Sitting on an awning., hey y'all good morning.

I find your provincial wailings to be blissfully, no, artfully ignorant. And I envy how lucky you are.
It was nice when I could run from my problems like you, or like you, or like you. Or like you even.
And when you look my way, you see my mask, no, my sculpture I've created for myself to stand in my place, whilst I beekeep.
And when you look at me (which you don't, but the rest do) you wish you could love a sculpture, but of course that would be stupid because a sculpture cannot love you back. Or so I've discovered.....

You will never be able to answer my question. Because I will never ask you.
I will never press my arms against the heat of you....I would not touch you with a lengthy pole.
Challenge is just a word that people use to make themselves feel stronger.
Do you feel stronger? Because you shouldn't. Because anymore my mind cannot be changed......I can't cater to your fishing. You sad thing.....you aren't even a challenge.

I love how this blog applies to exactly 22 people. Currently.
I love my narcicism. How could I not?
I love how my problems consist of having far too many options, rather than the classic 'focus longingly on a closed door' scenario.
I love being a secret.

All things you never said are left behnd.
All the things that flit on your protagonatory countenance, are only important to the cells of your mind.
All these chairs wrapped in foam and leather, that may or may not recline, will comfort you.
All these ringtones you buy are a jingling cacophony of what will fall on it's knees and fade like a destroyed nintendo villian.

My prayers have been answered.
God has whispered peace into my ears.
There is a part I can't tell you or any breathing thing.

I saw a young man. He wants to sing. I pressed my hands against his stomach, and he pressed his hands against mine, in order to feel breath. I wish everyone could feel breath. There is beauty about releasing the staleness from you. There is a beauty about living.

You are like the breath; when you are stale, I release you, and when you can bring me life, I pull you back in. Selfish but necessary. It's how we survive. And I don't feel sorry for the air, nor will I feel sorry for you.

If you find me, after I have escaped....that is the moment I will believe you have a chance of deserving me.

Why do I write these? It's a form of relief.

Pardon my impertinence. It's your turn.

It's been said before: The more I get to know people, the more I like myself.

I'm spent......half of this is nothing......I'm barely coherent.....

Pure Intentions

Do you know what I intend? You coulndn't possibly know. You couldn't understand or fathom. You could not. Could you? No, you couldn't. You can't understand acceptance, as you only can see the world through an eye of a needle.
I have lied. I am not an envelope pusher. The only envelope I ever pushed was my own, trampling other persons' envelopes in the process. I thought the only important envelope to push was my own. It was indulgent and sad. I am indulgent and sad.
And you, O glimmer, do you know what I intend? I intend to have elysian peace.
I intend to burn in the heart of a nomadic star.
I conspiratorize to rise above that glimmer and burst with a potency, above the cellular waves, above airplanes, above the stratosphere. And the angels with turn their heads to see what the sound was.
I do not care to live where people don't learn or search or probe or have a hunger, a curiousity about them.
Unfortunaely the hunger eats oneself if it is not being fed. I can't think like that. The unrest.....
O glimmer, please let my honesty reside with you. I beg you not to teach me to lie. Not being shackled by humanity is a wonderful loneliness.
Do you know what I intend? To mend this broken smile. To breath at last.
I may be honest, but you are not intuitive enough to ask the right questions......which is why I will always elude you, my dearest glimmer.
I am not a poet, nor a writer, just an indulgent.
Do you know what I intend? Tell me. If you can tell me, I will be forever indebted. You can put an awl through my ear for seven years.
Do you know what I intend?