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Wednesday, August 16th, 2006
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7:56 pm
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5:03 pm - Assessment ward
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teedy
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Blank notepad sterile room
Write of my madness, have I madness?
whispers reach me, full notes
a portrait of my life, NO my life is mine
not to be claimed by the white coated whisperers
Go now, leave me to my shadows
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(comment on this)
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| Monday, March 28th, 2005
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2:02 am
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jckskellington
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Hey all! I actually record a lot of music on my computer (sort of a mix between techno, industrial, ambient-pop, classical, minimalism and straight-forward rave... yessum, that's a diverse combo!), and I also create albums. I thought I would share some lyrics or some concept album storylines... here's the last album I made (my third, currently working on my fourth) and the second of...
The Hypocrite's Quadriology, Part II: The Tale of the Tragic Bohemian
I. Dancing With the Devil.
The events of September 11th left Ezekiel worse than ever, with no hope for the future at all. The remainer of his high school career was a dark wasteland of despair; but he never showed it on the outside, and kept his feelings to himself. Ezekiel abandons his plans to make the system of authoritarianism fall, and leaves his hometown and family for the district of Montmartre in Paris, France to revel in the glories of art, music and above all, love- to become a Bohemian. His family is shocked, as is all his friends, but Ezekiel leaves nonetheless. "There must be more to this world than the numbing carnality of North America" he tells his mother as he boards the plane. He hopes to succeed in finding some hope in this world. His art shall change the face of Montmartre forever. [Revolution 1899] <== These are song titles.
Montmartre: the place of endless art, insanity and the free-loving Bohemians. Ezekiel quickly makes friends with these creatures of the underworld, and is welcomed with open arms. Their philosophy is nothing like Ezekiel has ever encountered- an ultra modern, ironic lifestyle of wild parties and clubs, gut wrenching poetry, beautiful art, and the drink known as ABSINTHE. While he avoids the mind-altering drug, Ezekiel falls in love with the Bohemian lifestyle and revels in the joy it brings him. It seems this is what he was looking for all along. [Post-Modern Impression]
The streets of the village are breathtaking in their diversity, but Ezekiel can never quite shake the feeling of despair he aquired with the events of 9/11. But as he turns the corner, he sees a wonderful being- more beautiful than anyone he has ever seen. Her name is Alice. He is introduced to her later that night at one of his friend's insane raves; they hit it off quickly, but Ezekiel is unsure of what this may become. He refuses to believe in love, one of the main parts of the Bohemian creed. But perhaps he can change his perspective with Alice. Ezekiel vows to devote himself entirely to the Bohemian lifestyle, knowing that it is a lifelong commitment. But he is ready to stay in the underground kingdom, to be spit on by the Bourgeois. He is ready to finally begin life anew... [Ardor]
The rave continues, and Ezekiel is totally engulfed with the pleasures that Montmarte can bring. Alice and Ezekiel begin to dance to the waltz that has filled the club; her moves are sexy beyond belief, as are her blasphemous ways. Alice is exactly what Ezekiel has been looking for; a way to escape from the banality of his home, and to escape the rules of his Christian upbringing. As God spit on Ezekiel, Ezekiel shall spit on God, with his new friends and his new love, Alice. The Devil is now Ezekiel's friend, and a way to destroy the archaic, harmful beliefs of the Bourgeois world. [The Devil's Waltz]
Weeks pass, and Ezekiel is reveling in the lifestyle of the Bohemians. But he still cannot rid himself of all his old inhibitions- the feeling that he treading in dangerous waters. Is his passionate affair with Alice going to destroy him and his future? The Bourgeois he comes across tell him that he is travelling on a dangerous path- he is a blasphemer, and must be crushed along with the rest of his wretched kind. But what drove him to this lifestyle was the Bourgeois' ways of conformity and apathy. Is his pain really blasphemy? Is there any hope for him, this scum of the world? Ezekiel sinks back into his depression, and his thoughts of the Apocalypse return. Alice comforts him, telling him that this Dantean Undertow will pass, if he holds on to whatever hope he has left; which, Ezekiel knows, is the minimum amount possible. [My Dantean Undertow]
Despite all his worries, Ezekiel does continue with the Bohemian lifestyle of truth, beauty, freedom and love. He continues his art and his compositions, but has begun to notice that he is beginning to sink into the clich?- the thing that he hates the most about art. He is becoming as shallow as his fellow Bohemians. They do not really care about anything their creed states; they just want to have fun, they do not truly care about the message. Ezekiel is disturbed; has he just returned to where he began? Will this cycle ever end? [Centr?-Petal]
II. Down the Rabbit Hole
