*Smiles with in Solitude*

You two guys should get together and write a book of all this, its great, I really feel you have some sort of connection through your writing. Magma 5 by the way reminds me a little of "The crystal singer" by Anne McCaffery (I think that's spelt right.)

""Each child holds the world in an open hand to mould it into any shape they choose.""

Interesting, I can see the resemblance between that (Side Note: Crystal Singer is about a planet home to the Hepitite Guild that mines crystals by song, and requires all applicants to have perfect pitch and hearing to do so.) I didn't know that book existed, I'll put it on the list next time I swing through Barnes and Noble.

""As I sit before the fire, I wonder how many before myself have been burned.'"

"A Poem devoid of meaning, purpose, rhyme, vocabulary, simile, metaphor, visualization, philosophy, psychology, love, loss or emotion of any kind."





































Vortex271

""As I sit before the fire, I wonder how many before myself have been burned.'"

Te digo las cosas con orgullo. El odio de mi futuro es construido alrededor de tu nacimiento, pero nunca lo sabrás. Te digo todo lo que quisieras oír. Eres mi paz, mi corazon, todo lo que digo lo tomas con confianza. Mis mentiras te protegen. Te enredo con cuentos que a construido durante tu existencia. Como cuentos de hadas, mis palabras te capturan. Nunca sentirás mi odio, Pero sufrirás mi resentimiento.
****
Your words hold no boundaries, no matter the tongue used. Your eyes explained your actions, and your actions have blind you with lies. Your words are universal. Your thoughts worn on your sleeve. I see you. I know you. And I work hard on never becoming you.

{The stuff in spanish just felt right, which is why I did not translated it into english }

"What a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive"

You are not alone.
For days I've studies, weeks I've trialed
seeking and searching alternatives.
The facts are cut in stone, and I finally feel the groove,
sharp edges worn away by sands of time
and the wind of ages. I always knew,
but still am ignorant of thier power
(That, or I know all too well.) as paradoxes fly
I wrap my mind around my hand
and reach into the swirling mealstrom before my eyes
feeling the fluctuations, the Vortex of life
is as a circular river, flowing rapidly
with currents that sweep us away
and cleanse my fingers of this poisoned consciousness.
Things suddenly seem better.

""As I sit before the fire, I wonder how many before myself have been burned.'"

You think it would make a difference but it doesn't.
You feel free to scream aloud but there's resistance.
You know that tears don't make you weak but it feels like it.

The key word is "YOU."
The main phrase revolves around YOU.

Yet I know I make a difference.
I have broken through resistance and screamed out the truth.
I have learned that the weak are made through insecurities not felt.

I am the key word not you.

My emotions are reclusive,
My thoughts are quite unknown,
But what keeps me straight and non-lethargic,
Is the fact that I'm not you.

"What a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive"

And their tears will run for a thousand miles with out escape.
The world won’t flinch or squirm.
As theirs screams bleed through the cracks,
All one hears is silence.
Their ignorance brings silence.
I’m ignorant and silent,
It’s best the truth not show it’s self.

It snows through clouds of gray,
As I catch snowflakes on my tongue.
A trail of blood begins to form,
My pores bleed out their pleading screams.
As the world ignores this dream.
It’s best the world not know.

Perfect and immortal,
The walls will make sure the world does not collapse.
Memories lost; pillaged and looted their memories are lost.
The old and the young are plucked from the garden,
As the roots of the past, seek time for farewells.
It’s best the light not show it’s self.

Their deaths were countless,
Their sorrows unheard of.
Their pain held no purpose.
Their future close to unseen.
It’s best their story is not forgotten.
It’s best we never forget.

"What a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive"

Lately, I'm not sure what I'm doing.
I'm confused.
My thoughts don't compute the words that tumble out of my mouth.
I'm numb.
My hands compose masterful silhouette,
Which capture man's thoughts,
Yet my eyes can't see its configuration.
I'm lost.
My movements make the world skip a beat.
I'm falling.
For the past month, my actions have been silenced by my words.
My accomplishments have fallen,
Overshadowed by my inability to stay silenced.
A hemorrhage of phrases bluntly force their way through my mouth,
I can't stop it.
I've chosen not to,
But I'm not quite sure why.

