Gypsy

You've heralded me
"The Sojourner,"
doomed to transient fame.
Every situation calls for
miniscule feats--
tiny success stories that
I hold so dear
with such fleeting promise.

Call me
Wilted Tulip
or Decomposing Flesh;
something that was once
lavishly assumed and consumed;
decadently spoiled and cooed.

Prologue:

I wrote this a few hours ago. I also posted it on my regular blog. It came out of me really fast (HA! That's what he said...) but I spent a good amount of time editing. I've always wanted to write a novel or something and I actually have a few subplots to go along with this prologue, but THAT's going to take a lot of time (which I currently don't have). Maybe I'll write a chapter or something every now and then and post it up... We'll see. If the creative juices flow.
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The clock read 10:53 PM and with the sunroof open, they sat speechlessly in his car. He glanced at the dangling rosary under the rear-view mirror, looked in her eyes, and then, offered his hand. Instinctively, she stared at his hand, smiled, and filled the spaces in between his fingers.

I’ll stop the world and melt with you.
You’ve seen the difference and it’s getting better all the time.

And boy, did he want to melt.

She reached through the void of the rooftop with an open palm and whispered, “It’s so close but so far away…”

“Yeah… just like you.”

He did not dare look into the windows of her soul and instead kept his gaze at the stars, praying that his wish would come true. For a split second, he waited for her response, for her to at least turn in his direction and reciprocate the same longing that he had for her. He pondered on what other possible curses she would bless upon him under their clear view of heaven.

The cell phone on her lap buzzed with vibration. Somehow, he knew it was time to let go.

With her newly-liberated hand, she looked at the caller ID, silenced her phone and refocused her attention on the stars. At least she looked like she did.

He already knew, but he decided to ask anyway: “Who was it?”

“Huh? Oh… It was just Markus.”

The future’s open wide.

“How come you didn’t pick up? You should call him back.”

“It’s okay. I’ll talk to him later.”

And at that moment, he realized that even if he saw a thousand more shooting stars after the one he already wished on, his wish had already, haphazardly, come true: she was happy.

DNA strings weigh me down

DNA strings weigh me down:
An Anchor in the blue
abyss of nothingness,
except conniving grudges
that stack up (like sand sediments
crinkled over the ages).
Never again can I
wobble to the consent
of my indecisive curiosity.
There is no such thing as
a liberty to concede to;
only stillness (as instilled by Nature
and sojourn faith), that
dictates everything.
Oh Tyranny; I balk at the thought.
Yet my heart is charcoaled, and crispy.

Sailors / Talking Through Objects.

Double whammy: two songs.

Sailors

[Note: I wrote "Sailors" a while back. As of right now the song is pretty incomplete in terms of the bridge - 2:54 'till about 3:54. I know I want lyrics there and maybe a little acoustic guitar solo; so far I have a few lines of the lyrics. I recorded the piano in my living room in Bakersfield, CA. I was going to use the same sequencer-keyboard I use in most of my songs, but I wanted it to sound organic - hence recording an actual live piano. To be honest, the way this whole song is played is completely stolen from Nez's guitar playing. I like to break down people's techniques and such, and I've always noticed Nez has this kind of picking style that sonically separates the high strings from the bass strings. I could go in to all the details, but just know that I majorly jacked her playing style for this song. Actually in my mind, I pictured Erwin playing the drums, Nez on the guitar, and Mel on the piano.]

I've heard of an evil that brings men to their knees.
Runs through their veins like a blood borne disease.
Makes sailors long for the ocean no more.
Makes them want to stay on the shore.

I once gave myself to a beautiful girl.
She filled the spaces inbetween my fingers.
The right words didn't come out when she went away.
And I have never been the same.

Why do we run when we claim it's love?
Why are we so scared we run?
And if love's but a moment I'd want to spend it with you.
Every minute. Every second.
With you.

Secrets that we kept. Lies that we told.
Bending at the break. Give up and fold.
You were selfish to think I would change.
Naive to stay the same.

I kept the best kisses in the corner of my mouth.
Never - not ever - to reach your lips.

Talking Through Objects

[Note: "Talking Through Objects" is a story about a hopeless romantic girl. She went to all-girls Catholic schools her whole life and the only thing she knows about "love" is what she's learned from watching television and movies. So essentially she's lived a pretty sheltered life, and she's not necessarily a tool, but her life is "run" by her friends. She's good at heart no doubt - but just a little misguided. One day she meets a skeptic romantic - a guy from the other side of the tracks. They have a moment together - but hey, when you have perfection, all you really need is a moment. The girl goes on to meet another guy - the kind of guy who her friends and family would approve of. Yet despite her seemingly normal life, she knows this new guy isn't right, and she yearns for the "guy from the other side of the tracks."]

You wake up to find the sun shining through the blinds.
And you move the hair away from your eyes.
You brush your teeth. You check your smile.
You walk alone and stop a while to notice that the day has gone by.

They all say we're hopeless lovers.
Brought to this world - made for each other.
If I am "love," then why are we so alone?

You surround yourself with good people.
Yet in a crowded room you feel alone.
So you meet a man approved by all your friends.
And you think he might be Mr. Right,
But still you feel so alone.

I wanted to believe in something more than angels and demons.
Something that for once felt real.
In a world where dying is romantic, love is selfish and demanding.
Something that for once is real.

2nd to the back

1... 3... 5... 7...
B-b-b-beep-beep.
Late. As always.
Late? More like early.
I'm in.
Second to the back,
With plugged-in earphones,
Nostalgia takes its toll.
I lean back and let my eyes close.

1... 3... 5... 7...
B-b-b-beep-beep.
Late. As always.
Late? More like early.
She's in.
Damn. I thought it was you.
Second to the back,
In the midst of silent prayers,
Nostalgia takes its toll.
I lean back and the tears roll.

1... 3... 5... 7...
B-b-b-beep-beep.
Late. As always.
Late? More like early.
We're out.
And I finish the lost routine.
Second to the back,
Respectfully on bended knees,
Nostalgia takes its toll.
I stand up and let it end.
More like begin... all over again.