Uncertain, Tired, Sure

It rests in poorly encrypted, easily intercepted communications. (We knew they were coming to wake island) In supercomputers executing algorithms until it causes the world to collapse upon itself. Blue screen of death flickering on the moniter.

It's certainly wrong. I'm certainly Andross. It's certainly decided in the smoke filled back rooms.

But I sleep.

Weird Fishes

Clueless. What am I (?/doing/thinking)? How could all this be true. I'm bigger than the world. I'm the smallest creature alive. A weird fish. Swimming in the ocean. Swimming far upstream, ritually. All I find there is the old, dead, and unborn. Bury myself. Someone will come along and pull me out. Someone must come along and pull me out. I must be the answer to something. I must be a piece of the puzzle.

But I am not, am I? I'm no larger than a speck of dust. Wondering the world and praying to be something more than I am right now. Something more than a shell, wringing my hands together and praying for warmth. But I'm not. I'm dust, to dust I'll return. The palms of peace will be burnt to make ash. I'm just far too consumed. Subliming into thin air. Not worth a thing anymore, that way.

[In the deepest ocean
The bottom of the sea
Your eyes
They turn me
Why should I stay here?
Why should I stay?

I'd be crazy not to follow
Follow where you lead
Your eyes
They turn me

Turn me on to phantoms
I follow to the edge of the earth
And fall off
Everybody leaves
If they get the chance
And this is my chance

I get eaten by the worms
Weird fishes
Get picked over by the worms
Weird fishes
Weird fishes
Weird fishes]

Like spinning plates (oh cruel dispair)[love is a lightswitch you can turn off and on]

While you make pretty letters,
I'm being cut to shreds.
You feed me to the lion,
a delicate balance.

(How could this be? 'ave uttered it all.
One week in purgatory will cleanse you of it all)

[Love is a lightswitch I can turn off and on.
I can say all I want when I want.
I can bat my eyelids and pretend all is for naught.
And then, when alls said and done,
love is a lightswitch I can turn off.

Love is a lightswitch I can turn on when I want.
Pen sweet poems about endearing emotion
But, is it not fun to turn it off?
And write what I feel and claim it was nothing
Someone else had conspired to flick the switch off.

So gather round friends, and I will reveal
the secret revolving the switch.
Loud screams and great joy will follow
If only you turn the switch off. So,
friends, gather around, scream on the top of your lungs.
"Love is a lightswitch I can turn off and on!"]
If you'd prefer, you can scream any one of other things.

Viorar Vel Til Loftarsa

[A good day for Airstrikes]

Strike an unknown chord. Flick the switch. This is the end of the beginning and you've got the end mapped already. No one gets intermissions. Buildups without a place to stand.

So, few of these have resolutions. We're all still dogs chasing our tails. So let's please, please stop chasing our tails. Look around and realize this is a shit idea, and we should really spend our time doing something other than chasing our tails. Let's draw and A over the student government advert. Let's speak our feelings. Let's never be held back.

But it's a dream. I'm a fool for the thought. I'm never going to follow through. Just sit here. And wait. And hope. And then lose that hope. And sit here more. And lose more hope. And... Derail this thought.

"But the best thing that God has ever created is a new day."

Story (never written)

I was walking back from the library today. And feeling cliche. And thought this-

How would my story read, if I were to be dead? Should my moral be myself, clutching the last few dollars in my bank account that I haven't handed over to the multinationals plummeting from a tall place in protest of my existence? What is my existence? Just wake up, go to class, try to comprehend. Go to my dorm. Try to unwind. Hear about how I don't comprehend enough. Feel like a disappointment. Go the the library. Try to comprehend and realize I don't. Sink to this. I don't like it. It's not how I want to exist. But, do I really have a choice? My story seems like it's already written. I think the tale of my failed ambitions, disappointments, and collapse has already been laid out. It's just waiting on me to realize it.

And I can't change it. To break continuity creates a paradox. And those always come crashing down (so long as you're not talking about them in relation the the government or the banks. They've got plenty. But I suppose those will come crashing down too, with luck).

This is my story. It's never been written. It's already been told.

Like sardines in a crushed tin

It still makes my heart sink every time.
It still drains a little bit of life every single time.
It makes me close up every single time.

No way out of this, now.

Less someone has a can opener.

Battle scars

The plains are scared with
evidence of the battles taken place.
Craters and UXO lay scatered
left behind by retreating armies.

The walking wounded wince
at the sting of their injuries.
Shot by those who do not know
what they fight against.

Lo, peace may never enter into the valley
for it has seen too many horrors.
Too many shells sit unfired
and bombs unexploded.

So the inhabitants do still weep
for their sons who rest there.
Who may never again see
tranquility it the valley.