(Source: heartstringsandkeystrokes)
Ladies and Gentleman, I am the creator.
I am here to present gifts of cold sweaters
Of flames that don’t burn when you touch
Each is a work of beauty; you should treat them as such
I will give you suns that spread shadows
Water that can be molded into shapes
Lightning that can be bottled
The power to change fate
Knuckles mean nothing, unless a ring is near
Everything has meaning, even crocodile tears
These gifts do nothing more than entertain the senses
Unless they are paired with any form of intention
Ladies and gentlemen, I am the creator
Making all, but at the same time making nothing whatsoever
(Source: heartstringsandkeystrokes)
I remember the old days
A fondness, kindling like old flames
I was never able to put them out
If there were somewhere to return to, I would.
A fondness, kindling like old flames
Not enough to cause harm
If there were somewhere to return to, I would.
Who knows what would be different
Not enough to cause harm
Just enough to satisfy the craving
Who knows what would be different.
Maybe everything, maybe nothing
Just enough to satisfy the craving
There is such thing as too much
Maybe everything, maybe nothing
Always just enough
There is such thing as too much
What happens when you reach it?
Always just enough
To keep me in the dark
What happens when you reach it?
Some things aren’t made to be known
To keep me in the dark, maybe
Is the best teacher
What happens when you reach it?
Perhaps it is finally extinguished
Maybe, is the best teacher
I remember the old days
But I won’t go back.
(Source: heartstringsandkeystrokes)
Fire and brimstone sting nostrils.
Warmth, not overbearing, but comforting
A feeling of youth, but still with wisdom
There is a feeling of constant change,
But still, a quaint familiarity.
Then, a cry rings out
Like a dozen eagles screeching in unison
But with a song-like melodic tone to it.
Slow and melancholic
Dear Phoenix, be not weary
All are meant to die,
But only you are meant to rise again
You alone have seen this earth triumph time and time again.
You alone have learned the secrets of the winds.
Eternity is a privilege my dear Phoenix.
A gift so many would kill to own.
So many beg for second chances,
But do not receive.
That gift is yours, and yours alone.
Death isn’t all it’s cracked up to be dear Phoenix.
When you die you lose your beauty
You lose your warmth.
Your songs fall on deaf ears.
You are forgotten.
But you do not want that do you my dear Phoenix?
To live forever is your blessing.
To forever sing your song is your gift.
To rule over time itself is your destiny.
Why would you want anything but that?
(Source: heartstringsandkeystrokes)
Socks, socks, socks
No two are alike.
Just how I like them.
That’s probably why they hired me at
The Center for Removal of Other Known Stockings
CROOKS for short.
I’m head of the department that specializes in white socks.
My job is to break into peoples’ laundry rooms with one thing in mind
Create chaos in the only way I know how.
I like to think of myself as the stork’s evil twin.
Instead of leaving you little gifts, a result of pairing,
I choose to break pairings up.
Like pouring oil into your pretty little pool of perfect pairs
Yep, that’s my handiwork.
Sneaking in under doors,
Through air vents and cracks in the drywall
Like a tiny little ninja mouse.
Silent
Just me, and my little fishing rod.
Waiting for you to drop one little sock.
It hits the floor like a feather on the sand.
Not a sound to be heard
Not a shuffle to be seen.
That’s when I strike.
Quick as a cobra.
Reeling in that unsuspecting little sock.
You never even saw it coming.
No one ever does.
But that’s why I do it.
Because I am the best at what I do.
I am the Michael Jordan of sock snatching.
The Muhammad Ali of podiatric pilfering.
I arrive and place my prize atop a monstrous mountain of messiness
All in a days work.
A sight for sore eyes.
(Source: heartstringsandkeystrokes)
I was blinded.
Blinded by the smoke screen left behind by your goodbye.
And amidst all the confusion
I swear I saw the word Love.
Each and every agonizing letter left
scorches on my lungs
In spite of all the tolerance, I could not hold it in.
And I coughed up what I imagined butterflies turned into
When they died.
Shining pebbles, in odd shapes
Almost like badly cut diamonds
Sticky to the touch, like tar
Almost as black as the smoke that created it
But it smelled heavenly,
As if the smoke had turned to incense
Burning sage
I felt my way around the smoke filled room.
And my hand found the knob
To my smile.
And as those rusted hinges cracked open,
The smoke cleared.
The walls were blank.
And there, in the center of the room, laid a leather bound book
The edges worn, but somehow still together
And to it’s left, a golden pen
The book, in a whisper almost childlike in tone,
Begged to be opened
It was blank
Except for a few words scribbled in where I suppose a title should be.
It read:
“Write away, we all grow wings eventually”
(Source: heartstringsandkeystrokes)
(Source: heartstringsandkeystrokes)
(Source: heartstringsandkeystrokes)
- Alvaro Ibarra
(Source: heartstringsandkeystrokes)
(Source: heartstringsandkeystrokes)
