets colder.
The silver chain and cross encircling her neck, buoyed by an unseen force,
seeks to pull her up, and out, not realising that as it does so, it merely tightens.
Tearing it off, she nestles herself into the floor of this world, and waits.

A minute later, when she is still alive,
she can feel, in her blood, an overwhelming sense of belonging.
Finally.
And when she breathes, the world breathes with her.

never let the fire in the lamp burn low.

"Those not busy being born are busy dying." - Bob Dylan

Remember that day, when the leaves crunched between our bare, naked toes and we could feel the earth shift and heave beneath us as we walked, and ran, and jumped? Remember how we felt that day, as if nothing was ever going to change, as if nothing could tear us apart, with that soft, damp breeze whistling through the trees and the sun slowly sinking out of sight? We were like children again, with the promise of tomorrow hovering in the air, waiting for us to catch it, waiting for us to take the one thing that belonged to us. Hope. Hope for more days like this. For new life, new beginnings, for sunsets like fireworks.
And finally, when we lay in the shade, my ear pressed to your heartbeat, you said you had never felt so alive.
I wanted to lie like that forever, just me and you and the whole world.

shed your love.

so i already uploaded this last year, but whatever.

Would it be peaceful?


If I could just be.

If I could merely exist,

as though a river, an ocean,

never ceasing, never ending.

Would I not have to endure

any pain, sorrow, hurt?

Would I be at peace? Or

would it all come crashing

down around me, tearing away

piece by piece

until there is

nothing left but

what there was

before my existence?



Would I be able to move along

with the world, to see, hear, smell,

every moment of time as it passes?

Would I feel the touch of every hand,

cold and supple, warm and dry?



Or would I be as though dead?

Unfeeling, unmoved, as the people and places go on,

ever changing, ever ignorant, of the one thing

that is, but never was, never will be.



Would I be happy?

Or would I be incapable

of any emotion?



Joy.

Sorrow.

Pain.

Anger.

Lust.

Love.

Envy.



All of it, gone. Just like that.

'A girl doesn't need anybody that doesn't need her.' - Marilyn Monroe

Keep hold of the lovers, the dreamers, the makers;


Let go of the ones who pretend they are real.

Hold onto the givers, let go of the takers.

Let go of the ones that don’t show they can feel.



The doers, the thinkers, the people who care;

It’s people like this that will always be there.

If not, then you can always find someone new,

Just don’t wait for someone who won’t wait for you.



There are hundreds of thousands of fish in the sea,

Well really, as many as you want there to be.

There’s only so much that words can express,

But if you deserve better, don’t settle for less.

Etes-vous inquiete par l'avenir?.

When you were tiny, raw, and new, you couldn’t clench your fist in rage;
You couldn’t talk, you couldn’t chew, you couldn’t step out of your cage.
As you grew, you knew nothing but warmth, and love, and care, spreading flour on the floor
And taking lone rides in elevators, up fifty floors to find the sky.
Back then, a lending hand provided your greedy little mouth with a shiny, silver spoon that,
As if by magic, replenished itself;
A glistening, silver spoon, that has fed you right from the brief, flickering moment in which
You came into existence, and will continue to do so, until it decides,
It is time.
And what will you do, when that time comes?
Will you be ready? Maybe.
Maybe you’ll read, and think, and write, and paint.
Maybe you’ll talk, and mean every single syllable,
Both for yourself and for those without a voice.
Maybe you’ll clench your fists at injustice,
Maybe you’ll actually put words into action,
To help improve someone else’s life, and mean it.
Maybe.
But then again, you are just another member of a generation that doesn’t seem to care,
A generation that doesn’t seem to know anything about anything, unless it can be found in an
electronic box that attaches through an umbilical cord to their brains;
A generation that wants everything and more, here, and now.
So maybe you’ll be consumed, by greed, and lust, and selfishness.
Maybe you’ll be consumed, by the darkness that creeps,
Slowly but surely, through greasy flesh and crunching bones;
The darkness that comes to all of those who have stopped searching,
All who live for cars, and credit, and clothes,
And aimless fun, and nights they won’t remember,
With people they want to forget.
All who live for pointless jokes and truthless, thoughtless, words
In conversation with false, fraudulent friends that wait for you to fall.
Perhaps you’ll become one of many, part of the flock,
With so much space between your ears you almost float.
Perhaps, you’ll be a brainless lamb that has no thought,
Other than what everyone else thinks,
That has no wants,
Other than what everyone else wants,
A lamb that stares, unmoving, at fast, flashing, fluorescent lights on screens,
And swallows everything.
Maybe one day you’ll look at the boats coming and think no, no more, no room, no money.
Maybe you’ll have forgotten that you’re only here by a small twist of fate.
Maybe you’ll have forgotten that stability is no excuse for greed,
Maybe you won’t remember that there is no excuse for ignorance,
And that politicians with vision come every twenty years, not two,
And that God died a long, long time ago.
Maybe you won’t remember that you have a choice.
A choice in what to see and hear, a choice in what to do and say,
And a choice in what to believe, and in how to endure.

But most probably, you’ll simply want to go back to when it was easy.
Back, to when you were spoon-fed everything you could ever need or want.
Back to being lost in supermarkets and holding hands with everybody that meant anything.
No, you won’t want to just bite the hand that feeds you,
You’ll want to devour it, swallow the entire, calloused thing
And still, you’ll be hungry for more.
Hungry for more but no, not prepared to go out and get it.
Hungry for more, but no, not willing to work.
Hungry for more, and waiting.
Waiting for everything to work out.
Waiting for everything you ever wanted.
Waiting for the hand to come to you.