As the months go by, Ezekiel starts to beome reclusive and slightly aloof; his art takes a turn towards the dark side, with black paintings of figures screaming into the void and minimalistic music that creates a sense of segregation and mechanization. His relationship with Alice remains strong, so it appears, but secretly Ezekiel is in pain. He asks one of his fellow Bohemians for advice, how to escape from this downward spiral. He receives the advice only in the form of proverbs: "One word frees us all of the weight and pain in life. That word is love". The Bohemians do not know what to do... they are as thin and shallow as the Bourgeois. Ezekiel hates them, and continues to sink into his own personal hell. [The Weight & The Pain]
But he still loves Alice, regardless of her drug abuse... she is special to him. He tries to hold on to his dying love for her, hopes for a way to escape from his fall. Even with the Bohemians does he try to hold on to the friendship, despite their paper-thin morals. They are partners in protest... partners against the overbearing Bourgeois and government. Together they will stand. Divided they will fall. [Partner in Protest]
It seems that Ezekiel has begun to gain his strength back. Some hope has been kindled in his heart, his love for Alice and his ability to laugh at the ridiculousness of the Bohemians. He would do anything for Alice, for he is in love. Sitting on a hill in Montmartre late at night, they lie gazing at the stars. They have a wonderful conversation about their future, what will happen... "What if I dissapeared? What if the only way to save me was to sacrifice your love for me?" Alice asks him. "I would kill myself for you," he answers. How low they fall, he would do anything for her. Ezekiel asks Alice if she will be there for him, no matter how bad things got... "Would you rescue me?" She answers yes, but in a strange tone... he reads her thoughts, and understands. "You would do anything for me," they say. He is selling his soul to her... and that is what love is. Love, the central word of the Bohemian creed, is the thing Ezekiel hates the most. This realization hits Ezekiel with the weight of a thousand worlds. [Farfarello (Kill for You)]
The rage quickly builds in his mind. Everything the Bohemians stand for is what Ezekiel hates the most... he has no home, there is nothing for him in this world. The curtain falls, and Ezekiel cracks. He runs from the hill, screaming, visions in his head. Everything has been a lie; love has just been another path to misery. There is nothing in this world but pain. The nightmares have returned... Ezekiel has gone insane. [The Curtain Falls]
Ezekiel runs throught the streets of Montmartre in tears, screaming. He ends up at his friend's club, where he was introduced to Alice, and delves into the things he hates. An uncontrolled orgy of alcohol, drugs, and ABSINTHE. There is no hope, so he may as well destroy himself. Ezekiel has reached his lowest point. [Absinthe]
In his insanity, Ezekiel begins to realize the truth. Everyone is manufactured, created to be chemically perfect. Fed lies, drugs, and conservative religious carnality by a government that only pretends to stand for truth and freedom. The government does not want to eliminate drugs; they make money off of it, they have complete control. Ezekiel smiles, and vows to resume his plans for the fall of the system. The sysetm of authoritarianism, religion and love shall fall. [Chemically Perfect]
III. The Point of No Return
Ezekiel has been forsaken by everything in the world... and all shall pay. All has been just a lie, just another disgusting aspect of a world that has been so cruel to him. Everyone has been forsaken by a world that is only misery. [Forsaken]
Even in this state, Ezekiel feels like a clich?; like any other starving artist or bleeding heart. To Ezekiel, it seems that this is what it truly means to be a Bohemian; to be scorned by the Bourgeois and forsaken by all. His rage is now focused against the Bourgeois themselves, who are gathered at their aristotic Mass. He is the ultimate heathen, and he shall show them all the fury that a true Bohemian can unleash. These Bourgeois, the ultimate sinners, shall be the first to pay. [Heathen]
Ezekiel sneaks into the Cathedral de Sacr? Coeur in Montmartre, and hides in the balconies above the main area of the church. The Bourgeois sit there in their symbolic and traditional Mass, like sheep in a meadow. But as they start to sing one of their songs, Ezekiel feels what has long been missing in his life- the feeling that a child has when they are at mass... total and complete faith... but that faith has led him only to this. That momentary feeling of repentance is gone. [Sanctuary]
Ezekiel pulls out a machine gun and releases his fury on the screaming crowd below. Bullets fly through the air, and the blood begins to flow. Ezekiel has gone completely insane, and has begun to unleash his anger at everything the conservatives stand for. He takes buckets of gasoline and flings them into the air... he pours them all over the floor... he dumps it on the Altar and the Tabernacle. Bourgeois cry in pain on the floor, and as Ezekiel walks by, he kicks them in the face. He lights a match, and drops it to the floor, to destroy God and everything these miserable high class fools stand for. The Cathedral begins to go up in flames as Ezekiel runs out of the Church to escape. Sirens go through the air as Ezekiel manages to avoid the police... he must find Alice before he flees Montmartre forever, him and his broken heart. [Sans Sacr? Coeur]
He manages to find his way to la Parc de Monceau, where he questions his actions. He is lost in confusion and anger at God, at Alice, and a world that has killed everyone he ever held dear and put everyone else in chains. Is he truly the bringer of death, destruction, and above all, justice?
