Society and Commentary.have you ever had a day when you didn't have to be afraid?Society and Commentary. by somebodi-else
I think not. because you, me, we, I, she, he, they...
homo sapiens sapiens.
Imperfect. (Un-fragmented, un-altered?)
We are different. we are flawed. we are any sort of being.
In Hinduism, there is a holiday, known as Holi.
I think its fantastic. really.
have you ever seen everyone painted in all the shades of the rainbow?
In Sikhism, 'god' is shapeless, sightless and timeless.
God doesn't have a gender... how about them apples?
Carpe Diem.They say honesty is the best,Carpe Diem. by somebodi-else
medicine to be taken, and policy to be held.
I believe it, to be put to the test,
In every beat of the heart in someone's chest.
They say honesty is the best,
yet we still lie to even ourselves.
I believe that we're all a little guilty, a little lost,
and yet we still lie despite the cost.
today's smiling flower,
Tomorrow will be dying,
so they say seize the day,
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may.
"We are food for worms, lads."
but it is the honest man,
The one who knows the truth,
that we exile for behavior uncouth.
there's Glory to be had.4/7there's Glory to be had. by somebodi-else
dreaming of a dream.
where the faces light up,
a thousand beaming,
the streaks of light
across a dark-lit
I saw Orion tonite,
and that my friend.
is the mark of a night well led.
because thee who hunts the hunter,
but does not find, goes home in sorrow.
but she who finds him, is at peace.
Nah, but one does get frustrated
if they don't know the constellations.
(because who said i did?)
SparrowThe surgery has heightened her senses. She can see the squiggling lines of the foreigners’ writing on the billboard across the Flyway. Well, she could see it before, but now she can see the individual shapes. If she could read it, she would be able to.Sparrow by somebodi-else
She can hear the crying of a baby down on the second block. The poor thing’s parents are fighting. The rumble of the airships outside is loud, even the shiny new ones, said to be nigh on silent. Hak’s junker, a roar on the best of days before the surgery, gives her a pounding headache. Hak himself is loud, with his clomping prosthetic and the loud rustle of his piloting uniform.
“C’mon kid, ya can’t lay in bed all day.” He’s trying to be quiet, whispering, but his voice is gruff.
“Go ‘way, Hak.” She turns from the grimy window, and falls back into bed. She’s not ready to face the world.
“Damn it, kid. Up and at ‘em.”
“Go jump in the Flyway. My
Soul MatesBetween dream and moon tides,
The light weaves a new day.
A first glimmer lights the darkness,
Where even still a shadow lay.
For ages swings a song
From star guardians into the world
And first diamonds glitter,
Where luminosity falls on the water.
The young morning is still hesitating,
Promising us hardly the return.
Still the night wraps up the life
And silently breathes the great sea.
Then … finally, the golden time calls.
Water marries to the light.
And shining our heart sways
Where sunshine breaks through waves.
The wind carries my soul
On its wings away from here
To green valleys, ocean lights,
To blue lakes, to you.
You are the life, you are the dream.
You are my soul and my light.
And when the day draws to a close again,
I will not forget you.
fox firessome say the northern lights are dancing maidens or torches
lit by the honoured dead, or charged particles
colliding with atoms in what could be the most
beautiful lovers' dispute known to man, sun, sea, flora and
fauna. some tongues whisper that a magical fox is sweeping his great
tail across the snow, spraying it up in to the sky.
the fires of a fox could be myth, legend, anything, but even so
if you're wandering around in december and see red foxes scampering
through sleet, wish that they'd sweep it up into the cosmos
and craft you a perfect lovesong.
when the winds are roaring outside and the rains are knocking at my window
i'll think of winters gone and winters to come like any half-sleepy soul at
fourteen minutes past three,
spewing stories from chapped lips in frosty breath, fidgeting uncomfortably in
leather jackets, hair crusty with sky-fallen crystals
or pink-nosed children excitedly breathing out,
fingers to their mouths, pretending they were
exhaling cigarettes and carcinog
Snake OilSnake Oil
Snake oil salesman, wagons gaudy with painted alligators and beaming women,
basking in health, cheeks red as the dying sun.
Their voices so sweet and slippery, heavy as honeysuckle
more potent than a preacher who could only promise you heaven.
The hushed crowds listen as pain is promised away,
just take this, take that and heave of living will melt like ice in your mouth.
Morphine, codeine and that old favorite alcohol.
Did the snake give Eve a grape instead of an apple.
But I would rather swallow their serenades of liquids so prettily packaged
then the hospital white sheets of pills, smaller then a rabbit’s eye.
If I must go down the rabbit’s hole, I want to be sung to.
I want taste, a burning throat
a chorus of men in dusty black suits with sun slitted eyes
telling me, “Take this my darling, you will live forever.”