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Diminished. Part One. bAll in one.
A simple multipurpose tool
Just shy of perfection by one flaw.
Six o'clock in the morning, on the dot. Flinging the covers aside with great enthusiasm and a huge grin to match it, Nigel was ready for another day. Leaping to his feet and then striking a pose with both arms above his head flexing and a "oh yeah" was the next step in starting off the day. Nigel had a healthy vibe about him and he made sure to begin with a positive attitude if he wanted similar results for himself. After going through the rest of his morning duties, which consisted off stretches and exercise, breakfast, dressing, and then taking time to tidy up the small room, in that order, Nigel grabbed a leather strap on the bottom middle part of one of the walls and hoisted it up.
He was in a storage unit, among many others. The whole area was filled with numerous piles of metal and debris everywhere. Such areas were used to dispose of scrap parts. This was Nigel's domain. He enjoyed tinkering with bits and
T.o.m.b 1aMany strange and wondrous things exist in this world. There's nature that has its magical ways of growth and secrets. There is also mankind with its work in the sciences and advancements as a race. Both have their devastating sides as well. Volcanoes, earthquakes, and hurricanes for nature to name a few; guns, missiles, and nuclear warheads for humans are commonly known about. However, I feel most are easily forgetful of one power we humans have that is constantly abused for good and evil each day.
The power of words.
A chilled Sunday morning. Finely packed snow covered the city as it continued to shower down. It was the first week of January. Littered on most sidewalks and curbs were the homeless accompanied by trash and debris. One couldn't go more than two blocks without passing by a man or woman huddled for warmth from the harsh element of winder or enough garbage to satisfy three or more dumpsters.
What a mess.
A man dressed in a mix of rags and scraps lied up against one side of
Sanity is for chumps.Do you ever just..
A gentle breeze can set just the right mood for a summer day as it cools
one's skin off with this Sun's rays heating it in equal competition.
Too cold? Grab a pullover.
Warmer than you wanted it to be? Take it off then.
An easily adaptable circumstance in most cases, especially when there are
not multiple bullets missing your body by mere millimeters and you can't
spare a second to wipe the sweat off your brow as you are dashing for near
Do you ever just..
It is a wonder how the world operates currently. In one location a Saudi
Arabian man barely gets through his day with the ragged clothes he wears,
a mind focused mainly on surviving the next night, an empty stomach, and a
Heineken bottle cap in his left pocket from last week. In another area there
is a Caucasian man who sits in his cubicle on the twenty-third floor, one
leg over the other, biting the eraser end of his pencil as he debates in
his head over whether he should go out with his buddies late
Empty skies.You are a bird.
It doesn't matter what kind of bird so long as it isn't a flightless one. (Ostrich, chicken, etcetera)
Each day you wake with one main goal: to fly high and fly even higher than yesterday. Everyone else is a bird with the same idea in mind. And in order to fly higher than normal, you need to find and share special and unique feathers that are hidden around the world to add to your wings. Not all these feathers are good and some can only be used once one is ready for them. (Based on strength, wit, achievements, you name it)
Now imagine that you were born with a birth defect in your wings, making it tougher for you to fly. You find plenty of feathers, but the majority you add and test out don't go well with your wings and cause you to crash back to earth time and time again. You don't know why that is because you subconsciously forget this disability of yours with so much going on in the world around you only to remember it again later, and strive to do better. Some days
This child's words.Dear parents,
Do you remember those days when I wasn't acting my cheery self?
Those moments when my expression is one similar to sulking or simply sad?
A night when I look like I've "lost my best friend"?
Have you considered it to be depression? Not because I was disappointed about something or someone insulted me. A depression that has been around far before anyone would have noticed and not triggered by outside forces.
This is my depression.
