Tag Archives: life

The Girl Who Held up Atlas

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He held up the whole world on sun-kissed shoulders.
Seeing nothing, hearing nothing.
Feeling nothing but the small ones
crawling like ants under his fingertips and flesh.

That he might protect them from what was to come.

That the ocean might still someday, on tideless waters.
That time might resume again, cold, and unaltered.
That children might sleep well at night with a home that loves them.
That no war might ever plague our world again.

He wished, and hoped, and prayed,
so that he might put the Earth away.

She had fought enough of this Hell-bound life.
She had come to terms with her reality
though, a rebel, she dare not accept
the constraints of her barren society.

She would not accept her world.

She held her arms out like a bird,
felt the breeze kiss her cheeks and lips.
Closed her eyes and took a breath
and fought not when her balance slipped.

She stepped off the side of the Earth
into the abyss.

And stars, like glittering monuments
and statues that watched quite adamant,
and scolded her for her selfishness
and burned and fell to banishment.

And the sun, the smallest, or one of them,
greeted her with warmth again.

His eyes caught the little one, as she grew,
taller still, until tall enough for two,
and taller and larger, grown from a seed,
until so tall that she could compete.

She looked so awestruck.

What was there here that she did not see
on Earth below, where she was meant to be?
How had she come to manage this change,
how could she be exactly the same?

Were all little ones like her?

She turned at the sound of his hastened breath,
gazed at him with her eyes bereft.
Felt nothing but sorrowful remorse,
for pity might wound the man, of course.

Pity was for fools.

He stiffened as she stumbled near
on infant legs that had brought her here.
In clumsy void she took clumsy steps
until there was no more space between them left.

She was silent.
And he was silent.

She placed a hand upon his face.
The lines of his age, she saw and traced.
The bridge of his nose, his cheeks, and lips.
And there she placed a single kiss.

His cheeks flashed red and a vibrant pink,
he might like this Little One, he began to think.

She placed a hand on his shoulder, soft.
He was out of place, his blue eyes were lost.
He was drowning without water, suffocating without air,
in misery from exhaustion, and the lack of someone there.

He could use someone there.

She wrapped her arms around his waist,
hugged him close, and expected to wait.
Spent less than a moment before returned,
the scars on his arms were fierce and burned.

He held her.

And the world did not fall, it continued to spin.
And the Earth remained in its orbit, day and night once again.
And it saddened him to know that it would move on without hin,
but he had found life beyond Little Ones and their sin.

Beyond heart, beyond Hell, beyond protection and loss.
He found his life without toll, without cost.

In the Little One whom he leaned on, not so little as before.
Changed, and she loved him, and she seemed now so much more.
Beyond stars and their eyes, beyond worlds that still spin,
Atlas had recovered his life again.

And she began hers.

She took his weight gladly, held him so tight
that he might not leave her, and she could keep him for life.
That she might be his Savior, when no one else was.
That he might be her Atlas, the only one.

That he might no longer bear the weight of the world.
That he might abandon his post and love her.

That she could be his Savior, for now and forever.
That she could hold him up, if he’d ever let her.

I did have a completely different version of this that I had planned on posting, but I decided against it. I thought it would need a rewrite before available for public (or internet) eyes. (If you want to see the original, comment something to that effect and I might post it beneath)

We all have that one friend who thinks he can save everyone. He (or she, I’m using he for now, because Atlas is supposed to be male) cannot stand the sight of others’ sorrow and would give up his life in a moment to help someone. These are the truly good people in the world. The ones that keep the world at peace. But what happens when Atlas grows tired? When he gets hurt? Injured? Heartbroken? He plasters a big fake smile on his face. His is the master of disguise, and would not, under any circumstances, allow anyone to see the truth. But he can’t just be that way forever. People who are close need to help him, whether he wants it or not. Because sooner or later, Atlas needs someone to protect him. And maybe you could be that person.

Trust me, it’s well worth the effort.

Still Burning Bright

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I awoke on the morn’
at such an early hour;
the sun had not yet taken her throne.
The souls of the lost,
and the burned, and the bright
watched me watching their unknown.
Millions of eyes in the wake
with wide open lids
that carry wishes upon heavy hearts,
to the beams into Heaven
to place at God’s feet
with a dream that they may find a new start.