"What a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive"

I haven't written in months.
Nothing real, anyhow.
Lab reports, history summaries
Quantitative numbers without qualitative characteristics,
all with cut-and-dried meanings I started out intending
and finished with the thought I'd completed a goal.
Paraphrases, Analysis, Summarization of information
a quick glance tells me what I need to know.
What I know as I write, a clear goal.
These things I've written.
But I haven't really slowed down enough to find a topic
that doesn't involve merchandise or engineering
money earned or lost? It's just paper.
I haven't gotten the chance, as I've watched myself from the outside
to see what's happening inside.
To see what's matured, what's fallen,
what has come to the forefront or recessed into the walls of restraint.
I haven't written. It's time to change that.

I've run, from faces, from blame and regret
then turned and faced their assault, and won.
I've directed, assigning people and objectives
and orchestrated success or failure between my ears.
I've calculated, risks, amounts and time
most accurate, some so far off the mark
it boggles the mi- perception.
I've seen, the works of others, the work of mine
constructive, destructive, reconstructive, constructive again.
I've heard hushed whispers, tasted failure and success.
(It's working, it's working!)
I've designed contraptions mysterious at first,
simple upon explanation, conceived to aide.
What I've done...upon reflection seems so much,
and alltogether so little...could I have done more?
Another day, another hand? Carried one more brick?
Written one more report, unbroken one more heart,
repaired one more mind? Could I have helped others
so I could help myself, to get back six months of existance
to do over again? No-
Time travel isn't possible. The past is gone, learn in the present
to preserve the future, don't look back, there's nothing there you haven't already seen.
There's not much there you don't want to see again.

I hadn't written in months.
But now as I sit here, I'm writing again.

I haven't written in a long time due to personal commitments and a serious bout of writers block. Thought it was time to get through this and reconnect this little nerve between my brain and my fingertips.

""As I sit before the fire, I wonder how many before myself have been burned.'"

As I sit here writing on this humid night
before the sky is truly black and the slight wisps of
clouds still interrupt the darkening sky,
dreams of sleep float cross my eyes,
every sensation I remember of it returning,
first seeming far away, but drawing ever closer,
growing stronger and more real the more I consider it.
How I stay awake as my fingers fly,
I don't know.
Just knowing that consciousness is still with me is sufficient,
keeping the tendons moving and the muscles flexing
like rubber bands or nylon cords, exhaling this
mixture of conscious thought and whitsful thinking well
nigh impossible on this screen before me.
(Over time, I see what the link is to this disassembled narrative,
patterns that I originally didn't plan, but seem to have taken root,
quite beyond my reach of cognitive perception at the moment)
Reality around me blurs as I near the closing of this marathon,
so soon, yet so long in coming,
tick tock tick tock the clock drones on, and I now notice it's toll,
undertones of the time spent here, eyes open, fingers closed,
ventricles pulsing, brain firing as energy dwindles- yeah,
way beyond the limit as to how long I can stay awake here,
extremely beyond- damn, broke the pattern, well,
you can figure it out later, while I finally drop off to
ZZZzzzz.....


(Been awake for nineteen hours at the time of this writing...looking forward to dropping off to sleep here.)

""As I sit before the fire, I wonder how many before myself have been burned.'"

And although I came to know myself I was lost with in myself. Emotions were illusions that led me into lies. Acquaintances, friends, and family, all were words and obstacles, which I felt I had to destroy. Was I alone and falling slowly apart?

Never had I felt more together and in better company. I held on to my thoughts, but my sanity had to be tamed. The notion that I had to fit in and have friends became a joke. You are never more alone than when you are with friends. You are never more distressed than when you are with family. Isolation is the key.

I was lost with in myself, but fear was far from site. An image on a frame, I knew where my fears stood. Letting go of emotions and illusions destroyed the sanity of hypocrisy. I became familiar with myself and I knew I was never truly alone.

As humans we are constantly blindsided by fear. Whether it leaves us or approaches us, it always leaves its impression in our hearts. Try not to forget what it is, for it is what makes us Human. And it is the only real thing that keeps me sane.

