Unedited Email from my Lilly

i dreamt of you as well. i dreamt of marrying you in my jeans and this really cute abstract top (it looked like sand and paint, it was so beautiful, like something we could make together) but i was crying and barefoot. so you took my face and ask me if i just wanted to run, and we did. i could tell you were hurt because i couldnt go through with the ceremony but you still took care of me. it was all very sad, but so beautiful, like moving paintings, and the funny thing was, in the "church" (it was just a very steep hill, just grass no flowers and some sort of arc, i cant really remember) all the guests were people with beaks, like mr. blackbird and somehow, i knew that the Girl Who Broke The Sun was the "priest". like all my stories, unspoken and unwritten, come to life.

i guess the best story of all, is ours. how we both live in our heads and say things we dont mean but love as hard as we can. two lonely kids with nothing but pens, refusing to file for bankruptcy of the imagination.

The dance of glass winged butterflies in the hall of a thousand flickering candles

Little glass butterflies with their fickle glass wings.
Glinting of colors of memories that bloom and blossom and die and wither anew
Blinding little flashes of brilliant color with every tiny flutter
Memory butterflies, so enchanting with their endless dance and silent songs
Little tiny butterflies that catch and turn the light of thousands of tiny candles
Orange glows of a million moments caught forever in wicks made of thought and dream dust
Little flames that burn with every thought past and forgot
Facettes of light and soft glow made brilliant by fickle glass wings
Wings of pretty little butterflies
Wings of glass and memory and other such fragile things
And as Lord Time breathes a breeze of merciless forgot and rot and cold icy wind
Butterfly wings break in the relentless wind like a child's peircing cry
Little shattered wings litter dark marble floors of memories left for no one
Like glittering stars on a blanket of cold sorrow
With no one left to remember to sweep up the precious broken memory wings
No one left to remember how to dream of little fluttering wings
That catch and glint in the glow of a thousand candle lights

No hearts

Whispered thought and little paper boats
Flow through coherent dreams and faceless whispers
Memories of forgotten dreams and promises nailed to the ground
With little songs and fluttering broken wings
Butterflies of green and red and colors of breath
Of new green leaves and the smell of grass under the pitter patter of rain
Of eight little splindly legs on silky threads of breath and rumbling hunger
Clutching at fluttering wings with hungry dull eyes
Of walls of stone and of concrete and wood and glass
Walls hold secrets of whispers
Secrets
And walls
And whispers
And posting little paper hearts
And ecthed little red scribbles
And little stone tears
And memories of hearts in boxes and wings on shoes
Of little eyes on the back of ones eyes
Little tongues that wound and hunger and whisper
The walls have no hearts
The walls have no dreams
They have ears, and they whisper secrets and whispers when you dream
They have no hearts child.
No hearts

Little confetti paper girl

Who's that prancing on the roof?
Who's that little girl throwing little paper conffeti hearts?
Little paper hearts that cut you when you try to catch them.
And my hands are already crimson, little paper girl.
A crimson trickle that smells of rust, and of memories of tears and of ruffled little girl wings.
Wings that will no longer take to the sky.
Little confetti hearts that flutter like little girl wings.
Memories of flight and of love forgot.
Whos that prancing on the roof?
Little footsteps on the roof.
Tippy tap of little girl feet.
Running across the redish blue darkening sky.
Dusk trickling down slender little arms.
Dance prance and skip on top of the world little girl.
Playing with paper thin butterfly wings the color of dreams.
Shifting dreams and visions play on your eyes little girl.
Red eyes the color of fervor.
Red little eyes that hint a secret of a mystery of a forgotten memory.
Little girl secrets kept between red little girl lips.
Lips that hint of a smile of a promise of a secret that was whispered to the butterflies.
Butterflies that flutter and sing of promises in the native song or flowers.
Red little poppies for remembering.Little red roses for promises kept and those broken and buried.
That is where my wings have been laid to rest.
The graveyard of dead promises and forgotten secrets.
And only the little red paper confetti girl knows the way.