But instead of silver chariots
racing into the dawn,
I watch the lone hole burned into the sky.
A darkening red, pink
and a crimson-colored tale
soaring across the worlds in my eyes.
And I think of the stars
most of which all gone now,
for so many millions of years in the past.
And I wonder of this one,
and what was his fate?
And how long was he able to last?

He burns so much brighter,
stands so much taller,
an unspoken pride in his blaze.
A pyre behind him
with a trailing veil of ash
and the stars that, for him, would part ways.
And his passion is stronger,
and his power is pure,
and he resembles a lion with a mane.
Announcing to his pride
that he alone, would be king,
and all others who oppose should be slain.

And I wonder, with fear
that he might dissolve,
the brightest fires always burn out the first.
I yearn for his words,
for his promise, his vow
that in a few million years he won’t burst.
That as I watch him now,
a million years in the past
he is not already gone.
That as I watch him now,
he is as he was
and he has not left the others to burn alone.

A small comfort to me,
that passion will not burn out
that love itself shall never be smothered.
That the burning star to me
is still passionately
burning bright for now and forever.

Well, the surgery went well (obviously, I’m still here, aren’t I?). Like I said, it was just a minor little surgery, and I was literally out of the hospital by about 10 in the morning. Which was pretty amazing really, and now my surgeries are ALL over! I’m so glad!

This is all about love, and the idea that love is not like a star, or a flame. I always thought it was interesting that when you look up at the stars at night, most of them are already dead. They are so far away, we are looking at the stars that are millions of years older, because that’s how long the light takes to reach the earth. And the saying goes that the brightest stars burn out the fastest.

Love is different. Love and passion that burn bright in the beginning do not necessarily burn out the fastest. If it is true love, passion will never leave the relationship, and the love will never burn out. True love is nothing like a star, it’s eternal.

And Snow Falls From Her Sky

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She steps out onto the terrace,
and gazes at the sky.
Perhaps it shall uncover some truth this day
that since now, she’s been denied.

What is this world, why am I here?
she wonders with a sigh.
She asks in blatant amnesty
if she might know the reason why.

Snow falls again this day,
in the middle of the spring.
There is no sun, no moon, no clouds;
only forgotten things.

Like beams that come from nowhere
of light that may not truly be.
And darkness that comes without warning
any day, any night, suddenly.

And moments that last forever,
time stopped by empty words.
Promises of a beautiful place
beyond this snow-globe world.

And the case that now confines her
to a land she’d never been.
She places her hand upon the glass
and yearns for her heart within.

And the land above that spans her,
the lightbulb in the room.
The cat that prowls and watches her,
the flowers in the vase that bloom.

The fish that so resembles her life,
only palace is his home.
The dog that barks incessantly
when the Others leave him alone.

The mother that cries for her child’s loss,
she yearns to touch her hand.
To promise her she is still alive,
here, in this snowglobe land.

The father who is now a lush,
and spends days and nights in a vapor.
The sister who sleeps in the very room
where Snow Girl’s life feels tapered.

Her tiny fingers leave prints of dust
upon the glass held strong.
She yearns to hold herself again,
for she’s been here far too long.

Too long missing, too long gone,
in a world she should not be.
A globe of snow, shaken each day
and tortured by what she sees.

The mouse that crawls in during the night,
places his palm to hers.
Understands her entrapment
in not so many words.

Would release her if he could,
but cannot break the glass.
So becomes her companion
until the day that he is past.

And again, alone, in snow.
In house she can’t enter,
trapped in spring and summer and fall;
cursed to forever winter.

And so she sits upon church steps,
and watches her outside.
Is shaken again, and falls again,
and snow falls from her sky.

I was watching a rather strange show on Cartoon Network last night called MAD. I had never seen it before and I don’t plan to see it again, but it did bring up a rather strange idea. It gave a fake term of phobia for “the fear that if you shake a snowglobe you are ruining the lives of many little people inside.” It was meant to be funny, but I thought that with a little effort, I could change it to beautiful. And out of that came this.

