I wish to meet people. All sorts.....people that play guitar and sing, people that play guitar so I can sing, writers, runners, riders, fliers, criers, eyeliners, smokers, jokers, tokers, and silent peoples that hide behind shadows and masks.
I'm a creep
writer short stories, poems, lyrics, the answers to the big questions (I tend to just make those up)
I watch everyone
read everything, sci fi, fantasy, physics, bio--
study the planet
experiment with writing, everyone, everything, and the planet
We cannot get out...we cannot get out...
We's all glittering grit here...
Roses are red
[Violets are blue]
Badger badger badger
[Badger badger mushroom]
A bit of my writing:
~~"I keep stumbling, tripping over rainbows. What are these doing here? I wonder. If there's nothing but sulfurous cloud and razed structures that means these rainbows didn't just float delicately to the ground. They're dead. Everything has a rusted, crisp and flaky exterior, you wouldn't even want to touch the trees. I can stay calm, trip over rainbows, and cough through the clouds. I can even stare into the dead eyes of this forgotten society without cringing.
But where is everyone else? Shouldn't there be someone to hold my hand, to cry out against this shaken and deteriorated world and need my arms around them because who else is left to care? And then I realize.
I am alone.
I collapse onto a dead rainbow, the dimming colors filling my senses, and begin to cry. This is it. This is it. Alone. The words and sobs wrack my body until exhaustion takes me and I simply lay there, atop this decaying rainbow, a single query drifting throughout my haggard thoughts.
They left me, they're gone forever. The land is dead, there's a shell of a building where our house once stood. Killing clouds, dying rainbows, everything rust and sharp.
They're all gone.
That particular query floats across the surface of my brain once more, although this time it has a serious quality to it.
Should I leave?"~~