He believes so... He must consume the ambrosia and become the new god.
The city is in total chaos from the events brought on by Ezekiel. Fire engines are coming from all over the city to Montmarte, and dozens of people, some of the most prominent Parisian figures amoung them, have been killed. The Bohemians are in total shock; they will all be under investigation.
Nothing will ever be the same for these creatures of the underworld. [Alice & Ambrosia]
Ezekiel manages to find Alice, and sweeps her away to the outskirts of the city. Sirens can be heard far away, as Paris has been thrown into chaos by his actions. Alice cannot believe it... how could all of this happen? The Bohemians are scarred- their peace has been broken. Everything their creed said has been called into question... the dream has ended, and everything has been destroyed. Ezekiel feels no remorse, no pity for anyone. Only a few short weeks ago, they were partners in protest. He laughs. Alice begins to cry. It seems all has been lost, but at least Ezekiel has returned to her. He comforts her, and tells her that everything will be okay, and she will be at peace soon. She feels loved in this time of terror. [The End of a Dream/Unrequited Lovers]
A single tear falls on her face as he slices her throat.
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(comment on this)
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| Saturday, March 19th, 2005
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1:25 am
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| Friday, February 4th, 2005
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6:22 pm - Constructive criticism?
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chelseagirl
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Candle flames flicker--
Dancing, sinuous,
Opium incense aglow,
There's an orange-bowl offering--
Seven perfect suns,
And wooden beads,
On a red string,
At the Enlightened One's bent knees,
As he stares--stone--into infinity,
The beating of his heart
Now one with the gentle cosmic hum
That I am so aware of,
In this moment
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(comment on this)
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1:25 am - Crack
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xhitme
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The pavement was wet with the stench of methane andd her hair reeked of stale nicotine, but she persisted on in that dead-fast determination that she was known for. Her hair was piled atop her head in an 80s do and she had one request, 'the rock.' She was relentless with him, an old friend. He was a little pudgy, only because of the three cases of beer a day. Other than that, he was in fine shape. She tugged on his shirt, "Come on, baby. Can't I get one blast for free?"
"Everything comes with a price," he said. In his hand was always a Budweiser in a coolie cup, but he was as good as a guy as they come. He just happened to have whatever you could ever want. She was steadfast in her ways and when you want it, nothing will stop you 'till you get it. A ten minute euphoria was what she was looking for, but it didn't look like the odds were in her hands.
"I'm still looking," she reminded him.
"Yeah, I know ... but it's not looking good."
The sweat jumped on her shaking palms, "I can't wait." Her tapered jeans didn't give the best image of her plump legs, but she strutted them for all they were worth. She seemed uncomfortable with herself. Such insecurity could only be produced after years of abuse. Her character was shrouded by years of addiction and that body hit its prime in 1986, a long time ago.
She went to college when she was 19 and majored in accounting, but look what good that did her. If she knew she was going to waste her education, she probably would have never picked up that stemmy.
She always was a daddy's girl, but after she took her last never-paid loan, he just couldn't put up with it any longer. Out the house she went and into a half-run down trailer. It was "fully equipped." Equipped, that is, without electricity, heating, or plumbing.