On another note, I will be undergoing surgery tomorrow so I’m not sure if I’ll be able to post anything. I’m going to try my best to get something written tonight and schedule it for tomorrow but the last time I scheduled a post it didn’t pan out and I ended up having to post it myself. So we’ll see what happens. If nothing else, I’ll write something up while I’m in recovery on my iPod and post it that way. Of course, if that does happen to be the case, you’ll have to forgive my writing. It may not be amazing in my drugged-up state.

Solitude

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Among all the pretty faces,
peach-pink cheeks and smokey eyes.
Long, long lashes, and pen-drawn lips,
and gowns the color of the skies;
in hues of orange, yellow, red, and grey,
white, and black, and cerulean,
and all others of the stars, sun, and moon,
and every other that there has been.

Among all the pretty faces,
in a crowd packed tight of panderers,
I have never felt so perfectly alone;
not that it ever mattered.

Among the multitude of swollen sorrow,
wreathed with lies built of smoke and deceit,
along walkways, long worn by travel and run;
no one should notice me.
In a crowd of thousands of people
each with a different world,
no one should look down upon an invalid,
who poses as a girl.

Among the multitude of swollen sorrow,
each a purpose greater than mine,
each a stranger in very right
with no strings left to intertwine.

Among the throngs of faux brown fur and thread,
with eyes as black as night,
looking on with constant ambivalence
to the once deploring fight.
Watching without feeling,
hoping without care.
Inanimate stuffed animals
who don’t know that I am there.

Among the throngs of faux brown fur and thread
and memories of what is gone.
Here in my room, thinking of you,
I’ve never felt more alone.

I hate loneliness. I really do. I suppose we all do, but I honestly have it as a huge phobia. Strangely enough, I don’t mind being on my own. There is a difference between being “alone” and being “on your own.” I feel the most lonely when I’m in a crowd of people. When there are hundreds around me, but none that I can call my friends. When I’m just on my own in the house, or whatever the case may be, I can walk around singing at the top of my lungs and doing pretty much whatever I want.

But in public, you are supposed to pretend. In public, one must be mature, and act responsibly. Or rather, I am forced to pretend. Perhaps there are those out there who enjoy being mature and lady-like. I just don’t happen to be one of them.

And the Tide Betrayed the Ocean

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It rises, then it falls;
like breath to a newborn child.
Natural, habitual,
if somewhat inelegant.
But it rises, and then it falls.

Until the morning the sun did not rise,
and the moon hung low in the west.
An eye in the dawn,
watching over all things,
the owls that remained,
and the birds that desired to sing.
The crickets that cried
for the morning to come.
Legs rubbed raw and red,
but the sun seemed to be gone.

And it only fell.

And waves in the ocean pulled back into a pulse,
storms tattered lost villages with a thundering force.
Utopian Atlantis shut up  behind its closed doors,
to keep shuttered the violence of the tempest-like storm.

And it did not rise.

And darkness remained, only lit by the moon,
until a child looked up and saw that it was gone too.
Forgotten soon, with the sun, and no more of use than the dew
upon grass blades that surrendered to the loss of the youth.

And it remained.

Until the oceans were still with dark waters turned black.
Fish that swam blind, like those in caves with the bats.
Birds that flew low and still lost their track,
and people that cried for the loss of their past.

And so it was.

The darkest the world had ever been.
Every morning was still, every night, silent.
Rain that resisted until normal again.
The longest night Earth had seen, many years in advance.

The lives crashing down, a plague of sweltering ash,
the world coming to a close, and becoming so fast.
Hopes ever-fading, ending ever near,
and pleas that relied on so-far silent ears.

Until the sun rose.

High in the sky on a gold-white throne,
spent with a crown of rubies and light Earth had never known.
A night that now ended, after the hell that had been,
until the tide betrayed the ocean again.

