CaptainShyGuy

who am I, asked the fly why do I have to die what're the reasons, reasons why I didn't know, so I lied I lied and said because it's so so he asked if I didn't know I told him that he had to go so out the window he had flowed he flowed into the mourning sun where nights did end and days begun from where the wintered heaven's run to dance within the heathen's bund here bundled in my dreary song are parts parted to where they don't belong thoughts submerged in death's billabong are just water under his bridge prolonged.

Harry Potter dug in his knees, twisting his shoes. Wiping the sweat from his brow with his thumb, he focused on the view ahead, narrowing his sight. His hands were raw from twisting them on the finely glossed wood between them. Silence filled his ears, covering the waves of crowd noise. All that remained were him and the flying ball. Time slowed. He watched as the winged creature got closer and closer and closer, inching slower and slower and slower, to near stillness. Though it seemed reasonable to assume its inevitable stop, Harry knew that this was a lie his eyes were telling him. His hands pulsated as he

Doubts, supposedly. Spinning collectively with the pouring, refreshing the cup. "You know..." Annoying bells clash. Outer worlds roar through the open door. The eyes across shift, "...What now?" "There's..." A waitress loudly babbles pseudonymous numbers of syllables equal or greater to the orders they falsely represent, ironically. "You see, there's this..." Thunderous clatter fills above as utensils quake and batter, prompting apologetic promises from first day recruits. "Well, there's this rope..." A kettle screams, ancient grease cackles, and opposite voices dance repeated jingles of "Order Up!" and "Thank You, Come Again." Dea

I chose to speak this time these words, and though they are fragile things with only momentary value, I hope they find you, finding me, for whatever its worth in momentary value; fragile things, and though they are, these words this time I chose to speak.

Library Punk - you clumsily deny, spilling paint on my canvas. Got you like a fix: nose bleeding, narcoleptic, waiting for a snowy wind. I'm an eighth note, rehearsed but ignorable; graced out of practice. Mute yesterday. Delay tomorrow. Sustain this moment. (Try not to suffocate)

They hit upon us, as waves within the tide. And cause the current's run, when nothings inside. We use them till they're out, like the last remaining light. We hold them like jealous lovers, and to keep them we will fight. We fight, we kill, we imprison, to make them like a myth. Like a thought was just a thought, hide what wasn't ours to begin with. But they flow, reflect, transverse, pass through the hands of bravery; just as they had come to us, they emancipate their mental slavery.

Is a friend a friend if you're a friend, or is a friend a friend because? I'd say a friend is always a friend if a friend, your friend, he was.

       Stare, sitting hilltop; breathing in the clouded light:         Aperture to God.

Speak, my heart, speak. I will wrestle my tongue to hear the words that rush within the flow like whispers of the brain traded for whispers of the senses, running along my nervous nerves.  So, Calm, my brain, calm. I am the peak of in'surgency, disparager of id, but my ears are weak and my eyes are tired. See, My soul, see. For my heart is blind and I am a punch-drunk fool.

Yo-yo, I, paperclip, forceful, yet indecisive.