A constant influence that lingers just outside the naked eye's perception. Most days it hides away inside my mind, or heart (wherever you believe it would reside), calm and non-threatening. And then it erupts to the surface without even a split second of warning. The best worldly example I have for it is a tsunami, except you only know of its presence once you are struck by it. And you know there is no repelling or escaping it. You must wait for the water level to descend and then continue on with your days. Unlike a tsunami though, it isn't as c
Four in the morning with sighs and fear.You know, I really wish I had a more concerning and comprehendible problem, or so I believe people would find more worth their time. I wish I had severely broken a bone or had immense brain damage or even just couldn't read well because of dyslexia. But no, I simply have depression with a side of anxiety. And to top it off every night I fear that regret will resurface. Even during the day it pays unannounced visits. I can't just take anti-depressants or anxiety pills, talk to a counselor, or express my feelings through a positive activity. I've moved past the milligrams of medicine, the talks, and the fulfillment is never there even with things I like to do. My joys are dwindling; my bonds becoming unstable with others. I don't believe in myself anymore. Yet, I will wake the next day and continue to live because life is linear and consistent.
I want to forget. I can't forgive myself.
I want to forget what it was like to love someone else.
These days.So there is this guy who walks to work everyday, all dressed up in his nice suit. He is in his early thirties, in the middle class of society, lives alone, and doesn't have many friends. Each day is so routine that the weeks blend together and the months casually pass on by.
On one morning he leaves his apartment room to find a flower on his doormat. The flower was a daisy, wilting a bit on one side. Thinking nothing of it, he headed off to work. The next day, another flower. This intrigues him, but still ignores it and leaves for work yet again. Another day, another daisy. Whomever was doing this was persistent so he had a plan for tomorrow.
The following day he awoke earlier than he normally did and waited by his door. Upon hearing the scuffing of shoes, he quickly flung it open only to find a little girl standing there. She was dressed in rags and holding a daisy just like the others that were left on his doormat.
She was shocked, but stayed still with sweat dropping down her face.
Guilty choices.Here awake with heavy shame.
Waning strength, worn out days.
Accusing oneself of fictional crimes.
Mental death, my heart will cry.
It ails this body as well as mind.
Boundaries shake, casually lie.
The morrow is still foreboding.
Her absence, or her arrival?
These truths shall be told.Do you ever think of suicide? I do on occasion.
Not whether one would go through it or not, simply the idea or concept of it.
Debating on if this life is worth living. Searching for a meaning in what others have decided on being meaningless.
I've lost my path, or perhaps finally realized I never had one in the first place.
It is as if all I knew since being born was to walk straight in front of me, both blind and obedient, until one day when my vision was clear and could truly question with this new sight.
Why this? What does that accomplish? Who cares? Too many questions with few answers to suffice.
The days become worse than mundane. The color that objects and space had held has now bled away to leave them bleak and empty. Even a few shades of grey would liven things up, but no.
Pure white and outlines of black to indicate figures.
And time continues to move. I have always remembered the phrase "time waits for no man" and I couldn't have put it better myself. Time might seem to rush
lost my voice.I wrote "I love you"
in the sand at the beach.
The tide swallowed the words
and drowned them
before I could speak.
HauntedI see her there with
Coal dust carved
Into the icy skin
Under her eyes,
And on her lips
Dance a chorus
Of bitter lies.
A skeletal hand of smoke
Claws at my neck
Until I bleed;
She tells me that the pain
Is just what I need.
And her blood
Zooms in her veins
Like speeding cars.
She looks at me
At what I am.
She’s a snake,
In the guise
Of a lamb.
‘What happened to us?’
Of what I used to be.
‘I may be you,
But you are not me.’
The sun comes up:
Yesterday is gone
But see it this way;
The past is part of the future
But the future isn’t the past.
You choose which bits go,
You choose which bits last.
How to love a poet: Expect them to be flawed,
a field of wild flowered-
& an inability
Love them anyway.
Know that when they look at you
they are noticing the little things.
I Saw a Burning ManIn front of my house, he sat.
Skin burnt off, now charred and black.
Hesitantly, I walked outside.
And he followed me with his watery eyes.
With steps as nimble as the snow,
I hid my fear and continued to go.
Now before him, the Burning Man.
I kindly offered him my shaky hand.
No malice nor vice leaked off of him,
rather sadness and agony which simmered below his skin.
I could feel it around me, the pain and despair,
yet, physically the man was nearly repaired.
For his scorched skin was not his problem,
instead the bottled emotions that devoured all of him.
“Would you like to come inside sir, and stay?”
In which he replied by looking away.
Again I asked, and received no reply,
and was startled when the man began to cry.
Unsure of what to do, I walked away,
Yet I’ll never forget what happened that day.
