Bitter Something

Roaming the grocery store aisles, finding yourself lost amidst the dried fruit

Unable to recognize the lines on your palms

After all - a personality is only a culmination of the the directions you have been pushed 

Our innersoles remain solitary and covered in ink - inside we roll with the impact  from the outside 

And the marks - the art our inner self creates is projected as who we are 

what about those worldly pursuits that withdraw you from your room -

       - the pursuits that distance you from your consciousness

is it best for those flowers inside your head, that brush up against each other at the slightest inhalation,

               - to bloom from sounds of sirens and voices?

what about those signs drawn on paper, that are constructed to represent stories and things all together,

       - the signs that give life meaning

is it not the best form of nourishment, that gives color to the pieces inside your chest

               - to understand what consumes you?

the flavors held in the hands of time and space are sweet and sour respectively, logically of course

you recieved your license, you now have permission to drive into your own future. 

the freedom to crash is a powerful gift. Often, when your alone you will see the gift of space, while its colours touch the ground 

Evaluate slowly - Characters are slowly broken down, bits and pieces of the body chipped away.

The sculptor takes his finished work. He places the chisel at an angle touching the work of art. Sweat dropped from his forehead to the base of the marble slab - giving the sound of a click. He presses the hammer to the edge of the chisel once more, and sees what was once a final work regress to its preliminary stages. A parent to the art, he watched the transformation. 

Writing style is the least of my concerns considering I cant even hear myself think, In my heart and my mind. The modern day classic song plays in the background reminding you of the dreamlike american themed image you have of your future. I lied about not caring about my style of writing. 

You meet people everywhere. Their little thoughts build a picture. Your picture. A picture of your face. It happens 1000 moments a day - the person who cut you off in traffic and sped away, the dentists assistant. That is just it. We make pictures with not much to go on. We leave many mysteries unsolved. Is that why we feel dissatisfied? 

I woke up not so early, and did a little extra nothing this morning. 

The main reason is mosquitos. Just one has the power to do such harm. Not brute harm, but the kind that can change the fate of a day. Luckily, an easy-going optimist does not succumb to the power of such a creature. But nevertheless, the single mosquito, tactful, successfully left a “I was here” on 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 and a few more on my body. One thing I learned is that mosquitos are unquestionably good at their jobs. They make fools of humans who grab fistfuls of air with godzilla-like confidence. I can only say so from such shameful experience. Mosquitos have a humbling quality, it must be acknowledged. They are small, and you would think brainless - after all, how much can such a head retain. As I’m kindly reminded when I look at my swollen red knuckles, I maybe should not discount their intelligence. 6 - I found number six with a tickling sensation that only came to fruition now - the underside of my right forearm. Changing the day is absolutely what they did. Leaving me full and plump in odd places on my skin. 

Surprising me throughout the day, maybe not as delightful of a surprise as I’d have wished, but one nonetheless.

Which begs the question: Would you rather be surprised by something that doesn’t really affect you that much or not be surprised at all? 

I guess it all calls into question the amount of emotion you want to feel in a single day. I don’t think I chose to be surprised - but, I would choose to be. 

its interesting when people don’t want to believe in you

stop breathing and take a look around you, 

her eyes are fixed upon the way you talk about your triumph

she drinks your pleasure and pride

and spits it out in front of you

a meaningless moment, given such time

she was praised by all, and sings her song without shame

dust collects where i’d like pollen to fly

images sit in paper 

paper made in places further away from me 

im generous to thoughts of self conciousness - donating to charity. 

its a scam they told me. it may not make sense, you believe you are helping someone, contributing to this beneficial cause making a differnece. a cloud of uncertainty lingers above your head - speaking quickly trying to be heard in the midst of inteligent people. work harder. start to listen - be someone who doesnt speak. 

the man of few of words with a stone face standing still. mount rushmore never speaks to the people taking pictures down below, a different world would exist if the case was otherwise. 

the price of ambition - no money, priceless

fathers out of work, families still comfortable

a life not in my favor - i listen and smile

the tempo waits for me to dream 

fast cars don’t slow for anyone

but its possible 

ill stand in the middle of the road. and for some reason be impervious to danger. its always been that way. invincible. 

nothing happened. and thats just it.

ambitious. 

but nothing happened. 