Mister Black Sunshine

How are you Mrs. Teacup?
Boiling water bubbling inside?
Mr. Spoon, how goes the stirring?
Your brew of bitter tea is is too strong today
For you killed my cup of spiders again.
Mr. Black Sunshine called again for another round of rum.
But he feels sad.
He feels empty without his cup of little black sunshine spiders crushed under a little girls foot.
And his little girl's feet has gone away again.
He has been searching all day for his little girl's feet.
His lucky girl's feet with the orange ribbon on the big toe and a yellow sock on the left foot.
He has missed his afternoon tea, poor Mister Black Sunshine.
He misses his tea of black sunshine spiders crushed under a little girl's foot.
He misses his crumpets made of little laughing dandy lion petals.
He misses his chocolate people, melting on his tray from the heat of their embrace.
Sometimes he wonders if the chocolate people on his tray are sad or angry.
For they moan and they scream until they melt into each others arms.
Then they stop moving and making noises after a while.
Mister Black Sunshine likes to wait 'till they stop.
They taste better after they have melted together.
They taste a bit like the color you see the moment you kiss someone you have loved all your life but have never seen (In dreams you have met)
and a bit like rememmbering an old song you thought everybody but you forgot.
The insides of the melted chocolate people taste a bit different.
It tastes like the light you see when you close your eyes when your looking at the sun.
He enjoys his little chocolate people very much.
But they are hard to come by.
On winds day, a peddler comes by his front lawn to trade away the little chocolate people for shadows under little children's beds.
Mister Black Sunshine has lots of shadows under little children's beds.
He uses them to find his lucky girl's feet, for children are very good at finding lost children.
But the trouble is, children often find themselves lost right after they have found the lost children they have been looking for in the first place.
But Mister Black Sunshine loves his little children things, and often worries when they are lost.
He searches for them in the last place he would think to look, for they are often found where you would search for them last.
He keeps his little children things in a cupboard, to keep them from wandering off during the time when the sun decides to leave.
(For the sun in Mister Black Sunshine's yard likes to take breaks at the most undesirable times)

Star stuff confeti

God is the world.
God is the stars.
God is the star stuff and the jelly behind people's eyes.
Cosmic dust and virtruvia.
God is the time between gasps of a couple bound together in bliss.
He is the number of steps between the cradle and the grave.
He is the faith of one and the doubt of a million.
The lies of perception, and the perception of truth.
Denial of the word and acceptance of the blood.
Policing chaos 1 0 1 1 0 0 1 1 1 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 1
Binary in all aspects.
Yet artistic in every design.
Perfect.
Fractured.
Clouded and clear.
D e L UUu Deed
And Sane.
All and nothing.
We are God, God is us.
What ever you do to the least of My breatheren, you do unto me.
Let him who smite be smitten, he who slanders be fouled by pig shit.
And the greedy, let choke on the bones of the weak and forsaken.
We are God's instruments of justice and injustice.
We are the hand that saves and the fist that smites.
We are the builders of the wheel.
The wheel that turns, the wheel of the never ending cycle of birth and rebirth.
Let us be the heart of our God.
Be us HATE.
Let be L o Ve.
letusbetranquility.
CH AOOS bE Let OuR NnN NaaAm mMes BeaA AR.
P E R F E C T I O N
diSSSooluTion.
Let us be what we are.
God made us human.
To be part of what makes us human is to contemplate that which we cannot understand.
That which we cannot, in our finite memory stream, begin to comprehend.
We are too blind to be God's ears.
We are too deaf to be God's eyes.
We are what we are.
We are God's love.
We are God's heart.

Coats and Things

Pathetic.
How you starve and crave and hunger for the things that make you starve and crave and hunger.
NO MORE!!
Clinging to those fragments of thought, scattered speculation that is naught but the truth of a lie.

I am you. You are love. Love makes the world go round and round.
I am you. You are love. Love makes the world go round and round.
I am you. You are love. Love makes the world go round and round.

