A Cigarette

He took a draught from his smoke and let the ash fall to the ground. He saw constellations in it, floated through outer space, felt small, meaningless and fortunate. He knew.
He enjoyed these moments, said he specialised in them. Pressing pause and taking life in. Fully.
He drew another breath from it and it pressed play. Life rushed by. People walked by, a baby cried somewhere close-by and busses started filling the terminal, space and sound. The moment was over. He knew. He was fine with it; he enjoyed them for their brevity and their beauty therein.  

Love Apartment

So lately I've delving into the depths of a literary form that is somewhat unfamiliar to me; writing stories, and I've come up with a draft of the start of a story that I felt was good enough to share, so here goes:

Love Apartment

So they were sitting in a café... hmm, I guess that's not much of an intro, is it? Ok. "They" would be Lucy and Michael. They were sitting in a café on Beech, it was a quaint little place. Well as quaint as a place located on a busy road in the middle on London could be; with pastel colours on the walls and decorations, a lining around the sides of the walls, pictures of unfamiliar faces and places on the walls and cars with careless people hissing by outside the big wall-sized windows with high chairs (also pastel) and bar to rest nameless peoples drinks on.
Wait, wait hold up. We need some back-story first, otherwise this will make no sense why they were sitting on that café one cloudy Wednesday midday.
Lucy was a sweet young thing. A smiling brunette, full of life, full of love for everyone around. This made her a 'Great asset to any team' she was a part of. She was the epitome of youth in the 21st century and as such she loved every moment of it; she had a fine job, a nice boss (which would be very important to anyone who could practically choose her own job and position if she felt like it, she didn't) a cute dog, all the clothes she could want, and the money to buy even more, friends that she could trust and all-in-all a good life. A perfect life it could seem, but the one thing that she wanted most, she could not get.
She had, as most girls in their mid-twenties, had a few experiences in the 'Love Apartment' as she liked to call it (it was really more-so that people didn't have it in them to call her out on her mistake, grounded in her bad hearing, because of her faire appearance). But something newer really felt right. Either the guy was just after sex, which was all-right, for a while, but she needed more out of a relationship. Or some tiny thing would make them furious at each other. Either way, it newer lasted long and soon Lucy was back to 'looking'.
This is where Michael comes into the picture. Michael was a guy in his early twenties. Normal of stature, handsome of appearance and kind of heart. Michael was the kind of guy who sought out disadvantaged or troubled girls, became their good friend and helped them a well as he could. This interest in the human mind and how it could be altered and bettered had drawn him to study psychology, and he was damn good at it as well, to him the human mind was second nature. This stemmed from the fact that in his early days, Michael didn't have many friends, so instead of being with people, he looked at them, studied them and he soon understood how the mind worked and how to pick up on small signals (he had though about using this trick to gamble, but it didn't feel right and was ultimately boring in the long run).
As Michael was also young and in London, he naturally bumped into Lucy, while out partying and they hooked up.

And that is as far as I got..

Writers Block

Meaninglessness, uselessness, boredom, self-hatred. All things I practise in my Writers Block.
Spending countless hours writing wishing I could write, yet doing nothing about it.
Taking pictures, 'cause it doesn't take words. Not words of importance, not meaningless words, nothing to get going, but the right configuration and a click, it's like a toy. A toy for the child. The child, who's afraid of bugs. Who's wanting to be alone and just cry like he used to. Who's in the attic where he belongs. Who's in a writers block when it comes to songs, but it perfectly capable of writing an essay or two. Who's listening to pubescent rock music and enjoying every moment of it, that was until somebody mentioned that there was something wrong in that.
So he looks out the window, as he always does, pretending to be so deep, when really those moments are the one's where he is the least poetic. So he chats briefly with an old 'fling' as he would put it (it really wasn't). So he writes a text in third person and tries to be clever by pointing it out and/or breaking the fourth wall, and/or using the phrasing 'and/or', like the geek he is.
What he is afraid to mention, is that he has spent way too long doing nothing. Not writing a single song (a good one that is). Not writing a single poem. Not Even Fucking Drawing A Fucking Doodle. All he can do all day, is strive for others success, reading books, listening to music, old as new, reading magazines, solving sudokus (fucking sudokus, come on!), watching videos on Youtube, good as bad, caring for others, but never himself.
All in all, right now, he is the personification of a 'normal' person.
A normal person... A normal person... "Damn, fuck, damn. It's fucking true isn't it? I am normal!" He says as he looks around, even though he knows that there are no-one around.
Right now Alexander is sitting in his bedroom cursing to himself, wondering whether what he just wrote for his blog really was so piercingly true as he fears. He has, as he also mentions in the rather long post on his blog, been doing nothing for so long, that it is a real concern for him. So Alexander, lightly sweaty, either from the heat in his room or from the horrifying realization of being less than special, walks down and peers for slightly too long in the mirror, because he has seen people do that in movies, "So fuck it, anything that helps", as he so delightfully puts it.
It doesn't help, of course it doesn't help, he knew that, he's not one of those foolish people that actually believe in things from movies. Well unless it was a documentary of course, 'those are always right!' end quote.

