Ultimate is my first great love, basketball is my drive.
Sports in general... my favorite aphrodisiac.
Paper = canvas; words= preferred medium
Writing is my high; Reading is my filter
Art is a worldly passion
Music is meant to be felt not heard...
It's better without the (w)rappers
I wouldn't be who I am today without the people around me.
These addictions get me through each and everyday.
I'm a frisbee flinging, word slinging, tunes bumping, white kid. I relish this lifestyle
Know me. Enjoy me... Or not. Your Decision..
Follow if you like what you see.
"Interested in Everything and committed to Nothing"
Thy mastereth of communication hath been surmounted by yet one species in thy known ‘verse. Humanity, above all else, has such a wondrous knack of thine correspondences that all thoust other neighboring creatures lack in glaring comparison.
William Shakespeare once saidth: “Conversation should be pleasant without scurrility, witty without affection, free without indecency, learned without conceitedness, novel without falsehood.”
For without language, of thy pen in accordance of thy year, we all dosteth live yet palely without.
Once upon a time, the whole of humanity had such eloquence in their gestures of communication, but alas that time is most certainly behind us. The digression of our once eloquent language is very apparent when you look at the fantastical works of past great authors and hold them up parallely next to the “greats” of the present era. Not only has the quality of writing transitioned to a lesser state, but even the quality of characters has been diluted to such an extent. The horror stories produced by past generations has developed into a mere joke in the current one. A prime example: werewolves are lovable pets and vampires now sparkle. The respectable legacy of many great genres has been brought to a shuddering (STOP)
HUMAN COMMUNICATION HAS COME TO AN ALL TIME LOW STOP
INDIVIDUALLY WE ARE SMARTER STOP
COLLECTIVELY WE ARE NOT STOP
THE TECHNOLOGY IN THE POPULACES HANDS SHOWS WEVE TAKEN MANY STEPS
BUT THE WAY WE EMPLOY IT TELLS A STORY OF EVEN MORE STEPS BACK STOP
THE ART OF WRITING IS NO LONGER ALIVE STOP
If famous authors were to write reviews on today’s conversations, their responses might be similar to this:
“If there is a God, he should rain down lightning bolts on the publishing offices of the world.”
- Merry Hell-ey, Frankensir
“The Beatles, the British spearheads of the golden era of lyrical genius, would spit in disgust at the rags of spoken ‘art’ that are produced by their modern day peers.”
- Pedgar Ellen ‘Oe, The Pigeon
“Kill me now. The avalanche of cliches just won’t quit.”
-Nathaniel Hoethorne, Big Red A
In the early throes of our great society, we had so much stacked against us, but we still managed to ride to the top of the food chain. But as the technology around us advanses, we’ve shrunk away from the potential it arms us wif. We know longer rise to the occasion and conquer evrything in our paths.We r as lazy as our speach and its begon to reflekt in are livestyles. As our talking haz deteroated, so haz my hope in humanety.
Theirs not much to gleen when u c groan men camunicate lyke dis:
The greatest novelists of the human soul reside upon our very temple.
These storytellers take the form of unique blemishes upon our skin
Each has its own voice, memory and of course: history.
The scars pitted on the wasteland of one’s body,
Tell the story of “You” better than the “Story” of you.
Scars are God’s way of accentuating our perfect imperfections.
The way they move upon one’s body and
stretch among one’s canvas illustrates the very definition of “I”
The deep potholes across your shins,
demonstrates an awkward clumsiness to be admired and adored.
The slight valley strewn across your stomach,
informs the world of your lack of pinnacle; nothing’s stopping you.
The canyon directly below your eye, now this one’s different.
When you’re smiling, it alludes to a permanent tear
When you’re crying, it guides the rivers down a familiar path.
This canyon is bathed in irony.
God had a sense of humor in the particular placement of one imperfection.
