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An hour into tomorrow
and I still don't know what to do
Created on 2006-07-06 03:41:39 (#10604495), last updated 2009-11-18
83 comments received, 206 comments posted
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125 Journal Entries, 36 Tags, 1 Memory, 20+ ScrapBook Files, 0 Virtual Gifts, 12 Userpics
Basic Info| Name: | Spade |
|---|
Bio
Greetings.
Name's Kurashi, Jacob, Kura, Sarah, Yin, or Crack.
Lover of simple yet complicated things.
Parallel to the riddler.
Nature walk and rain alone calm me.
Half of a whole, Yin and my Yang.
Goal is:
To gain what I cannot find,
To give what I cannot keep,
To learn from those who need to teach,
And to teach those who need to learn.
Poet, Dreamer, Wonderer, Sadist, Lover.
Whisper of love.
Tell me what my eyes cannot see, of what is truly felt.
How much of this pain is justified, how much is none?
Speak of how things used to be, a disillusioned future dreamed.
What part of you is still connected to me?
Vines once roped by sun are now caught by thorns.
Words once cherished are now scorched and scorned.
Fires now burned to the wick, another candle found?
Gems torn from a gaze, darkness infecting, light choking.
Something seems to be missing, wrenched apart and away.
Why is it my glow, affection, persona is the only one wafting outwards,
In and out of focus, you can never just stick with one, thrice, needs.
Can you even perceive, believe, distinguish, perhaps ignore.
Everything risked for not wanted grapes and peanut butter.
Roses given but only received for the accompanying thorns.
Vines have been re-tangled, leaving honey dripping with blood.
Red symbolizing only what was once both important but nothing.
How much have I lost of myself, anger being proof positive.
Doors close as snow swarms outside, nothing but memories.
memories becoming long forgotten desires, faces in a sea of green
What part of you is still connected to me? how much is none?
Forget me as if I am a whisper of love.
I am an unsolved puzzle, a riddle yet to be pieced together.
I am, and always will be, nothing more than nothing.
The skies are only as blue as the melancholy that lies buried deep within,
a tempestual current and undertow of the mind that tints vision and time.
If we lose
to the physics hounding us,
could we calculate
the strangeness?
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