So...

I don't like this blog very much. I like the idea of it, and the name, but that is about all. So you can expect some change to come soon, now that it is summer. And some new posts that are actually worth looking at. just thought I'd say this, so you don't loose hope. (unless you did already. Then this is to revive your hope.Hope it worked...)

Oh, Love...

Someday, I will have something better than paint...

Self Portrait part II

Child of dust
Newly immortal and frail
Your frame is so weak,
But you thrive.
A foundation is being bult;
One that is unyielding
One that will not be carried away on the wind.

Your depths are brought
Into this light that you have found.
You can see yourself now
And you are dust.
Someday, when it is cleared,
You will be whole and awake.

You, my little dust-child,
You will last forever.

Self Portrait part I

Child of Darkness
Alone, weak, dying
Yet happy in thy self

The Dark Child
Wanting
Or longing
For something that you can never be

You, oh Dark one
Who knows better
Who was better
But now rots inside like a tomb

Ever drinking
Ever thirsting
For that cup of light and pain
That will satisfy or kill

The props against the house (We are such stuff that dreams are made of)

This was a writing assignment...
I'm getting better at poetry on comand...I think.


We are young and new it the mornings
And almost there when the sunset finds our face
Forgotten
On the cusp
The tip of the tongue, and then gone
We wouldn’t have it any other way
Because they are what we want
Our lives
Our hope
Our very breath
Never a perfect end
And an end to all
We are hope for those whose end is inevitable
Inevitable, like they say ours is
But we don’t feel it
So we don’t believe it
Till it comes
But not to late
Because we are the end
The last
Those that will lock the door
And then be whole

Memoirs of a River

There once was a river… well, less of a river actually, more of a creek or a stream. Now that I think of it, it could have just been some sort of drain line. But back then, it was our river. Tree covered, it ran through the park near our grandparent’s house. We never knew where it started, or where it went after it left the park. We never knew any of it except for the bit that was in the park, but it was enough.

I remember that we loved it, but I don’t remember why. It was small and silly, but it was our favorite part of the place. The playground was fun, and nondescript; hardly worth the “long” two hundred yard hike, a climbing through the thorny, over-grown tree line to get to. But our river was worth it.. Cool and clean on summer days, when the slide was too hot, and the playground was no longer a magical land, or a pirate’s ship, our river was still its enchanting self…

But that was then. I went back to the park not long ago. It was almost the exact same. But our river was gone. Its tiny splendor reduced to dry, leaf filled trench; sad and forgotten. My childhood memories still hung from the nearby trees, foggy and broken. But I loved it still. I sat by it for a bit, remembering. Then I got up to leave. But my memories stayed; more solid now than before. Like hard, smooth grave marker. No name or date, just a few sad words. “there once was a river.”