This canyon gently guides your sorrow-
ful stream to the slight crescent of your lips,
cascading down those ravishing rapids
permanently etched along the smooth curve of your cheek
flowing over the edge of the cusp of your lips,
to the islands pockmarked within the narrow peninsula of your mouth,
finally satisfying the salty quench of the resident taste buds.
One cannot usually gain sustenance from the source of thy tears,
but as all the streams ironically lead directly back to your smile
the cycle of heartbreak has been mastered by solely you.
I’m jealous of your crying.
I’d sacrifice my own scars to brave the journey of your jawline.
How can one be envious of another’s tears?
I’m envious of the destination alone.
All the pain and heartache you’ve endured, leads straight back to your lips,
So forgive me for wanting to follow those exact footprints.
The greatest beauty a person can attain
flows from their ability to shoulder the scars,
That no one else can see.
And I’ve fallen for the ones
centered upon those lips.
So tell me,
1: I am a bird
2: I am an inch worm
1: I am flying high up in the air, like a Bird of the sky. With lights on my belly, signaling down below.
2: I am working diligently low on the ground, like a Worm of the earth. With lights on my back, signaling above.
1: I am in search of a home. It is to be my final resting point in this long trek across the sea.
2: I am in search of work, under the…
1: Great towering silver tree, my nest…
2: My home, My Hive, My family.
1: I fly from cloud to cloud, in a beautiful pirouette. So far nothing is wrong.
2: I slither at the roots of the trees, looking to pick up lost souls. Everything is fine.
1: I am a Plane
2: I am a Taxi.
1: I glance down to see the taxis.
2: I peer up to see the planes.
1: I see the Trees, The Nest, The Towers.
2: I’m among the Trees, The Nest, The Towers.
1: I’m flying towards the nest. What’s happening?
2: They’re flying towards the Tower, what’s going on?
1: I am a Muslim
2: I am not
1: The Tower; I can see people through the windows now.
2: I see everyone around me look up in petrified terror.
1: I look down just before impact.
2: I look up just before the crash.
1: I look into his…
1: And I see the Hate…
2: That he has for my people.
1: Then I look ahead and…
2: He crashes.
1: I am a Martyr to my people, I am doing Allah’s Will. My actions and name will go down in history. I will be praised by my God and by my people.
2: I am a hero to many, though many do not know my name. I pull lost souls from the wreckage, saving as many as I can. It is my job. But then, the building collapses down upon me.
1: Many people are killed because of me.
2: Many people are saved because of me.
1: Why is he…
2: Not in the History books?
Isolation, Sustentation, Proliferation:
. .Just a few of the profound luxuries a simple square has to share.
People treasure their personal bubbles, but no one will bother you in your personal square.
This bubble room has all the necessities for sanity, and yes, it indeed nurtures mine.
Since childhood my square has served as:
- Reading bench
- Night light
- Sob station
- Drinking water
- Melodic nature sounds
- The inebriated’s best friend
- A bed
- Pot (the legal kind)
“I ain’t no hippy ya’hear, but some of mah best Thinks ‘av occurred on the pot.”
- And yes, when need be, my square has served as a crutch:
People don’t completely comprehend what can be accomplished within the potential of a fully stocked, highly maintained personal, private cube coupled with the vast creative treasure chest known as a child’s imagination:
Peace of mind can only be achieved, between the walls of my 4x6 cave,
oceanic melodies are activated by the simple flip of a lever,
while the OverHeadNoiseCancelingSmellEradicatingTurbine
makes an appearance through the flip of a switch,
and streams of water materialize through the turn of a knob.
Through these streams lies my paradise.
You often need a crutch, when you’ve become the world’s.
… “Often” is a lie…
The inspirations of my own personal waterfall have taken me on many walks down the less traveled causeways of my brain whilst some of the universe’s deepest secrets have been realized and conceptualized deep within the territories of my water resistant curtain while a multitude of adventures have begun and ended behind the steamy confines of my convalescent fortress of solitude.
