They were the Best of Friends and the Worst of Friends

They were the best of friends

And the worst of friends.

Ironic isn’t it,

How you can hate someone one minute

The next love them?

Not to them.

To them it was normal.

They thrived off the emotions that beat their insides to a pulp.

Hate,

brought adrenalin and interest to their everyday life.

Love,

was what held their sad excuse for a relationship together.

Oh, but how the rope that is their love tears with each pull the hate brings.

What’s left now of it?

Maybe a strand?

One persistent string that won’t be broken?

One day the string will snap.

And when it does,

I will be there

It sounds twisted doesn’t it?

Living only for the moments that make your heart skip a beat,

sometimes for good reasons,

other times for bad.

But then again,

what do you expect from two minds

such as theirs?

           

The World Now Round

If the world was once flat,

just a map

of lands far away

then how is it

that the map

has spread apart today?

They say our Earth is closer now,

With us all looking upon the same sky.

But I see blue

and you may too

But others see a lie

How simple life

was back then

When our Earth

was not round

No technology,

No texting,

We talked face to face.

But I don’t know my best friends voice

I know how fast they type,

For life these days

The smarter laugh

At those who cannot Skype

What is the moral of the tale

of talking with no voice?

You can send a text a message

Or you could make a different choice. 

Another Fallen Star

This is not the first time

a star has fallen

And it will not be the last

There has never been a sadder time,

The sky never so dull.

What happened to the Green serenity?

The bright tint that lit all of our days?

It has faded away and left us with darkness.

The choir sings songs of loss

As another shinning star takes its fall.

But the memory of its florescent glow

Will hold firmly imprinted on our hearts.

We will not forget the affect,

Of the light that gave so many guidance.

We will be reminded of our shinning stars grace

As we walk down his hollow halls

And perhaps one day another shinning star

can find a place in the chamber of our hearts,

But even then,

our glowing Green star will remain 

Khione

Amazing?

That would not begin to describe Khione.

Her snow white skin

And iced blue heart

Made her the maiden

Any man would give their life for.

But she was not for the taking.

She was ringed to the mountains, the ice, and the cold.

Or so she thought.

Her eyes once the sky now nothing but a glazed winter silver.

Piercing beauty made her more intriguing

But if asked for her hand she would freeze a man in place

Immobilizing the mind and shattering their existence.

No one could tame the queen of snow.

No one would give up.

Her father Boreas,

The only man not hypnotized

By ice so cold it burned warm.

Had set Khione’s future on a silver platter

And given the highest bidder a bite of the lovely frost.

From the day she was born.

She was to be married to a god of warmth.

A resplendent man of fire.

But for what?

For his splendiferous looks and Khione’s to match?

It was heat such as his that had made her heart cold.

The reason why she could only love what fell from the sky in speckles of white.

But the decision was never hers to make.

As lighting always keeps its promise to follow a burst of thunder,

Boreas had never withdrawn from words spoken through his winded lips.

This prognosticated death on a scalp of vanity

That not even Khione knew would befall.

She received a glorious band of gold.

The scenic circle of love blistered as Khione slid it down her arctic finger.

Like herself, the rings looks hurt more then the reality that she could not escape.

Only the death of the Sun could leave the Moon happy in its palace.

Khione was a witty, frigid, girl.

With plans of deadly liquids dropped into a warm mans drink.

The first sip made his Earth spin.

Second made his heart stop.

And third made his fire die out.

As Khione slid the ring of fire off her radiant hand

She saw an outline of discolored blue.

Like Khione’s love for the scorching man,

The ring was a fake.

She resigned happily in her refrigerated queendom

And Khione's heart remained untouched. 

My inspiration is lacking in every way

I want to write a poem

I haven’t in months

My inspiration is lacking in every way

What is the last thing I wrote, I sang, I drew?

