An unbeknowest poem

The seas are spilt apart by the sun,
The clouds make no shape and neither do stars,
The distinct rumble and echo of a tear dropping down the river,
Echoing its glimmer of shining hope.

You can hear the soft cooing wind blowing,
Mouthing words and whispering secrets
The trees smiling at the rumors, settling their age-old roots
Waiting.

It's the verge and the between of being night,
And the sun frowns at it's quick exit,
leaving behind sheddings and shadows of sparkling light

The moon arrives, cocky, for once not having to miss mother nature's awakening groan
Settling into the sky, haughtily staring at others
The moon does, after all, have the best sit.

The river shivers from the tears of the sky,
Which seem endlessly mocking.
They contiune to tap and poke,
Slowly infuriating the river.

The tears of rain don't notice, though,
and contiune their moaning of life
They contiune to torment the rest of nature with stories
Of misery
Of how it's like to be disposed.

The mud-filled ground shrieks,
and lets a moan of earthquakes pass through.

Nature is quiet, awaiting.

The ground contiunes to moan,
Sliently screaming and releasing it's quiet birth,
Letting seeds and flowers flourish
And become the fetuses of nature.

The clouds smile from above,
And the grass smirks from under.

The pad of a footstep is heard,
and nature goes quiet.

A human being enters,
Smelling, hearing, tasting the air
'Beautiful nature.' whispers nature's best friend, the human.

The moon frowns, imaturely narrowing its eyes
The stars with wisdom of ages wonder at the moon's behaviour
And the moon expresses his curiousity,
Asking how a being so simple as human
Is best friend with something as supreme as Nature.


---


I stare, oblivious to the world
Stare at the forgein emotion leaking out of a body
A body filled with blood,
With a mind and a heart,
Perhaps a soul.

I pity the river.
The river holds the sorrows and problems of everyone,
every person that came to shed a tear,
that soon disappears
That soon dissolves itself into a river that cries itself to sleep

The river has no friend,
For no one wants a frowning friend
No one wants to listen to moans and pains every day
Of a river that is out of tears

Clouds laugh at it at day,
and stars giggle at it at night.
The river cries and cries,
But no one has the heart to listen





----




Light traces of silver reflective eyes,
I stare, with awe, as the corners of your face shine
Living, almost breathing.
Your hair is of vivid red,
and the contour of your body posesses every dream I own.

Her hands sharp and deadly.
Accurate. Precise.
Her sharp kneeing voice screams contendtly,
and I smile happy at her fingertips,
traces of so many memories on them.

We're close - you're constantly with me.
You follow my footsteps and you make me follow yours,
you traced my past and you haunt my future.

My bones are a necklace tied tightly inside my body,
In knots, streching, waiting for the moment I they can rip them apart
And come to you.

By a simple featherly touch,
I can transmit the pieces of my soul to you
Each one carrying a sorrow or regret
A pain or a tear
A happy thought or a broken hope.

I lost my soul, you very well know.
I lost it to you, my friend.
My best friend.

You never speak back,
But it matters not.
I know you agree and savior the moment when I touch you,
when I use you.

Your wavy hair seems thin tonight
Have you not been using a proper conditioner, my friend?
Is your hair itchy, dry
Is your skin in need of more?

Fear not, my friend,
For we will enjoy the night.
You need not rest nor sleep,
and the night is young.

Fear not, my loyal friend
For I would not dream of betraying you.

Fear not, my best friend,
For tonight I shall dye your hair a deepest hazel red
For we have not went out on a quiet evening in a while.

My best friend, my beautiful knife.

Dexter. A show by psychos FOR psychos.

Im stuck by abusurdity.
I'm stuck in a level headed world.
I'm reigned in disguise, a paradox of sorts

----

I recall what it was like to enjoy the small moments in life. To breath, and say let live.

--

What the fuck am I saying? I have way too many ideas which I cannot note down because everything keeps popping up like some freakin popcorn transforming my brain into a micro-fucking-wave.
I should be able to write fiction. After all, it's my secret devotion that has stayed with me through time. Whether we accomplish to keep this ancient remedy of the human soul in the future pure or not, I'll know that I know these moments where I can keep it pure. Where everything comes from my brain to my fingertips, and occasionly stops in the way and reaches my heart.

I should finish my homework..

Later aligator.

