Whirpools

They suck things in

lure them closer

until they can capture them

bring them to their centers

sucking them closer

molding them together

creating something new

something strange

something colorful

something

different.

Summer’s ending

The hot days are leaving

leaves are falling

water drips from the sky

preparing for more

things bloom

things die

Autumn’s coming

He gets ready

for another day

Jumping

because he can

He tries the door

only to find that

it’s locked.

Dancing on the sand

waves lap against their feet

wanting nothing.

Wind turns to breezes

their feet leaving

perfect prints

in the sand.

Full of life and then deflated

Needless water poured upon

the Rose planted in the grass.

Seasons passed now is winter

The Rose wilted, waiting for

summer

Cold is the Rose, sitting alone

The grass is brown, dry, and frozen

Surely, summer will come soon.

The Rose needs the sun

It pines and longs for warmth

so it can bloom

Show it’s pretty colors

but it must wait for June.

Thorny, dead, unwelcome

in the garden it sits

alone

Needless water poured upon

but it must wait for

the Sun

The girl in the white dress walked in circles through the tall grass. Her expression serene, vacant, like the flowers that swayed in the breeze, beckoning her towords the tree that stood in the single bare spot in the vast space that was a field. Her circles continued as though she couldn’t decide which way to walk. A change in the air made her stop abruptly, her face contorting to an expression of fear. The breeze moved into a wind, snapping her dress against her legs. She flinched every time it hit. The crytal clear sky turned gray, then black, foreshadowing her future. The girl fell to her knees, whispering to the sky, her hands clawed the black robe that draped perfectly from the ominous beauty that stood before her. The woman’s face turned into a horrible sight of ugly. The girl screams, as the woman disappears as fast as she appeared. The girl continued to cry as she began to vanish from the field. The wind lessened, the sky turned back to blue, but the flowers ceased to beckon, but simply waved in the breeze, for the tree had vanished.

The color of hunger is many colors. Dark colors mainly. Black, to blue, orange and yellow, but mostly red. It creeps into your mind, slowly burning its way to your stomach. Where it goes it scorches the path, leaving an empty hole behind. Feeding the color just keeps it at bay, but it is always there, changing colors. Black to green, orange and yellow, but always red.

Pin Pricks, in my wall. Marking small, little memories, from then, who cares? but me. Standing, behind my back, my shadow is there. Waving goodbye to the past, going fast, away. Who Cares, about time, it’s only a number, what’s the difference from now, to sometime later.

The world is never silent.

The animals, the bugs, us.

We create noise.

We create Music.

Do the right thing

As opposed to the wrong

You learn from mistakes

Then what? 

Do the wrong thing? To learn? For personal gain?

Right or wrong thing

Two choices, Two answers

Are there more than two?

Or are these classifications, right and wrong?

Two words

So much weight on each

Is the wrong choice sometimes the right one?

What if what is right for one person is wrong for another?

Then I’m doing someone wrong

But what if the right choice is the choice where everyone is in the right?

Could that be true? 

That there’s always another choice? 

So many complications

I choose left.