"It's a fixer-upper," she said, trying to console herself more than anything.
"How could you throw away your life like this?" her father asked her.
She shook her head, hair bouncing with a seconds delay, "I don't know what happened."
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(comment on this)
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| Sunday, January 23rd, 2005
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10:31 pm - ...
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| Saturday, January 22nd, 2005
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2:40 pm - bits n peices
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materialgirl06
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"American Splendor"
Jude let the warm water assault his muscles, allowing the droplets to stick to his skin as though it would purify his soul. Fortunately, school had ended two hours ago. Unfortunately, this did nothing to dilute the radiant image of his dreadful B+.
The bear-claw bathtub swelled with water, nearly sloshing out of the highly elevated sides. For some peculiar reason, he felt filthy. It was the kind of filth that seeped into his bones and veins, a weary emotion of grimy and permanent corruption. He sunk lower into the water and prayed that maybe if he shut his eyes long enough, he would wake up in some foreign paradise.
Before he could drift away to Never Never Land, a loud rap at the door broke the silence. He briskly sat upright and averted his eyes to the door.
“Jude? Your progress report just came in.” The voice belonged to his mother. The usual tenderness in her tone had warped into concern and stern disappointment. He held his breath for a moment, then responded.
“You sound upset.” He attempted to remain indifferent, ignoring the temptation of spewing out a chorus of self-abuse.
She sighed and the pause was like torture.
“We’ll talk about this when you’re done.” Her Nine West heels stiffly clattered against the wooden hallway and then sunk into the plush carpet as she floated down the stairs.
Jude gazed up at the ghostly white ceiling, his eyes immediately landing on a speck of dust. He could taste his mother’s disappointment; battery acid mixed with lemons. Shutting his eyes, Jude slithered further into the water until his entire head was soaked.
current mood: groggy
current music: No Doubt
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(comment on this)
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2:29 pm - Newbie
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materialgirl06
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True Friends
So you say you want a change
But you’re back to flirting with your old ways
Tainted seduction
Wrapped in miles of perfect self-destruction
Fawning over an intoxicated romance
As though it were the Angel of your salvation.
Words of unspeakable treason
Buried deep inside
Concealed by an artificial smile
As the music overlaps your intentions.
Go back home
Turn off the lights
And cry on the cold shoulders of your best friends
Jim, Jack, Bud and Bud Light.
.the fall out.
Slaughtered
By your hurricane
A sacrifice
On your altar
Captivated by a beautiful disaster
That defied all logic
Shredded my reason
Like sandpaper to chapped lips.
I’m bleeding
From my crucifix
And did you know your weapon was unexpected?
It’s unfair.
Because you can’t leave a girl so dizzy and spinning and grasping for a hold on the earth and expect her to catch her balance again.
But I must confess.
Vanity looks so good on you
Like yellow does on blue
One flash of that smile
Threatens your victims to shiver
Make way
Clear the streets
Get down on your weathered knees
Praise hypocrisy
Like your own personal Jesus
Light the world ablaze with your treason
And all hail the great pretender.
..Hola! I'm new. I decided to join b/c I love to write and I've always wanted to become a writer. So feel free to say whatever you want about my writing, as long as it's not too mean. :)
current mood: groggy
current music: Maroon 5
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(comment on this)
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| Tuesday, January 18th, 2005
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12:52 pm - New Member
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xhitme
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Hello, my name is Amanda and I just recently returned to Blurty, after a long break, and joined this community. I love to write more than anything and decided this looked like an active place to join. I'm 18 and I live in Virginia, attend college, and spend a lot of time with my friends and boyfriend. I mostly write prose and poetry, my attention can't maintain for too long. Anyway, here's a piece that I wrote sometime within the month ...