We are the demons we fear.
Cravings of the mind that hound us.
Pleasure and pain, all is relative.
Time is relative, sin is relative, good is relative, thought is relative.
Only God is absolute.
We are the desire in the Unbeheld's mind.
We are the blisters that pain the mind of the cosmos.
We are the pleasure derived from that pain.
God sees our suffering.
God is our suffering.
God is our pleasure.
God is our relief.
God is nothing.
God is everything.
God is the source.
God is the infinite and the incredibly finite.
The sands that form time, the stream that deters life.
Anti life, hope, magnitude, all embodiments of power and weakness, of absence and abundance.
We are the embodiment of God's desire.
And like desire, we are cruel, we consume all including ourselves.
Like desire, we are blind to the suffering of others.
How we starve and crave and hunger for the things that make you starve and crave and hunger.
We are God's desire personified.
The anthropomorphic embodiement of an infinite probobility, all impossible but occured.
We are all that we cannot become, for we are naught but desire.

Maskman Tagalog theme

Humanda na kayo

Kampon ng kadiliman

Oras na ng pagtutuos

Kasamaan ay dapat matapos

Narito na silaBayaning tagapagtanggol

Sa masamay lilipon

MaskumanKayo lang ang pagasa

Iligtas kami sa marahas na kadiliman

Kami inyong ipag laban

Sige sige laban maskuman

Ipagtanggol ang kapayapaan

Sugod sugod laban maskuman

Pagsangalang ninyo ang katarungan

Buong mundoy magpupuri magpupugay mabuhay

Laser squadron

MAAASSSSKKK kuuu MAAAN!

amxcbnmnv

He wears upon his brow, a crown of pure ivory. Bones of gods long ago dead and forgotten. He is the majestic prince of the moon shine, and the deathly embrace of the cold night. He is the vision and the nightmare, the proof and the fallacy, he is the eternal dream that outlived the dreamer. (Bump)(Bump)(Bump)(Bump)(Bump)(Bump)(Bump)(Bump)(Bump)(Bump)(Bump)(Bump)(Bump)(Bump)

Maiden cast into the deep

The crumbling pages of thought that has lived and died by the sea. The same sea that yearns to be love, but is loathed in return.
The sea of the dying or the dead where thoughts are bourne into but are cast among the turbulent waves.
O cry my wind swept cliffs, for how many maidens has your depths claimed?
How many lives has been on your slate?
How many plummet into the depths of your foamy feet?
Yet you are innocent.
You are the innocent child of the marriage of the sea and the shore, you are the cliff.
A silent testiment to the eternal prejudice of thoughts that would never climb your peak.
You are the unwitting accomplice to the murder of thought, and that is your punishment.
You will kill those that seek comfort in your shelter.
Your secure harbour will be the jagged tombs of those that cling to you.
I do not blame you for stitching your eyes and mouth shut.
To shun out the eternal kiss of the new sun, as voices of the fallen are cast at your bloodied feet.
Your mother is unforgiving.
Your father is deaf.
And you are the silent epiphany of those that choose to fall from the rocks to the sea.

God, i ask for a book...

I ask God for a book, if anything else, for a book. One that has wings that soar, to fly me away, from this torment of dread, I need to fly and see the world.
I am fire, a sprite of the restless, i cannot be contained, yet here i am, imprisoned in my own dying head, the mind of one that has forgotten magic, yet i yearn to be free.
To yearn is magic, to seek for what is beyond what i see, i am compeld to be free, i cannot rest, or settle, that is for the earth, i am the consuming fire of desire, i am restless and never at ease, that is my torment.
I cannot be happy with achievment as much as i am with achieving, winning is just the afterthought of getting to where i stand. That, is my eternal torment.
God i ask for a book, one that never ends, one that soars beyond the horizon, but never leaves my side, God i ask for a book, if anything else, one that has a leather bound cover, one that has been in the hands of another, and let me, i pray oh loving Father, please, live me an adventure I could only dream.

