I write and such

The wanderer. A man without a home, I wonder if the world often has a place for wanderers? Without pasts, without futures, no place to call home. It matters not whether it is streets, continents or galaxies a man wanders. Who is a man without a home? A man without a face? A man without a name? Where a man is found is the color of her eye's, where he lay his head and loose his mind. the eye's of a weary wondering soul lost and dilute, for home is nothing without the color of her eye's. No fear, no legacy, as great as the company of her eye's. where you lost? Why her eye's? The care The wonder the compassion of a wounded soul A place to finally call home The faith of the lost, the broken and the damned. That light of glimmering hope can be found in the color of her eyes where the world comes to an end and home is finally found by a nameless, faithless man. In the color of her eye's - Unknown.(well me of course but my nome de plume i

I've often wondered what changes the world has seen fit to bestow. The truth isn't what the truth is, we are all but human's and simply make mistakes. How I wish those small things could be forgotten, those trespasses caused by the loss of my own humanity. I've often wondered what love feels like but I have never had the opportunity to find life. See for within life there has never been the opportunity for me to love. Neither with the smell or texture that I have wished it or the desire of a thousand night's spent hungry. The world itself has deemed to remain loveless in my absence, and by abstaining it has never been the truth of itself. I would of course gladly do or say anything that brought about my knowledge of that one person I have always sought after, however never had the proclivity ability to find. For the truth of desire is simply the desire to seek love, now I am going to have to leave this world and never come back again for I have failed in every and

Well, that's not true... it's not about being unwanted, it's sitting in a room with a forgotten memory after earning everything you could hope for and not being recognized, seen, heard, your words falling on deaf ears, your actions having no merit, everything you do being judged, and your friends turning their back on you for the sake of themselves. Its something more akin to being ignored, it is like not existing for no reason other than someone's unwillingness to look at you after you have earned their attention. It is feeling insignificant to the people you should matter most to, and that isn't something inside you... it's those people that make you feel alone.  You could sit in a room full of people desiring your attention and never be heard. Which I think teaches you your voice doesn't matter, even though it's always mattered whether in words or text or thought... the scariest people are the ones who listen because when you are finally encourag

THE THIMBLE IS NOW A PUBLISHED CHILDREN'S BOOK ON THE APPLE BOOK STORE THANK YOU FOR READING

The approaching party consisted of a fine young lady, dressed in a plaid pantsuit. With long golden curls flowing down the side of her face, her figure resembles that of an hourglass. Her complexion was fair and her stride graceful. She must be their guide, for she had an almost otherworldly luminescence to her. In our experience, we could recognize such people for they stood out amongst the crowd's of more ordinary people and created a wake as the strode threw the world. You see I myself was a watcher of sorts. This particular young lady and I had met several times in our dealings with Irving's, though in this particular instance I dare not reveal myself. So simply allow me to regale you with the story that is about to unfold. Flow was her name, her companions Tony and Scott were strange young men indeed. For they were simply following a young lady to her destination, she had invited them as a matter of course. Though unbeknownst to them they had been summoned. Just as t

The waves of wind swirling around just outside the door, the gusts bringing a cold chill. The cold penetrating down to the bone of the handsome black alley cat, whose green eyes glistened with joy at the sound of approaching footsteps. He'd heard them before these steps of fools, or didn't you know? For he had watched. this particular door of splintering wood opens and closes thousands of times. The brass hinges were always well oiled and it was the last of it's kind. A door that had withstood the ages. The cat knew that there were doors very similar to this one around the world, yet our fury friend was one of the only creatures who knew the true nature of this particular door. As uninspiring as it may seem today, it had once been warm mahogany freshly painted and opening to a field of poppy flowers. It had stood here for so long that our feline company had forgotten what it was like on the other side. He had been a watcher of sorts you see, during his first decade of

That is okay, so there was once upon a time a girl. She was a very pretty girl, beautiful even and didn't know her own strength or weakness. One day she met a boy, see she'd had something to fill in her life. An empty spot of sorts a place she could entrust to anyone and so she felt she wasn't enough for anyone. She was tall and blessed by man gifts, whether they were for others to bare witness to or not was for her to choose.  She never felt like she was enough, but something went wrong when she met the boy. It wasn't the kind of eye's or gaze that she'd been used to. She was used to be seen as something, she had always been something, always people knew her and she soon realized that no one really did. The boys eyes weren't exactly like other people's, you could see the desire in other people's. You could see them reaching for a brass ring, they wanted something, always wanted something from her.  It wasn't like living a life, i

Well, then I suppose that we are lost again? Seriously, Alex what is the matter with you? Why can't we just ask for directions? Why can't you ever get things right? I swear if my father hadn't have gotten you that job we'd be living in a town car! What seems to be the matter with you? Shut up Trudy Keep your voice down Alyssa and Allen are asleep young kids need their rest! We were riding in the back seat of an old 1991 Lincoln the back moved like the waves of cement, bump after bump. Pothole after pothole. We were driving from California to Utah, we were gonna spend a few days in Nevada at a second cousin's house or something. My sister was asleep but we were small enough for both of us to fit back there. My other sister was with uncle tom, my mom's brother in Utah. She was older then the two of us, it's something my parents did. I'd gotten sent away the least, being a boy has its advantages. My parents traveled a lot and we didn't always h

There is no up no down only around as the hills and valleys erode with water the time passes ever slower all built is soon lost all found never seen hidden in the valleys lain tiny cities built of ash rolling waves of little  specs dripping black  onto the ground with each breath fall  tiny cities made of ash as foundations tumble  eroding the earth  making valleys filled with tiny cities made of ash whose walls keep tumbling down nor wind, nor rain can be prevented causing the little cities  to tumble tumble to the ground stone turns to sand on which are built tiny cities made of ash. we fade from light fall from grace but such is life the life I face My world crying for light Yet tiny cities made of ash  crumble into the night when the blue again shimmers in her eye's life  appears beside whether  cactus or fire fly The world begins again memories fade to view  as all

The rewards of typing on a type writer, the noise, the feeling of to resistance each key has to being pressed and how it gleefully stamps the page to show your decisive pressing of the key.  How once the line is filled it snaps back and reels with a ding to the other side of a wonderfully textured piece of paper. The pleasure of placing a page in a box, once you have typed it. The reward given by a machine which works with you to allow you to create that which exists in your head. Not one you must fight for each word. Or that corrects your mistakes and interrupts your thinking because this word must be spelled right! And now! Not the reprehensible screens which punish you for all of your creative efforts! Yet give no reward, no work to touch, or feel. Simply odd contortions of your mouth and face as you struggle to understand how you have wronged this piece of electric machinery... Of why it's creator felt it so important to halt your creativity in exchange for acc