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There was something inherently evil in her smile. Her wet teeth shined in the dim lighting of the room. She crooned over her rather susceptible victim, but then again, they all are to her. She had green eyes that flashed a sort of uneasy danger that was oddly welcoming. She whispered something to him and slipped in a wink at the end. He was entranced by her long, winding curls that playfully tossed at her shoulders. She was inviting him in but pushing away all reason or rationale. She wore a long dress of pure white linen. It was an angel pulling the devil in, or was she taunting him, pulling him closer only to drop him right before the punch line? Her lips pouted perfectly above the skin of his neck, whispering more details to further entrap him. He was clumsy and falling fast for the quick tricks of her lips. His thick trench coat kept his arms close, fingers fidgeting in his pockets. His lower lip trembled with a certain amount of uncertainty. Was he going to get there before she left him hard on? He pushed the wire brims slightly farther up the bridge of his nose, catching his fast fleeting breath. She lowered herself onto his lap, talking softly about his face, keeping his attention fast on her. She thrived off watching him watch her. A smile crept up and stuck as she pulled her curls off to her shoulder and slowly edged the sleeve of her dress off. His eyes swelled and stalked her hands that were creeping under his trench and over his starched cornflower blue work shirt. She left sweet kisses on his neck, earlobe, moving down to the collarbone, nibbling on Adam’s apple. She could feel him bulging beneath her, reveling in her enormous effect of him. He was too nervous, sheepish, timid, modest to put his own hands on her. I might dirty her linen dress, he thought quietly, keeping his hands in the pockets of his Dickies. Slow but strong she left her odious impression upon him before she left. He was left with only the memory of her soft ashen skin and the fingers that traced circles on his chest, her jade eyes that spoke certain tenderness to him, so that he knew he had nothing to fear. The price she set was heavenly to him, an opportunity to tug gently on the amber curls that tumbled across his face in an instant of unleveled passion.
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(1 comment | comment on this)
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| Saturday, October 2nd, 2004
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8:37 pm
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monie
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To compose an essay on broken hearts, you must begin with the basics. It will be autumn. And the romance that comes with falling leaves is promised for the first time you hear him laugh. The music will bleed into the static of poor reception. Like the flickering of ashes between the ground, and your grave. Of course there will be a grave. It is assigned to whomever lends their heart out, or lets it blot out of pens into messy love letters.
The first time he kisses you, it will send shivers, but let them go. Let them recede and descend down your spine. But don’t hold on to them.
It will end in a mess of paint. It will sound like the crashing of a piano. And the blood will rush from your fingertips, and settle into rigor mortis. The sound of static will envelop. And your romance will be ashes before the last leaf falls.
current mood: melancholy
current music: boys night out
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(1 comment | comment on this)
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| Saturday, July 24th, 2004
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4:38 pm - Alien
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scarletcreation
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Love is an alien parasite, immigrant from the heavens that penetrates our pores. It is invisible to the naked eye, and will go undiagnosed until after it has invaded the heart, which then spreads it to every other cell. The brain is overcome, and the patient exhibits obsessive behaviour, experiencing a mixture of extreme happiness and fear at the same time. The obsession targets another human being, often for no reason. This is illogical and inhuman, as human thought is confined to reason. This disease is in the same family as creativity and philosophy, diseases that cause the normal human to reject the status quo of social norms and often results in eccentricities like art, poetry, and music. These eccentricities become magnified as the disease worsens. However, in some cases, the patient will not exhibit the eccentricities until after the disease has lifted. The only treatment known to mankind today is relentless scorn, deception, betrayal, abuse, abandonment, and other emotional negatives. The disease affects the patient like an addiction, and they may exhibit withdrawal symptoms for years after the disease has been treated. In some cases, a patient is so eaten up that all known treatment will not cure them. They manage to endure by surrounding themselves with others who suffer from the disease. In extremely rare cases, the target of their symptomatic obsession becomes infected and obsesses in a reciprocal manner. These patients often mate, leaving their body vulnerable to other diseases like extreme hope, faith, trust, joy, and power. The normal human mind will prepare themselves for such an invasion by building up mental defenses and being extremely cautious when becoming intimate.
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(comment on this)
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5:20 pm
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| Thursday, July 1st, 2004
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1:33 pm
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poodlepoodle
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shuffle off fair weathered friend
so most of us are old and lonely
your cane creaks with each splintered step
and careening bodies to pavement
or screeching tires
or flashing red
cannot undo
the memory of soft brown leather shoes
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(3 comments | comment on this)
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1:33 pm
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poodlepoodle
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shuffle off fair weathered friend
so most of us are old and lonely
your cane creaks with each splintered step
and careening bodies to pavement
or screeching tires
or flashing red
cannot undo
the memory of soft brown leather shoes
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(comment on this)
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| Sunday, June 27th, 2004
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11:05 pm - Pastoral Pining
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scarletcreation
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Oklahoma is empty tonight,
though the shirring of pines
seems to fill the twilight
to a firefly's content.