Please, educate the rich, give to the poor

Lets face it. The rich are incompetent. Not all rich people, just those born into richness.
The exclusive few that are cocooned into their own petty existence.
Those princessess and princes that believe themselves to be above that of the common man.
The ones that have thier own blissful view of the perfect world, through the eyes of the ever concealing golden fleece strewn over their heads like a choking black bag, so lovingly placed by the so called mentors and guardians of these pathetic children.
Let them choke, I have only apathy for you.
What makes you so great that you are above all laws and reason?
That your every wrong doing is justified, and then blamed on the unfortunate massess that so desperately kiss your boot?
You speak as if you know all the things one should know to survive. Your knowledge of where the best "Gimmick spot" (Text book definition of the term Gimmick : A secret device used in the execution of a magic trick) will not help you in the real world, or in hell for that matter.

Your ignorance astounds.

Im sure some would read this and think "He's just angry he isn't rich."
Believe me, i would rather be in the gutter.
Most of these pathetic beings are so dependent upon their parents, that most would actually die if their parents money dwindles. But why, if their own parents, flesh and blood, would pass away, but leave the a tremendous amount of money for their child, these souless leaches seem to thrive?
Perhaps they are the cancer that feed upon the human society. Ironic isnt it? That, at the opposite end of the spectrum, the other side of the poor and striving masses, the other end of the unsightly, seeming creeping leprosy on the human edifice reffered to as the poor, is the biggest leech of them all.

~~~~~

Good bye Augustine. Good bye. You said youd write to me, but you do not know how to write. Lying is all that you know, and maybe even that is a lie. I cannot be sure where we shall land, my sweet sweet Augustine, we cannot be sure what we shall become. This wind is mighty strong, and my wings cannot flap beside you anymore. You say we shall meet again, i doubt it. Why should we meet again if we are to part? And why should we part, if we shall meet again? No Augustine, i say good bye, or good riddance would be more apt. Good bye my sweet Augustine, the wine had been sweet, and the laughter while i danced in the air was good, and my bent wing proves i learned more than i seem. No Augustin, good bye is the word i need. I have not the strength to go back the plane i once knew, and the wind is against me at this time. Good bye Augustine, thou i shall never call you friend again. Good bye, we shall never meet. This is the road we took. Though, my friend Augustine, you are gone for good, and we shall never meet again, i shall be hoping that we could be friends at another plane, and forget our frie...pangit.lolz

Sad sad sad sad

Yet it does not. Yes it really does not. Thats what i mean. This is all what im saying! Listen, for once in your life, listen to what i have to say! It will not eat up a lot of your time. What is time to you anyway? Your living through this life waiting...just waiting. And you do things that normal people do. You work, you study, you read, you love, you cry, you laugh, you live, you weep, you wed, and all the other things one is supposed to do, but for what? Just to pass the time. Time is the only constant in the universe that God has allowed us to touch, to feel and to see. You see time in the falling of the rain. As the droplets fall down from the sky. You feel it's weight everytime you look blankly at the wall, waiting for it to pass by. You sense it everytime you are running after what it has took from you. Running for the chance that went by, for the lover that you have never talked to, for the bestfriend you never met. Time is forever, yet it is fleeting. I am tired of this topic, i dont even know why i started this. I beg forgiveness for wasting the time that could've spent wasting it. My appolgies. Please leave the dime in the cup, for i have but only a fleeting moment to fill it.

Chapter 3

This does not make a good ending. Our highschool life, the best chapter in our lives, the defining point in ones existence, the stage where you open your eyes for the first time, where a child learns, not from what his elders teach him, but by what he sees with his own fresh eyes. This is not how i envisioned the end. This is not how i saw it long ago. This is a mistake. Its a lame ending to the best story ever told, its a misstep on the last few steps of the most graceful waltz ever concived, its an off note in the concierto from the heavens, its the dying of a legendary hero because he slipped on his own semen on the bathroom floor, i could go on, but you get the picture. *SigH* This is not how it should have been. Maybe God had the plans mixedup with someone else's plan, and any time soon, hell send us all back to that stage, on that date, on the very moment all this went wrong...or maybe he already has, and we were meant to get what we got. Well, what ever His plan is, im not seeing the point. Anyway, its not like bad things dont lead to good ones. Its the karma of life. Sleeping Beauty would have never met her prince if she lived thousands of years before him ryt? (She slept for a thousand years without aging.) Anyway, thanks for the memories, thanks for the lessons, for the frowns, for the smiles, for the bruises(mostly from me) thanks for opening my eyes highschool, i love you, and forver i will hold you up there, in the sky, with the legendary heroes who died in their bathrobes.

