please-forgive-me

His half-decayed body crunches as he slowly enters the room; your breathing stops, and your heart pounds, a deep, wet thudding. You first see his foot, behind which his wretched scarecrow form follows, dragging itself forward limply. A lump forms in your throat as you realize that there is no point in running; he never chases you, yet he always chases you. You cannot help but look at his hands: those grisly fingers, long and sharp every nail outlined by black, a contrast to their putrescent yellow color. Your eyes refuse to safely shut and unwillingly continue to crawl up his arm, spindly and spider-like, perfectly suited to his skeletal form

Such a tiny word. Such a terrible word. A word that gives us hope doubt bliss scorn. If I had strength. If you had none. If I could love L(if)e would not be What it is.

We are the Artists. The ones who dare to creates, to tackle the old and make it new. The ones who harness the force of life and throw it out to the world through out music sculpture paintings words through the g-sharp minor key clay brush pencil pen We make entire worlds out of other people's nothing Reality out of the trivial Fantasy out of pure nonsense We are the bold. Love or hate, we go on Nonchalant of the haters, respectful of the dislikers, gracious to the ravers Submitting puzzle pieces for the world to solve In life or death, our heart lives on Beating out the rhythm of a New World.

The sun descends in awkward steps, tilting its head to the wind. Fingers like scissor blades slice through the sky, and cracks of gold taunt the coming night.

Our encounter ended in the screeches of accidental words, hastily scraped away But I am no impartial slate. Two vibrant shades have combined into gray. Already, it's too late to wash away the monotone. And where would it go? in a pond choked with mosquitoes and sludge, I say the discolored water can only rise upward against the banks until the fish, like stifled lies, interrupt the surface with their blank bellies, shrunken eyes. They stare at me in gray. I would not linger. The sun has set and risen again, and then? And then? It will be the same reflection in a different hue of anger. My guess at native colors drops like

I must have tried and failed a million times; a single well dried and drained as the seasons pass by. But now there are only long and lazy summer days-- days where the heat chokes us passionately, and the dust stings both our eyes and our hearts. So when the storms are just clouds of gnats, what can I do but pity the parched throats? Scorpins scuttle from shadow to shadow, the coyote sings solo, but its howl is desolate. It fades into still air like a snake's bitter hiss. I see with age-old eyes how there is less and less. Even the smoothest dunes have fallen to the mercy of the ruthless wind. I am a well whose bricks have begun t

I am seized with greedy hands that drip with foul and oily morals. With twisting grins of contempt, they let me slip from their grasp-- to shatter into tiny porcelain fragments. I am remnants and ruins that fall between callused fingers. My beauty, only a lost memory, Still, they cannot bring themselves to take me back or toss me away. Their hands fall limp to leave me lingering before the horizon, scattered among grains of salt. I am a thousand ashened pieces that can only envy the luminous dusk. And I know... no matter how they would glue and tape me back together or how they would burn and bury me in a lonely fissure-- e

Let's not waste them she chides, gathering drops of time in her worn jean pockets. ...a trace of quiet terror, but take no heed. And from their slow passing calloused fingers carefully pry She salvages and saves, hoarding them until she is almost soaked to her skin. Yet, it is in her thirst that she turns to find them stagnant, sour to the taste. A brief dirty dampness that makes her wish for a new rain