He will flicker,
and soon go out on me.
I will be left here humid,
bare-legged and bare-feet,
wincing at mosquitoes.
My eyes will trace the lines
of a waving blue horizon,
as if each strand of wheat
were a lock of his hair.
A rusted barn rests on the hill,
years of its life given to
feeding and warming,
now just a silhouette I resurrect
with thoughts of him
lying in hay by a fire.
I want to run to him,
but at the end of the mile,
he will not be there.
The night remains empty,
between the moon and stars,
the ground and the sky,
the hills and the hole
inside of me
where he used to live.
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(comment on this)
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12:13 am
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my_wonderwall
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i just joined a little while ago- this seemed like a nice community, i've been searching for poetry/writing communites. i've been writing for as long as i can remember (i'm 16 now). here's something i wrote today..
somehow my chest is chained to yours
and it sinks with every word you say-
tell me to leave,
ask me to stay,
feel my heart weaken with every day.
you know i'm just your paper doll;
i'm always bending,
and slightly torn.
just keep using me like your puppet,
but my strings are becoming worn
and my hands are getting stronger
from this constant pulling at your heart.
i've been working piece by piece
and soon i'll have this to an art.
mold your thoughts
and mend your eyes,
take away your subtle lies,
get it to a science and then maybe this can start.
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(1 comment | comment on this)
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| Saturday, June 26th, 2004
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6:55 am
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vrgnwhore
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Where you are
The pictures blurred
Streaked with afterthoughts left behind
It’s her.
The smell of her hair still feels your senses
As you walk the streets alone.
Paying attention only to the pavement beneath your feet.
The only thing you have left to focus on,
Everything else cramps your brain.
I watch you from where I stand,
Immersed in the shadows,
Wondering what chapter of your life she fits in.
It’s intriguing really,
The way you smooth out the metal on the watch you hold.
A gift maybe.
Because you start to cry.
Crumbling shards of grass between your finger tips.
I stand and watch
You kneel and fall apart.
I could say something maybe,
But words would only increase pressure
To the already shattered.
On my account
It was my fault.
The roads that night were unusually rough.
Her screams pierced my ear
As the metal entwined.
I didn’t know her name,
Unfortunately I’m familiar with her blood.
As it mixed with the rain,
Creating a river.
Her breath still rings in my ear,
Parting way with her lips.
She mumbled a name.
But the name I missed.
I think it was you because she began to smile.
Pages turn,
And still you’re here.
Tracing her name
Engraved
Lightly with your finger.
The petals on the roses,
They’ll frail and wither.
The connection between us both is:
That night will linger.
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(comment on this)
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| Friday, June 25th, 2004
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3:39 pm - I'm new...be gentle...
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chelseagirl
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Lanterns hung, like many pastel moons, from the ceiling. Incense smoked in their painted jugs. The smell mingled with that of pressed chrysanthemums and daisies, and led me farther into the tiny, cluttered shop. Small wicker bins full of assorted stones were situated upon sills that jutted from the walls; others, of beads and pendants, had been arranged on circular tables that were shrouded with burgundy velvet. Nearly fifty plump Buddhas stood shoulder-to-shoulder on a shelf in the corner. The floors were littered with pots of various herbs—mint, rosemary, sage, thyme. A dormant birdbath held a massive replica of Krishna, along with the dried, withered petals of a Lotus blossom.
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(2 comments | comment on this)
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| Wednesday, June 23rd, 2004
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1:54 pm - Fawning Over A Recording of You Reading Lord Byron
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scarletcreation
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I learn your voice.
It becomes water chiseling
a new canyons into my mind.
The tempting language
wrecks my happiness.
Our love surrounds me,
dark from a chance not taken,
its memories are a moss that won't let go.
Your tone moves me:
deliberate like a river
rushing love to the sea.
I lean toward every nuance,
lulled by every ebb on the bank,
I am a swimmer closing her eyes to drown.
current mood: contemplative
current music: Just Another--Pete Yorn
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(1 comment | comment on this)
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