trample these tables,
tossing and turning
and  i am left yearning

for ...

 
You might be eager to find,
one true love i hadinmymind,
let this tortured soul down easy
tonight im resting
 my head and heart ,

i trample these tables
trying  to create these fables for you
but only creating more lies
have another sip itll only burn a bit

This is where i went wrong

dont bother putting it off

this is it
this is now
this where i have come along
for misguided life and
good choices

 trample the table to friends
and more and more you come along

As I approached the narrow light peeking through the frosted glass, my toes hugged tight against Dr. Scholl’s, the sweat in my palms gripped to dust. I stared the nauseating gold handle, smeared in the prints of those come before me. I could sense the dark shadows which lay through the thin layer of fog. My finger tips quivering as I inched my hand closer, and closer, I could taste the blood in my teeth as my teeth gripped tight, filled with the tingling sense of sweet cocaine. I reached closer, closer.

Bang, now I could feel the loose nails coming up through the floorboards as I gripped the knob tight, quickly losing my grip I held it as I once did my child. Turning it, as if tearing at my own kidneys, with each creek more I filled more with pain and rage. Quickly I opened the door, never ending laths of wood scurried along the ground and up to the thin light. There in the light stood the wilde beast, revealing only its backside ever so cowardly.  I asked it “Why? What do you crave?” What could I feed this creature to tame it after for so long I have only fed it the love I could in my heart? Bang!

Four years through UCF, no breaks, 100 credits, $40,000 later, endless hours of work, roughly 6000 hours studying, Friends have come and gone professors have bored you to death, loss of sleep no longer shall faze you. And how you come to find, you hate engineering with a the success you have had you find misery and a sense of indentured servitude in you work, you find yourself with a desire to trade in that XPS for a Macbook, backpack for a messenger bag, and number two pencil for a BIC gel tip pen black. So what now to we damn ourselves to life in a poorly decorated gray carpet wallpapered cubicle accessorized by post-its and highlighted by memos and meeting deadlines, or do we stick to the ideal plan and work hard, allow it to grown on to us, and find passion in it risking eternal unhappiness, or do we choose happy medium in the middle the right thing to do. So often we are told to do the right thing well maybe sometimes we should do the wrong thing in order to do the write thing.

I find myself here today in the ides of June torn. I hate studying and crunching number in order to create this great design and geared toward writing more and more and a passion and craving for words and books, to read and absorb dreams and stories far more flavorful than any engineering book. I see those books as a blank canvas and these as a world of color organized each with meaning and purpose a ballet of love and anger, a tango of metaphors and puns.

Maybe I will find happiness?

I find it funny how we find ourselves questioning ourselves. A genuine idea of the productive man in society is developed to be a drone of the working class America. A man destined to create a career after years of study, followed by years of hard labor, bills, social-security taxes, and undesirable loves or more so successful relationships. A man overrun with small children and loose teeth, Halloween sweets, and endless hours of work inside walls of carpet to a destiny of divorce and drug using children listening to over amplified bad rap. To unpaid college loans, balding and stress, death of loved ones, and awkward conversations about sex. A man to come to retirement, financial independency tranquility, solidarity, no more phone calls and only painful reflection though a hazy window surrounded by white walls, social-security checks and no loves, to realizations of those once loved, to visits, balloons, arm bands and faded tattoos. To an end with a tucking in by so many hidden behind darkness and tears, laid across silk sheets (upon a maple wood bed not to waken to maple syrup) under a night sky of soil and daisies. To dust and freedom, an end to lost, a venture unto love and a man come and gone. To no question of what was but what is, to productivity in ones love heart, nothing more, nothing less, just.

Afterthoughts:

I ask myself if we viewed life as this were we really even alive, are we the man we once thought, do these troubles exist?

Life is best left to be stressfree to enjoy an explanation of the earth and all the creations within it.

--DavidWhite

   I believe they are relatives, borth blue yellow beaks, snow white stomachs. The taller of the two has a red beanie on!

This place I live in often called the hapiest place on Earth, its ashame i want to leave it so badly for something old and fresh which can envelope me in glass and brick.