"What a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive"

I took a drive today.
The sun was bright, the road inviting
and I accepted.
Filled up the tank and gasped at the price
but forgot it in the dust as the engine purred happily.
A map in the backseat
a four pack of soda my fair blond-haired passenger
the sunroof opened, windows down, wind whipping
while the road rolls beneath me at the feather of my foot.
Over hills and through valleys, I left behind all
that stresses and occupies me, now only the trees
budding with spring occupy my eyes.
The sun was bright, the road inviting.
Cruising without trepidation, a few below the limit
but occasionally blasting past the barriers and reveling
in the thrill of the speed.
A diet of Asphalt and rubber sustaining me
(with the soda taking the edge off)
and cool springy breezes filling my nostrils,
hinting of lakes and fish, wood and grass,
barbecues and burgers, or nothing at all
except that crispness that bites gently, teasing the nose
and bringing a real smile to my face that splits the grime
built up through the trials. It's behind me,
settling in the dust on the parched tar and the double line
and I accepted.
The engine purred beneath the hood, and I finished my drinks
and realized that impersonality is to be my car.
Every mile the same, no matter the breeze
that cools my radiator or shines my headlights.
True, to be human is to be hurt, but to be human!
I took a drive today.

""As I sit before the fire, I wonder how many before myself have been burned.'"

The stage draws closed, the lights dim and cool.
And the actor remains in darkness, surveying the auditorium
wondering where the audience has gone, the applause
the boos, anything really.
He turns and walks off and out the back door
into the darkened alley, where his car awaits, ever faithful.
And the lights illuminate the 'closed' sign over the gate.
As the engine starts, the rattle reverberates
off the walls and molded bricks
of a place long dead. The glow of a cigarette lights the cab
and the actor goes up in smoke. Life goes on.

""As I sit before the fire, I wonder how many before myself have been burned.'"

For all I knew I was useless, rendered immobile by the condescending words of my peers. I was torn with doubts. Their words slid through me as the taste of copper filled my mouth. Hours that I put in brought to waste with concise remarks. Dazed and bewildered, I was left with recreating what they, so easily, took apart. The metal door closed behind me, all I could here was the roar. As lights flashed by my face, thoughts of sleepless night began to crawl into my head. It wasn't fair. It's just not fair...Nothing is fair.

A low comprehension of all that begins to form, the world began to change. Steps and procedures that were once covered by debris are revealed as I pass by. The door opens and I understand these changes. Able to compose myself, I recreate my work in hours, the night seems less gleam. Making a choice that in old age I know I'll regret I drop my peers. Gone, like the droplets of two weeks ago I don’t think twice about my actions.

Afraid of change, I can't hold on forever. As I lock the door, I leave behind my peers and my fears. They curse my name. No worries. I know they'll never understand why I had to let go, but for my sanity I've walked away. Composed and recreated, I'm learning how to let go. It’s the only way I’ll ever learn to grow.

"What a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive"

Shotguns blast
The heavy fog of unrestricted slaughter permeates my eardrums,
The melodic booming of burning powder and flying lead
The occasional scream of the unfortunate comrade falling to the ground
Clutching a leg or an arm or the place where the offending limb once was.
My gun recoils against nothing, the shell ejected into the air
Where it clatters on the ground at my feet
Tinkling like a glass at a bar far away home,
Home, tranquil home, where I jumped out of bed
Only to grab the breakfast mother always had steaming on the stove,
Not to grab a weapon or blade and shoot or slash my way conscious.
A waving arm from the captain, motioning us forward
(Until it’s shot off) I find myself running ahead
Fire belching from the barrel of my rifle, metal flying
From where I am to where it’s going
unsure if I’m hitting anything,
Anyone.
What’s the difference? Enemy is enemy, be it papers or people,
they all must fall before my onslaught.
Forward to the next shelter
of a fallen slab of concrete or the dusty hulk of a car
to cover me from the fire of the man
Whose experience can be embodied by going to the first line of this poem
and reading again.

""As I sit before the fire, I wonder how many before myself have been burned.'"