Be it from pain, or mute, or undisclosed desires,
I watched as the man was engulfed in fire.
I stood back in awe, with my mouth agape,
and feared that he had fallen into
Loving A Guy Who Cannot Love Himself.Firstly, tell him that he doesn't necessarily need to be the “strongest” man in the world,
that if he cries, you won't look down on him for it,
that you won't call him weak.
Tell him that he doesn't have to like sports, or fishing, or football, or any of the “mainstream” things that boys are “supposed” to like.
Let him know that liking art, or dancing, or singing or acting doesn't make him gay, doesn’t make him any less of a man, it just makes him who he is.
A human being.
And for goodness sakes, tell him that blue does not have to be his favorite color, than he can indulge in pink, or purple or even magenta!
And to the girl who take on the task, remember please, that it is not always the Knight who saves the Princess.
No, this time, the Princess may need to save the Knight.
Do not pour your problems onto him, rather, balance each other out.
Be a shoulder to cry on. A friend to be there. A love that never leaves.
Perhaps more than often,
And There Was Lighti.
He was seventeen when he died.
I never went to the funeral
but I walked past it the day of
the service. His mother
was in the backseat of a blue Dodge,
door open, head in her hands.
"My baby," she kept repeating.
"My baby." It would go from sobbing, to
screaming, to a soft whisper that
I could only hear being carried
on the wind.
It was a Wednesday afternoon that they found
his old red pickup truck parked
out front of Slim's, two beer bottles in
the back and the windows cracked to let the stale
I heard that his dad told the police he was
gonna take that old truck and fix it up, because
he had promised his son before—
because it's always in the before—
And in the after, his mother never had dry eyes
and I'm pretty sure my mom told me
that she saw his dad at the bar every night,
drinking his sorrows down because some people can't
handle the stress.
Some people can't figure out why their son would
"Some men just want to w
You Ever Felt ItHave you ever felt it?
When you lay there broken
And feel yourself so guilty
Eyes gushing red
And you want to sleep in a coma
Your brain swelling with thoughts
At the same time empty with nothing
When you can't suit yourself
And see yourself a place among the demons
that moment when you control your life
The moment when you choose between life and death
And then you yourself can decide either way
It's when you're on the edge
And want someone to pull you back before you make another step
A hook, to rip all the insanity out of your body
And suck all the madness that is growing black dead trees
Have you ever felt it, have you known depression
Did you ever seek a source of help, and did you ever find it
1:33 amto the angry young
hungry ocean eyes:
i do not wish to know
what crawled inside
your ribs to
i just wish you would
let it leave.
Felicity.I want to love, to kiss, to hold thee.
On days I feel alone, choices made to flee,
I trust you will find me. To play glorious
melodies for you and I be honored by your
own talents. Soothing nights spent lying down
together, surrounded by silence as your
delicate touch accepts offered command over
Pain and misfortune pay their visits and our
bonds reach their limits or worse, are torn
asunder. However, precious time is spent to
mend wounds and produce new ties after the
results from tragedies.
Laughter turns to tears.
Running, then standing still.
I desire all that comes from you and you wish
to receive everything I give.
And those three silly words, they shall
continuously pass between us each and every day.
Being in your presence will satisfy the senses:
-Eyes I gaze into till my own grow weary.
-Taste of your lips, pecking them here and there,
until they are numb (nevertheless, they always beg
for another second longer).
-Speaking and listening, in tune with our idle
chat at all
SweepAs soon as he stepped into the open field, he slung the minesweeper from his shoulder and pointed its nose to the ground. It was old, worn and heavy, and old and rough, calloused and breaking, and old. The metal between his hands was cold and chilled his fingers. If he was not careful he could step on the very mines he was trying to find. They would have to pick up the pieces of his body and to send the tags home where his wife would cry and hold his son and daughter close with nothing to show them of their father but a piece of metal engraved with "Ajeet Singh".
One sweep, than another.
This war had taught him to never trust open spaces. Open spaces were where the mines were planted, where Prets lay in wait. France was green and damp just like the uniform he wore. It had been days since he was separated from his unit, and now the Allies were breathing on his neck, searching for POW’s, searching for the enemy of which he was one. &
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