Monsoons. It’s amazing what man can accomplish by harnessing the forces of nature.
a human engineered rainstorm merges with the sadness of the human drip system eventually steering you downstream toward the harbor of forgiveness as the artificial waterworks replaces the Mask of illusion I’ve been molding for so long.
Old streams carve new paths down my jawline flowing down towards the sea forming at my feet.
No one knows. No one can prove it. Not even me. Not here.
The evidence gets washed away along with everything else,
as my face fits molded yet again.
It’s not crying; it’s giving back to my environment in the form of solemn, salty tribute.
After all, the saline in your tears is identical to that of the ocean.
Everytime I step behind that plastic curtain,
I’m just giving back to the ocean.
Longing to linger yet a moment more behind that curtain,
I step out with a smile; a Mask.
Ready, yet emotionless.
The evidence gets washed away with everything else.
All that remains is the tired eyes, the cleansing aromas, and the warm soft skin.
Spent. Exhausted. Troubled.
No, my favorite room of the house is not the kitchen. Nor is it my bedroom.
The universe’s most underrated cop out, “I gotta go to the bubble room,” just so happens to be my favorite destination.
My name is ______, and this is brought to you from the quaint comfort of my bathroom floor.
There is a story about the greek gods. They were bored, so they invented human beings, but they were still bored, so they invented love. Then they weren’t bored any longer, so they decided to try love for themselves. And finally they invented laughter, so they could stand it.
I find niches in people’s lives and I fill them. More often than not, those niches end up being temporary, and therefore so am I.
I’m selfless because I’m damaged. I’ve already been hurt more than I’ll ever allow myself to be hurt again. By the most important people in my life. Therefore, I don’t really care how I’m treated by anyone, because it can’t be as bad as what I’ve already felt.
I can’t hate; I’m incapable of being mad. The only person I’m ever mad at is myself. And the only person I ever try to be better than is the person I was yesterday.
I’ve noticed a trend in myself that terrifies me. Sooner or later, with every single important person who has ever been in my life, I say bye. Or I find a way to manipulate them into saying it first. I’m way too good at burning bridges, and it’s almost always intentional
Sometimes I just pick a fight. It doesn’t matter if there’s a reason or not. I will always try to push people out of my life. Completely irrational.
The things that I say I don’t believe in, are really the only things that have ever mattered to me. They’re the things that I’ve cherished since day one, and I hold onto with every fiber of my being, even today.
Everyone’s pathetic in their own way. I’m completely aware of my own shortcomings, and I’m sorry. But at least I know that my worst days are behind me.
I’m so accustomed to change that change for me is when things stay the same. And it’s absolutely pathetic.
My main issue: I LOVE. Too much. With every ounce of myself. I love everything, sincerely. I find something to love in every situation, in every place, and in every single person. Especially the people who have hurt me.
But despite all of this,
I loved you at your darkest
Children are born colorblind.
They don’t know black and white,
They don’t understand life.
Coloring in the lines doesn’t apply.
Children are born innocent .
They enter the world without hatred,
Race and religion don’t matter.
Their minds are a blank chalk board.
We fill that chalkboard with the wrongs of the world,
With the images of prejudice and pain.
We plant seeds of racism,
And we sow the lives it takes.
Children aren’t born into discrimination.
They’re raised with it.
Parents need to be the catalyst,
That instills good into the equation.
Plug in the variables,
Turn them positive.
A kind heart + a warm home…
Why is this formula so rare today??
We teach the exploits of our fathers,
The lessons of war and death.
We honor great generals,
We praise mass murderers.
On a child’s chalkboard,
The lasting chalk of teachers and parents,
Create permanent wakes of a painful past,
Producing a pathway to a hopeless future.
Forget the history lessons,
Forget the race wars.
Teach a happy future,
To erase our shameful past.
If we wipe the past from the chalkboards,
And keep these young slates clean,
The world would never end.
It’s a perfect solution for an impossible equation.
The seed will be planted,
Which fruit will you nurture??