What kind of choices have you made?
Who are you going to be, and who will you save?
We want to be doctors and lawyers and celebrities alike,
But what that really means is to be a piggy bank for life.
What is your purpose and who is it for?
Is it for yourself, your future kids, or are you not sure…
Is there some greater cause with which you cover your shores, only to hide what’s behind the doors…
Of the houses behind the dunes, that can only be seen from above. You and Him. That’s all who knows. So what really drives you…
And how will you shove?
Throwing words onto a keyboard.
Breaking innocence till it’s dust and finding bleakness in the smallest husk.
Waking up to a sea of retribution but never knowing if what its for.
You find yourself going from door to door, looking inside only to ignore:
The tastes that await and the people inside, a future you wish to hide.
You create a book of notes to follow. Its all in your head, and your heart is hollow.
Waiting for a path to take, you ask yourself what is that you want.
Ideas pull you. Everyday they taunt. You settle, but then you change you mind. Full of strife, you ask one more time.
Again and again the question looms, and over time you figure you’re just inept. Maybe even doomed.
I stop and stare, at the book of simple pleasures. What is it filled with? Things that can only be taken with a certain frame, one with which I cannot measure.
Take your thoughts and rules. Throw them out the window.
One day you’ll look back and see that you knew not what you wanted, only to find it was not your choice. Its a path you cannot see, a path in which you have no voice. It fate. You see it too late. You close the door and another door opens. But only to find that it was opened for you. Stop and take in the view. It’s a beach. For the water you take a reach.
A romance to serenity ensues.
An ambivalence to consciousness grows within you.
Taking it all in you come to terms
with the answer, which your body yearns.
Fuck it and ride the waves. It’s enough to be alive today.
I wrote this without a pause in thought. It makes no sense at all. Oh well.
A slight jolt. A sharp twist. A sudden scratch. And I was in. Light sliced into my eyes as I stepped into the room cautiously… corpses. Two rigid bodies folded in their chairs, and another glared passively from the floor. A trail of crumbs led to a stiff man, presumably the butler, Ken.
The dark hall pressed itself upon me as I inched toward the stairs. Daylight pierced through heavy curtains on the second floor. Just one door remained closed. A slight jolt. A sharp twist. A sudden scratch. And I was in. Faint light from the hallway illuminated glassy eyes. Their gaze fixed upon mine. Scarlet streams ran down its face. A teddy bear lay next to the figure accompanied by an overturned tea set.
Trying to stay calm, I made my way to the bathroom. Dank air pressed into me as I opened the door. I felt clothes on the floor. I flipped the switch. “Molly” had been written on the mirror in red. The markings on the wall were the same color but seemed more sporadic. I raised my hands to my face.
Oh the joys of raising a two year old.
is that the sentimental person thinks things will last—the romantic
person has a desperate confidence that they won’t."