Elemeno-pee,
kelly

A Story That Has No Point

Fleetingly I wondered if this was the end to the bright start.
Mind you, a house that smells of car refreshers and my grandma’s fridge wasn’t the most successful start to a day. In fact, you could say it wasn’t most planned.
Not that planning would have helped.
As the Yiddish saying goes, ‘Man plans, God laughs,’ -  and boy, does He ever.
I think his laughing so hard, with such enthusiasm and vigorous force that every person on Earth could feel his tears of amusement falling, dropping on the contour of their heads.
We just pretend to call it rain.
That’s when God laughs harder, and created ‘thunder’.
I narrow my eyes at Him. When I get there, he better have that promised LCD tv screen. There’s nothing like watching Friends on a full high quality Samsung. No one does it like Samsung.
“Shrimp, wake up!” My friend nudges me, knowing that in my current state I may as well be in a Sex in The City movie and wouldn’t notice. You might be wondering about my name, Shrimp, which isn’t actually a name but a code –
Funny. It kind of all engineered from a code.
Not the fantastic type of code, though. Not the “Drop your weapons, code X!” kind of thing. Just something that started out of boredom, out of an empty void of a life.
Did I tell you that boredom gets you into all kinds of troubles?
For example, the trouble I am in right now. A psychopath is kind of, somehow, holding me prisoner.
“I will kill you both – and after I kill you, I will drain your body of blood and send all the pieces of your body to your loved ones.”
Right. I didn’t mention he was a serial-killer.
“It will be appropriate for Christmas, don’t you think?”
Kind of a lunatic too.
“Maybe I can put 8 candles as well. Wouldn’t want to risk offending a Jewish family.”
Lunatic is a stretch, really. His deliriously mad.
My friend, Laya, nudges me with her elbow, clearly sensing the laughter I'm holding in.
"Any last wishes?" He laughs maniancly, as if someones filming this sequence. As if his going to win an oscar or something.
I cought to  hide my chuckle, but he notices it and glares at with me with eyes that perhaps may rival my mothers.
....Nah....
"Do you dare laugh in the face of death?" He asks, voice patronizing.
"If death has your face, no wonder the expression 'dying from laughter' was created."  I mutter, hoping he dismisses it and opts to start a criminal-mad monologue. You know, the ones that they do on tv- talk about the people they killed, talk about their plans and their future as psychopaths. Surprisingly, these aren't women, but men. You'd expect a woman to ramble on about her not being listened to, not a man.
"Have you been listening to me?" He narrows his eyes, determined to find an ounce of fear.
"No. Been imagining you in a tutu, though it's only entertaining if it's pink." I say, frowning upon my realization. My friend, who happens to be a gorgeous single woman, sighs loudly.
"For once, shrimp, I'd like to get a job done without hearing your well-rehearsad jokes." She says, theatrically whipping her golden tulip hair. I itch to touch them, and perhaps would have even it weren't for me being tied down to a chair.
"Give me some credit - it takes time to remember some of these." I reply, staring blankly at the blood stain behind the killer - counting the deaths behind it. The place was a wreck, but it seems like a typical day of our job.
"That's it. I am tired of being ignored- of being treated as something that's less of a - " The murderer began saying, but was rudely interuppted by Laya's knife in a juncture vein. Clean, quick, effective.
"Job done." She said, exasperated by the long day she had.
"Awh, it was getting to the good part though." Narrowing her eyes at me, she cuts loose the chains from my wrists. You see, Layla has this Hudini talent of escaping what seems to be the inescapable. What I have is the talent to lure all the murderers into a trap. It's my charm, go figure.  That's what makes me and Layla such great partners, though. My patience to prolong and carry out the mission and her impatience to beautifuly end it. The murderer's body - what was his name, anyway..Ivan? Steve? Bob? - was crumpled on the floor, cold and lifeless. In a miserable fetal position, staring upwards as if begging for an exit - a way to end.
Guess he feels like he won the lottery now.
" Two more to go, and bye-bye government." Layla suddenly says, breaking me out of my muse. She can be as quiet as a bat, she can. I remember the first time the government took me from the looney place - aka, home sweet home, mental asylum. My family prefered to believe my mental issues were the cause of my killing for a hobbie. Doesn't really make a family proud when you bring a jar of blood, I suppose.  Anyways, I remember the government's hope-filled promises of escape and of us only having to comply to a certain amount - and I remember them finally showing me Layla. I was awed by her, but even my best pick-up didn't work. I reacall the fingertips, the blood tests - the code names. Layla's face was crumped up in fear, but I could see determination in her eyes.
"I'm hungry." I intruppt their procedures, and