Hung in my cluttered room, in a pair of two...my favorite shirts hang with quite amazing strength.

This morning, my mother was urging me to continue cleaning my room; her reasoning being, it was making me sick. Although I thought quite different, I did as she wised in hope for no conflicts.

She ransacked my room, throwing things about in a fury of rage, and I sat helplessly looking a pictures being torn, and clothes being swung about in a chaotic manner I was aimlessly looking in every other possible direction not to unleash fuses in which I do not stand for such disrespect. To get off topic...my shirts, ah yes.

She grabbed, then and said, "Yelena should have never spent her money on something she had no intention for you to wear," referring to a tiny shirt depicting two lobsters on the front. "And this, who's creative idea was it to draw such obscene remarks upon another small shirt?" Clearly speaking of my "virgin no more shirt."

As she leaned reaching for my arms, I pulled back, and held strong onto my flustered memories....as would any young child with candy...tastes like---mmmm....choclate!

Four days of sleep sure gets one in dyer want of food in solid form not dream, and ones mind racing for an adventure.

What former plot may I follow through today? Watch your back... take note for any sudden footsteps admist the parched leaves, accompanied by any cackle detectable as my own voice lurking behind you. For I am actually undetectable in my magic cloak of invisibility in which I tend to be featured in.

if could change your days
arranging them in some sweet new sequence
like any new arrangement is going to make a difference
because it is the moment that you are living in

Grey sky man is talking to the sidewalk once again
your perfect vision of the world it goes unheard
as the rain falls down on your head
it slips inside the cracks of another fruitless day
here in the land of King Alvarez you're losing once again
it's getting harder to survive when the world that's all around you
just don't seem to care and the universe you've built for yourself
is caving in right on you and the streets are getting colder
then they used to be these days and now
I see you walkin' down the boulevard alone
and your screaming at the top of your lungs all night
and I wonder to myself how did you get to be this king without a throne
its just another sunny day here in the land of Babylon
to s the things that no one sees to hear the lies that no one tells
its getting lonely in this place gettin tired of it all

"You are the sunshine in my day"

Check. Check. Mic one. Mic two. Check. Check.

The stage crew finishes it's preparations for the show. The audience had been pouring in by the thousands, and begun their deafening chants. The only thing left is for the band to begin their show. A thin black sheet is raised, revealing a single circle upon the stage. A chair is placed there alone. The audience is baffled, and becomes enrages. Most onlookers are now capable of anything after they had been lied to. When home isn't so good, and your parents refuse to accept the person you are, and don't unleash you from their binding threads, many travel, and search for another release to exert their frustrations and continual stress. The loud music, and confused teens smothering each other, along with the spiders' web of energy all add to create a stress-relieving environment. Yet, with the silent, barren stage most don't understand; the worst is over, and now you're the only person capable of making anything better.

Indeed the confusion circles, and forces you to spin at an extreme pace, but not as to prevent you from the better! Lively freely without barriers, live with what you've done, and continue for what you haven't learned.

"I love it, for I never know what I'm going to be doing in the next five minutes"...The Laura Killingbeck

As a painter grows restless, he searches for new ideas, new perspectives, and simply a new design in which to enrich his masterpiece. If everyone deemed artistic, t his world would sparkle as melting ice does. Unfortunately, the work isn't encompassed with wonderful civilians, but mere humans trying to make their own masterpiece, in which one doth call "lovely." A drunkard gazing into his empty shot glass, a daughters blackened eye, or even a older mans long black beard are some masterpieces to each individual creator. No one should try and pretend something they are not. So to spin around should unleash oneself from the fragile grasps in which you hold yourself lazily, and turn your works or art to make their own work, without your reflections shadowing any production.

Tuna is my pet rock and she raises her right hand, waving to the crowd in every effort to says hello.

Another day, another mission completed. The night was left with a buoy in the Anderson pool, for a surprise. Boy, what I thought of a great plan, may not have turned out so great. But in any care of mine...I do not have one.

And again, another day of work...off I go.

The leaving of Adam, has the Fiske household in an uproar, but also the community he enriched himself in...I miss you kid!

People carlessly still amaze me. The depths in which some have placed themselves in are comparative to a falsified novel childishly published without meaning. Many wallow in complete misery instead of simply being enchanted within the graceful wings of life.

The mirror hanging, lifelessly has been contorted for some mysterious reason. As if a little girl placed pictures on her mirror, as if not to see herself for what she is...but what she only dreams of. I feel wonderfully content, with not being able to see myself, but to witness this unsteady girl continually cutting pictures from magazinges and pasting them everywhere. Pictures of friends that of which she greatly admires, and many acturesses, artists, along with the few famous role models from decades ago, in which only a young child dreams of being.

My face is soft to touch, and my hair as messy as a rats nest. But the reality of being me comes as a shock in which I experience-- I feel like flinging my almost eager to move boy off a cliff. Yet I still underestimate my own passive voice, and I don't believe my smile to be real.

The most promising aspect of my life has been and continues to be my creations dabbed onto paper. I enjoy the excitement and ecstasy of sprinting for a pencil when an idea floats nervously into my head. Even when my fingers begin to shake, and I become eager, I resist temptations to flee and I find the simple courage to continue on a vast journy, that no one should perfectly understood. My modest hands continue turning the pages of my little black notebook as if I had never written a word before. A light- a simple white light, from a far off distance shines upon me, and releases some kind of space hording creation. I redeem myself, by pouring even the drivel thoughts onto paper, making all my prior inconceivable ideas seem real enough to squash when they become too powerful.

Even the ultimate liars could never lie to a blank piece of paper sittin in front of them, staring back, smiling at the pain you cause yourself. Paper shed a balanced reflection of light and dark, both battling for life; you being the judge of weather to proceed or enhance its existence. Since -forever- I remember gleefully jumping at the sight to learn more, at every moment which presented a new challenge in my life. This is another chance, for me to capture yet another white light, and unleash its knowledge to not only msyelf, but others thirsting to know.

Yes the tables are shifting with some, yet I choose to lie, but bluntly tell any person what place my mind assumes, or what the light covers next.

When given a chance I'd love to live under such darkness and with silent motions encompassing my every moment making all a delightful place to contemplate and render abstract thoughts not given enough time during the udder shadows of day.