Divine complexion

It is like a city with an embedded waterfront; a city filed with street artists and musicians and even beggars, where shadows loom and voices rise and echo. It is like a city, bustling and dancing, crowded and gazing, though powerless. With a blind spirit, which only the realistically blind can see. And for those who are not, most of them are over-bored. And the others are… just gazing. Just looking and parting.

He is looking up and walking, with a miraculous gaze, as if daring the stars and the moonlit sky. His words seem to be immaculately witty, so fabulously arranged and so celestially poignant and powerful, as if they could speak all his poetry and his violence for him without a single doubt or an instinct left. It is written over his face and in his eyes. It is written in the flabbergasting confusion, that slow movement, that slowly turns into a song of cold winter ecstasy. He lets out a laugh. the city, fast asleep awakens to laugh with him.

He is dreaming as he is moving. It is an illusion that is blinding him; though it is night time, he can see an evening sun. He can see people’s souls. It is the light of the day he is seeing, it is the arising of himself and within, it is the impact of pieces and lines, criticisms and kindness, all that he ignored and all that he gave away, all those who wanted him to change, to grow into a better person, to find a voice; yes, to a find a voice that is unique and powerful, with the power to shatter glass and to break hearts, in echoing streams of consciousness that would last the world forever and youthful wild. At least he thinks it is. And at that point, he wakes up. He is drenched in force, and he runs, far and miles away. the people call but he does not have the time. In reality he does not have the need. He runs far far far away. And he is never to return. he has great strangers hearts, he makes new ones. He has a love of his life. He has an aim and a voice, a blooming flower and a song of himself………

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A New End

Okay. This journey has been a mix-up. Friends, followers, betrayed. It kind of had everything in it. But now I must say my final goodbye to Scott Rainer and ‘on blunt scattered oceans’.

From now, I am beginning with a new start under the pseudonym of Stills on a new site sickeninglybeautiful.home.blog. You may take the trouble to follow me there if you like. I shall also be publishing some of my best posts from here on that, so no one misses out. Bye! Have a great day!!

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I just feel so very happy (with an added part)


I just feel so very happy,
Like I’m lost in a tranquil dream,
Like I’m eating cheesecake with whipped cream,
And I am half crazy and no one cares.

I feel so very happy,
For I wrote a song tonight.
To celebrate myself and play with myself,
And end up making a fool of myself.

I feel so very happy,
Dancing to that punk rock,
Singing in the voice of an angel,
Until life moves over.

 I just feel so very happy,
Like the world is empty and no one cares.
I am feeling happy ‘cause I am young and I am free,
I am floating on the surface like a balloon filled with air.

Through life I move, crossing intersections,
Riding anticipations.
Playing that grand ole' piano heavy and hard,
The time has come when I find myself,

And fix myself,
And move on.
 

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Short Poem-Fiction

I’m a ruin.

Every stage is an age, oh no, must be the seasons of the witch, and the wizards of Waverly palace. Driving on the 405, Bartender, holding the sunrise, summertime living easily on a Trailer painted by Norman Rockwell.

The world is a teenage dream, handling loaded guns, and drop-dead dreams, choosing the ones that it deem psychedelic fiends. Oh no, must be the seasons of the witch. The earth is made of rebel-diamond cut out of the sun, but can you read my mind?

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Tropical Hawaiian Party

Why I don't leave me alone?
I have all the stars looking down at me.
They can shadow me if you wouldn't,
And they would tell me the truth.
Why fall in love,
When no one is watching?
There is little that your mind drifts,
And it is then that the sun shines.
You sit down,
You are alone.
Else for your breath,
Lost in the faraway world,
On the ubiquitous search,
Haven't you seen enough already?
That you go about telling someone else?
You know this,
You are not a tropical Hawaiian party,
Where you can drink and fall in love all day long,
Without you friends and without being alone.
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Cruel World

If you know Watt, you know he has had better pieces. I wish him best of luck! And a Happpy Birthday.

Celluloid Trances

Looking
back, it seemed surreal that he had lost everything in a state of mind. People
always leave, they live like they’re leaving, and if he can’t do it, then they
do it better. He stretched his arms into the secrets of eternity, and in the
unreasonable, uncomfortable standstill confessed to himself what he had known
all along – he was alone.

He
was always alone. Forever.

Come nightfall, he pleaded, and drape him in hues of gloom, in the darkening sky, while the clouds twitched with mistakes. The jersey shirt he wore expanded as a royal umbrella for his shoes as he put his hands above his head, its white expanse wet with rain, and his chest cold, no dry eye either, it was just one drop of rain over another on his sighing skin. Radio waves grizzled in the air, and his hands dropped down and gripped the…

View original post 95 more words

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A box of your words

Watt and In Mind and Out are two writers that are extremely amazing. Watt works with existentialism and she transcends in beauty and gaze.

In mind and out

I found, a faded dusty box.
Inside I found, not faded memories
but those shining as bright as a neon lamp
that I saw yesterday
Suggesting I go in

I opened the box.
And longing for a broken dream jumped out and sat on my heart
like an unexpected jack in the box
given life and lodging in a new home

Inside the box were your words.
I took your words out of the box
and I traveled
in and out of weeks, until the years collapsed
I touched your name like you once touched me
like my every freckle was a masterpiece

I held your words in my hands.
And read each word you wrote me hungrily,
like I was starving
I devoured your words again
and again
Until the paper was torn and covered with bite marks

In your words
I saw myself as you saw me,
a…

View original post 99 more words

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The torn artwork

A torn artwork made of threads and grief,
Is lying down by God's side.
Naked, dirty, body of steel,
And ice cold,
Next to the window of feeling,
Feeling cold, heartless, depressed,
Like the days of the plague,
Are mourning the people,
With a half-covered waist,
And the dietitians of god,
With the holy sign on their wrist.

A torn artwork lies made of lies ad beads,
The beads make thoughts,
And thoughts make love.
the people waiting get to thinking,
Will we face the same fate some day?
Even if we make just a single mistake every day?
Or is this the work of god,
Watching us suffer here,
With a heart that's gruesome and cold.
That breaks every time a journey sends,
Is gravity his best friend?

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