with shadows

wishes hide in corners

wholesome smoke occupies spaces of thought

while patterns build brail

walk, search - for the switch in darkness

white hallways appear simple, open spaces alike

welcome a new era of navigation

warmth sets, a reflection bleeding in the ocean

sites  familiar and foreign,

experienced, remembered - forgotten

missed.

conversations give weight to dreams,

expecting butterflies,

nerves travel to your forehead

lust living at the core,

fruit beneath the surface,

floating(swimming) amidst the fish

nostalgia of the ocean

transformed debris

nocturnal, punctual

darkness pulls it forward,

the hope, the yearning, the hunger

motivation from the sun

flowers bloom in hidden gardens

petals kiss the ground,

falling from tall stems

remnants of beauty,

Poetry is painted on the walls. A streak of RED following the edges of the wall, winding around each corner, holding color. 

The colors make you think - Running from comparison, embracing tones of red. Daydreaming during the morning jog I never take, value is forgotten and remembered.

She said “I Pray you find peace” - I didn’t know what it meant. 

I went on with my life, being creative, to make ends meet. Just like the rest. Continuing with the idea that I’m special. Don’t forget about that. Why else would I roam this street?

The same street for months. The same route to work. Destinations forget to reveal themselves when wearing a routine’s uniform.  

The man at the convenient store is Asian. He smiles, and knows: ‘Camel Blue Sir’ - Yes. I never asked him his name, he never asked mine, but he knew what I needed.

He handed me the pack while I set the plastic near the register. My room mate gathered his candy. - I forgot how old I was. How young I am. 11.40 - 15% - 4 other digits. Responsible for recalling important numbers unrelated to life.

I ripped the carton open and threw the wrapping to the ground, and caught the looks of girls passing by. Unimpressed. 

I was satisfied, a moment of effortless impression. 

i deleted everything i said. ironic isn’t it. i wrote about telling people the things that they want to hear. its an expectation. 

they looked eachother in the eyes, and said compliments. the sparkle was there, in her left pupil only - most people are attracted to seeing things in the right hand, as a way of reflection, because most people are right handed. 

there i go again deleting things, ironic isn’t it. im not worried of falling into said traps of expectations, i’m aware i’m falling. i chose to go skydiving, i know what i signed up for. 

i wrote my name on the paper. i’m afraid of heights, or something about being in the middle of nowhere.  

you’re in my place. dealing with fear of heights in different a different way. most of us expect people to speak words of comfort. sensitive to touch amidst havoc. 

now, don’t forget to screen your feelings - say the thoughts which are meaningful. i found a song that i liked, after minutes of searching. eternities of impatience lay in seconds of discomfort. 

her tear drops sit in her eyes, not ready to leave. vision coated by liquid emotion, its hard to see. its not just her -they are all sensitive, by choice. 

no riddles to my thoughts. 

the music fades in - its the beginning of a new era. 

dance music, people swaying forgetting what matters.

its better to be free, the cigarette ash lay on the table. a deep breath pushes it off the edge. new beverages take its place. 

the waiter notices my signal, my index finger in the air - a regal calling for service.  the song breaks and repeats itself people while people laugh and smiling - 

the song changes, and the world doesn’t stop moving. 

hearts beat, searching for the words that will stem from her mouth. flowers bloom into conversation. nothing is painful in this moment. - 

i never understood the scientific method. To say I misunderstood the whole thing would be a mistake. Specifically the variables. Identifying and differentiating between the independent and dependent. 

Ironically, i relied on my group members for that part of the process. The meaning of the words seemed so separate from their function to me. 

The distance between the everyday definition and the scientific terminology was immeasurable. Slowly I found my way to securing comprehension. 

Now, there is no science to it. Simply, a word, a meaning, and a click in my brain that attaches the two. 

Climbing out of my hypothesis, the variables changed. Past middle school this process stays relevant, applicable in a new context. 

I hope she relies on me. I do my groceries to prove something. 

the vegetables sat on the table. i stared at them because they weren't the prettiest things to look at. i found that it was important to look at them even though i didnt like them. 

my cab driver the other day told me that he doesn't believe in god. i didn't care that he said that, he told me that people who believe in religion are idiots. i didn't respond. we sat in silence and forgot how the conversation began. 

i asked him if he understood why people believe in religion. - he smiled at my question, and made a remark about "faith" and "hope" -