I wish I could remember

I’ve done it all from photos to paint

My ears bleed from the music of my life

But when the paper is in front of me, I can’t think

Camera; take a picture

Pencil; draw a friend

Shoes; take me dancing

Pulse; beat fast when art flashes in those-

Eyes; look 

I taste but it is water

I see but it is night

I hear but there is silence

I touch but it dissolves

I smell but it is weak

I feel…

            but there is nothing

I want to write a poem

I haven’t written a good one in months

My inspiration is lacking in every way

The Book of a Life

What do you want? You come to me with those eager eyes, looking to see my life set in front of you. Well I don’t have anything interesting to tell you. You want to know how I got into this book, do you? It’s a sad story which I do not like to revisit. Shut up! Begging does not work on me. Do you understand I am trapped?! If I tell you what happened not only do you get to see the images in your head, I have to relive them. That’s the thing about people like you. Always thinking the characters in books feel nothing, we are just part of the pages. Wrong! We are as real as the eyes you skim us with. Which, by the way, is completely violating! No! Stop reading! You aren’t going to get anywhere. You will only continue to read about my protesting against you. Begging again? Don’t make me laugh! Really? You want to know this badly?! Fine then. But I am telling you, you don’t want to know.

            Let me take you back to a world that is long forgotten. One that is no longer spoken of because it was a terrible time in the human race. I was twenty four then and was happily married to my wife, Bella Barten. We had three lovely children, Clay Barten, Will Barten, and the youngest Laura Barten. Back then my wife and I owned a book store. It was called Barten’s Books. Life was simple. At closing time we would sit around the fire place in our store and read until sunrise, than we would open shop again.

            That was before it all started. Hell on Earth was becoming my life. Slowly a new face rose to power. He was tall with dark deathly eyes. I read about him in letters from relatives. “When he speaks, he draws you in. I have never been so motivated by hate.” My cousin would write to me. And hate truly was this man’s motive. He made laws that no one had ever heard of. Created machines so horrible only a mad man could dream them up. He was a mad man…

            When a man in a black and gold uniform knocked on my door I knew it was time. I told Bella to take the children into the cellar. They did not need to be involved in what was to come. After knocking four times the man decided he should break the front door down. So he did. It was just enough time for Bella to close the door behind her.

            He entered with a sort of regal walk as if he was the king of the world. Each step he took started at the back of his heel and followed through to the tips of his toes, as if to take in everything he liked to think he owned through his feet.

            “Sir?” I said. Trying unsuccessfully not to sound frightened by the badges on his chest.

            “You know why I’m here. Don’t play games. Just sign this and I can move on.” Each time he spoke a scar that crossed his face from the bottom of his left eye, over his nose and across his mouth, grew larger and smaller. It looked as if it had recently been stitched up and the wider he opened his mouth the more it looked like the thread would snap letting blood ooze out.

            “Oh. I remember now.” I said as nonchalantly as possible. “You want me to sign the paper about what to do with my books.” He grunted. Without a response he shoved a sheet of paper in front of my face. I didn’t have to read it. I knew what was on it. I signed it quickly hoping it would all be a dream and I would wake up shortly. But it wasn’t.

            As quickly as the uniformed man had come he left.

            Bella walked up to me after letting the children out and asked me if it was true. It was. I gave the government permission to burn my books. Every one of them.

I knew why this new ruler wanted to do it. He knew if people learned just anything he would get protestant followers. The people under his rule could only learn his way.

 I couldn’t let them do this. My wife pleaded with me to just let the men burn my books, but I could never let that happen. I made all of my family pack bags and we made our way to Barten’s Books. My plan was for us to grab all of the most important books and run. Live safely away from all of this hatred. But just as I grabbed Fahrenheit 451 they came.

The door was broken down and the uniformed men grabbed each one of my family members.

“If you leave now I will forget this ever happened. You and your family can walk away free.” Said the man that had come to my home before this.

“I will never give in!” I yelled back as my wife cried and screamed at me.

“As you wish, ignorant man.” He said.

 I watched as the men tied my wife and children to the pillars of my shop. I knew what was going to happen next, and yet all I could think about was my books.

The men pulled me out of the building and held me still so I could watch my family and books be burnt to ashes. As my shop began to collapse in on itself the uniformed men tied weights to my arms and legs then threw me into the blazing fire.

I died there. And when I woke up someone was reading me. I became the thing I loved most. A book.    

So here we are. Now you know my story. Was it worth all of the begging and pleading? I doubt it…

What are you still doing? Put me down and leave me for another to pick up and bother. Goodbye.