There is not really a point in this story about the late-teenaging boy Alexander. 'Cause Alexander has writers block, and he can't muster the brain power to think of a point, and for that he apologizes..

A Bluebird

Down by the river where we used to go
I'll see a bluebird and then I'll know
'Cause all the stars in heaven could never make this work
And in the end we are bound to get hurt

I'll go down to that river 'till a bluebird comes out
I'll tell him the story and see if he flies south
She told me he was the signal of which I'd never doubt
And if he should fly don't he dare fly south

But don't you think it was about time we got together so I can show you my songs
And sing them to you the songs I've been hiding for too long
But I should know so much better than to ask you this
'Cause all the wine in my town could never bring us eternal bliss

And I'll look for that bluebird in whatever form he come
So that when I see him I know what must be done
I'll tell him the full story from beginning to end
Yeah I'll make sure he knows how it's made me bent

Down by the river where we used to go
I'll see a bluebird and then I'll know
'Cause all the stars in heaven could never make this work
And in the end we are bound to get hurt

Poetry

Mirrors mirrors on the walls
Faces faces tend to crawl
Underneath the veil of night
She lies buried in her tights

Clones of future clones of past
Memories reignite at last
When the world goes too slow
Put yourself in a boat that rows

Halfway done yet never complete
Poems seem a hill too steep
When you finally understand
The blade is already in your hand

Days of yonder days of yore
Days where no man will be poor
Days when lofts seem so reassuring
And where cellars seem helpful and curing

And all in all what does this mean?
A simple thought or thought stream?
Is there no meaning in poetry?
Is it just something written woefully?

I'll leave the answer up to you
As you seem clever through and through
But though you think you may have found it
don't be amazed if you're dumbfounded.

The Joplin Effecterience

free form, free spirit, free life
free everything, everything in sight
the 60's are alive in our blood, in us
the 70's remind us of tomorrow; so untouchable and unknown

Our lifes are dependant on a fuzz
played by the guitarist who sits on the throne
feel it, feel the love, the life in every note, every melody
as the king plays us a tune
and listn' to the queen as she sings, she sings doesn't she
her blue voice fills the room, the surrealistic room in my head
she yells oh how she yells at me
yells at me through my speakers
She is screaming for me to be free
She wants, she wants to freak us
for us to for one second think about our situation, it's fucked up!
how we just disregard every joy we have to say that we suffer, we fucking suffer!
I mean, what is wrong with us people taking everything for granted;
a family; a free life; more great music than we could ever hear and more food than we could eat
And yet, and yet! we cry! we yawn! we moan! we sigh! and over what? nothing!
we do it, because it excites us, it's fucked up!
we need to get a grip, a grip on reality
and not just waste this life on meaningless nothings
do something!
do something!
do something.. please?

The voices in my head

Poetry    is it important?
Can it change the world and the people in it?
I feel the voices inside me fragile and dormant
And if spoken your and my soul's fire will be lit

Nothing  Nothing  Nothing is everything

A perfect dystopia of noise

Where birds and flowers through the air ring

And every one and every thing cool and poise

I want it   to experience it

But my mind tells me otherwise

The logic inside me is throwing a fit

And this is what it had summarized:

It couldn't exist  there is no way

You might as well say that there is a god

Will you really give up everything you've worked for since that day?

When you realized  the  mind  will  rot

You know there could be no way that nirvana could exist

or have you gone agnostic?

How can you respect yourself if you don't persist?

You know it'll only end in something chaotic