Every couple of years, it seems there’s someone telling us that the world is going to end. In fact, our next one is coming up in October. Judgment Day! Predicted by the same man who said the rapture was to happen on May 21st. Remember that? Yeah, well I may not be free of sin, I suppose, but I think I’m good enough to still be raptured. And I see you’re still here too. What, you’re not good enough? Look, I’m a Christian, and I really don’t mean to offend, but those predictions are bullshit. The Bible says quite specifically that no one will know when the rapture is to come.

So what do we Christians (SOME, slightly messed up ones of us) do? Well we try to defy what we’re supposed to believe anyway. Makes sense, right?

Oh, and 2000? What happened to Y2K? And June 6th, 2006? Le gasp! Somehow we survived those too! We must be cockroaches, us humans. Geez. Oh, and let’s not forget 2012. We’ve got the Mayans to thank for that one. I’ll say this much, I graduate in 2012. If those Mayans happen to be right, I’m going to be PISSED. Anyway, I’ll step down from my soap-box.

What I meant to say was that this is my version of the end of the world. I don’t think it’ll be a meteor. In fact, to tell the truth, I don’t even think humans will be alive when it happens. I think we will have so far screwed ourselves by then, it won’t even matter, we’ll be long extinct. But, if we are, this is how I see it. I think it’ll come slowly. Like darkness. Things will just slowly stop until everything stops, and all life is over.

Just one theory, in about a thousand of them.

Just Another Chapter

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Just another mark of ink
upon a blank white page.
Stained in an eerie permanence
that I might not erase my mistakes.
Soiled with the arrogance
of another author’s place,
pulling at the strings in my life
without regard or taste.

Fingers tapping softly
with the sure-footed step
of the padded wolf,
the cunning of a fox,
the silence of a cricket,
crying out for reprieve.
How can I call this
relief?

Grasping at memories that flee my mind,
reaching for friends I’ve long left behind.
Foreseeing a future too far out of sight,
replaying a past that I still cannot fight.

Just another chapter in my book,
just another lesson
that I never took.
Just another mention
of a name that meant the world
in between words
that described how he walked away.

Just another chapter in my life.

Just another memory taken by tide.
Just another person stopped in time
with a hope that dissolved with any fate
and a life that returned when I misconstrued the same,
only this time, the boy to blame
who managed to heal my heart again,
loved me with all of his.

Just another chapter in the book.

And yet, I stop my author dead in her frightened tracks.
I steal her pen and snap the thing in half.
I tell her that I’m never going back.
That I’ll never return to that Hell-hole of a past.
That her finishing words to that chapter were her last.

This is my novel now.

And I’m rewriting the ending.

In the end, the character falls in love.
In the end she meets the man who steals her heart.
In the end, she is happy, with all of her soul,
in the end, she is whole, like the start.

Sometimes I feel like I’m not the one writing out my life. As if, someone in some cosmic universe was writing my story for me. And, please do excuse my language, for a time, she was doing a damn shitty job. My author must have been sadistic and angry at me for some incomprehensible reason. And yet, here I am, happy. I’m sick of everything else dictating the way I live my life. These are my days, my chapters, to rewrite as I please. I can’t change the past. But I can decide the future, and I can decide to live the way I want to.

And So it Became

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And so she wished for true love.

The man in black regarded her curiously,
mentioning something of human imprudence.
Waved a hand in the the air and so it became
that her life in her love should commence.

And so she wished she was happy.

The man in black gave her his word
promised her a life of riches and gold.
Waved a hand in the air and so it became
that she live her life set as was told.

And so she wished for forever.

The man in black told her it was so,
gave her eternity locked in a bottle.
Waved a hand in the air, and so it became
that she had returned to poverty again,
her love had left with her heart in his hand,
her soul had been stolen,
and tossed to different lands.

And so she had forever.
Alone in her thoughts,
that she might live another year,
was a fear that left her distraught.

And so she wished for death.

The man in black agreed.
He waved his hand and so it became
that there was no more left of her greed.

Greed is a truly awful sin. To want for more than you need to survive is frowned upon in most society. And yet, it is hard for some to stop the want, the feigned need, for materialistic objects, or for things that are unattainable.

As the Beatles said, “All you need is love.” It could have stopped there. Happiness relies on the love of another. And so it is, and will always be.