Prose This Purple

I actually wrote this while in the middle of typing up yesterday's post. Go figure.


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Play the keyboard like a piano because they’re the only keys you have. There is music in the bounces, little notes of words as unique and beautiful as a virtuoso playing the piano. Do not conform to the styles of yesteryear. There is not home row; there is not a right way to type. There is only the way you do it, and the way it works and the way the words flow, because when you find the rhythm and immerse yourself in the beat no one can tell you anything, because you will not hear. So look at the keyboard, and ignore typos, because that’s what spell check is for. Dance across the keys with grace, and use only five fingers, because the way that you create is you, and you would never truly want to be just like someone else.

All the right things in the world cannot make up for one thing that was wrong. Prickly pine cactus needles jab into your soul to remind you of what you have done, and with that you grow sharper and harsher yourself, until you are a curmudgeonly porcupine with a thousand quills that can no longer see the truth or the one thing that can save them. The problem is within that, that you are looking for things to fix your problems. The truth is that the answer is not a thing, but an emotion. Love is the key and the lock is your problems, because to love is to forgive and to forgive is to save your soul.

They quills will fall out and new understanding will grow over your soul like skin healing over a scrape. The results are not instantaneous, nothing is, but with time and patience a new outlook will be conceived and a shining new heart will be birthed, all thanks to love.

I am ending my sporadic posting do to my writer's block clearing up, so enjoy.


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Toes dangling in the water wish for lily pads like frogs because then they wouldn’t be so afraid. Knees bent in prayer wish for knowledge like the gods because then they could die. Hips swaying to the music wish for diets like celebrities so they would be more confident. Hands on the head wish for oven mitts like bakers so they wouldn’t have to deal with the child’s fever. Heads thinking dangerous thoughts wish for world peace, just like everyone else does. Hearts broken to pieces by love don’t wish for anything, because they know they can’t have it back.

The following piece is very emotionally charged and contains profanity. If you don't want to read it then don't. It's based on a dream I had about going insane and is in no way, shape, or form based on my life or anything I've seen. I promise that I really don't act like this.

I have decided to begin including pictures with each post that correspond to the piece. Photo credits will be found in the link below the picture.


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When my heart shatters into a million pieces and the world stops spinning just for me I will be sitting in the high school cafeteria. I won’t want the world to see me go insane, but that’s the way that it’s going to be. It’s all because of the dream. I don’t think that anyone will understand, and I don’t think that anyone will care, and I don’t think that I will survive.

Words will fall from thin lips, slowly and quietly at first, but becoming louder and faster and angry. See the girl in her smile that you thought was real lose it for real. See fists pound the table, legs unfold and stand and climb up on the tabletop so arms can reach for the sky higher than anyone else in the room. Hear the inarticulate screams, madness seeping out of chocolate brown eyes that used to be beautiful. See the pain on the face one might have called pretty, but that now makes you shrink away. And you haven’t even heard the way she feels.

“Take me the fuck apart! Rip me to shreds; just finish what you started!”

And I can’t see anymore, the room is filled with swirling black blobs of rage, targets for my anger, my madness, and my crime against what’s good and right in the world. Somehow my limbs are disconnected, and I lose what little feeling I had left and fall to the table, but still I scream in pain, scream so loud the room shakes, but I can barely hear myself.

“I WANT TO DIE! FUCKING KILL ME NOW!”

And then they take me away.

Question everything that dares to dart before your eyes, trying to convince you that all it says is true. Take it with a grain of salt and another cliché, because we wouldn’t say those things so much if they didn’t really mean something.

Look quizzically into the face of the sky and ask it to explain again, because there is everything to gain from one last look. Even when you wish to hide from the world, and curl yourself into a ball after you sweep your feelings under the rug, never forget that there is meaning in everything.

There are little snatches of memory that might be peace, if you dissect yourself into infinite particles and study yourself at the deepest level. Just remember to bring someone who can pull you out of the void, because otherwise you might hold onto those shreds of comfort when there is more to seek.

And when you see his dying face for the very last time, and all you can do is fall on your knees, know that life is what it is, and nothing can explain mistakes, but this doesn’t have to be one.

Hold the angel wings between your fingers and pull the gossamer fibers apart. Destroy beauty because it’s painful to think life can be that way when you’re so devastated. When all you can do is cry until no more tears will come, and bury your red blotched face into your soggy lavender scented pillow. There is too much tragedy to hold inside for much longer, but you fight it with everything you have, because you’re the strong one who isn’t supposed to feel any pain. They say you’re an angel because of the way you hold them all together, but they can’t see the way you’re dead inside. You took your own gossamer angel wings and ripped them to shreds, because you thought you were the one who should have died.

A little child on the swing set is a metaphor for the human disposition. All the child wants is to go higher, faster, into the wild blue yonder, so to speak, an adult wants advancement, more, greater. And when the swing set of life, that ever dying pendulum, slows, when the true meaning finally pokes through, we are too old to enjoy it and to frail to convince anyone that we are right. When we look at the stars we see potential for expansion, domination, fragile flowers breaking off from the tree into our hands, when really we should see beauty, and nothing but. There is no substitute for beauty, no way to change that the stars are too far away for us to reach them, so we must enjoy them instead, but no one understands. That is the fate, to work for faster and more, only to be left with the slow, cold finality of death.

Poetry is the collateral damage from dreaming. A horror of thought and images tumbled together, things you see that are not really there, in more than one sense. There are no pictures in your dreams, only the half-forgotten memories of sound and the pieces of time’s framework strewn about. When you remember these things that were half-forgotten, returned again and lost you receive poetry, wrapped in swaddling blankets and shining anew. No one can realize that it is truly just a mish-mash of rehashing, or that it has been said time and again. It is a work, solitary, and if they tried to write the same thing from the same images they would get something totally different. In that is the definition of poetry, when dreams shatter and you reform the pieces in a self-portrait, unique because you are.