The potter and its defiant clay

Theres this one person in the whole wide world that seems to get to me. So much of nothing i seem to see. I dont know why, or where or how or what. But his words ignores my thick skull and pierces straight to the heart. Hes an uncle, my most loved uncle. Actually, hes my lolo uncle, but hes uncle nontheless. We dont talk much, nor do we know a lot about each other, truth be told, we rarely see each other. Im no even sure if he sees me as a nephew, or just rifraf, but he does get to me. Hes a preacher by trade, and a father to my uncle whos younger than me. Let me get to the point. Tonight, i made a discovery. It is not love that drives me to long for this uncle, but rather the lack of it. The utter lack of love from a parental figure. A person to tell me to not do what i do, to do what i dont, to watch my school activities, to sign my permission slips, to call me when i dont get home early. Little things. The little things are the measure lifes joys and sadness. When i look at this uncle, i see not an uncle, but the hand of a potter that shaped my father. They were distant to an extent, but close to a degree. Its kinda hard to describe, its like they only have a bond when they one of them needs the other, but never when the other just wants the other's company, and that relationship seemed to work great. Bottom line, i see my father in the person who shaped him, and having lost my father, i see the greatness of a father that never had a son of his own, and my dad, who never had a father, just like me.

Pitch White

Dark. In the dark. I love the dark, it leaves me in peace. It embraces me, It comforts without saying a word. It envelops me whole. It asks no questions, it tells no secrets, it asks for nothing more than your company. The dark is God's gift to the cowards. The dark is a place to hide your shame, your fear, your regrets. Funny though, how easily one can vanquish the dark. The dark, which instills fear into all its beholders, even grown men cower in the dark. Each movement in the dark, each sound, each quiver that is embraced by the darkness becomes the instrument of fear. It is where the hiders remain hidden, the weepers never have to wipe their tears, and those that hide from their sins are devoured by it every time they close their eyes. Then to them, darkness is a thief. It has robbed them of their freedom. They could no longer leave the dark for their eyes have grown weak to light. Their skin sensitive to the touch of the sun and their senses are in tune to the blackness of nothing. They are prisoners in their own loving darkness, which they loath and love, hate and long for, which in turn loves them and feeds off their love.

Dreams of an anthill

Bring forth your wings and take flight my little angel. Wings of white and red with blood soaked from crying. Weep no more, sing no more your mournful words for they pierce my chest like pens that write the sonnata of loneliness. The night shall end, and the sun will come. Rest thy cheeks and let them touch no tears. No more shall you cry, my endless dreamer. Your tears have fallen enough. Cant you hear the whisper in the trees? They are waiting for you. The hill and the oak, with the magpie's nest, the dog and the river all weep for you. Cry no more, my little angel. Wipe away your sorrow. Your tears of nothingness and empty abandon will cease to fall. And all shall be well.

Cementery in darkness

Kick him away, thats all he's ever good for. Not even his own heart tries to help him. His chest beats the words of madness - claiming it to be love. Love, it eludes him, escapes his grasp, defies his understanding. Such a simple concept, and all hes got is his own boot mark on his face. His face, poxmarked by crevices of nights long ago spent in thoughtless agony, in pain that rips apart his very dreams, yes he dreams no more, for he is no more. No dream and nothing to show, what are you to live for? You might as well marry the rocks where the sea embraces them. In your own grave at least you'll have the love of the endless see.

Apathy for the Apathetic

I have no qualms, about slitting his arms, for his throat is already cut. Let the Tall Man shit in his own yard, drown his own cat, slit his own throat, and i shall let him weep alone over his own grave.

They will be no more

The tall man bellows his cries, the child then cries below. Let the child weep and the man linger, for they will be no more. Let his cries of sadness and anger flow, and out of his mouth it shall. No longer shall it be, for they will be no more. When the pitch of night drowns out the light, they will weep no more, for their cries will be strangled by the night, the one that loves them so.