Inside the Room Called Mind.

you may find a few chairs, a table, and an occasional body. the table is made of old warped wood, twisted and knotted. on it sits a single ashtray with a still-burning cigarette inside, but no one in the room smokes. a head lays collapsed on the table, next to the ashtray. curly brown hair rolls out across the wood, past the used up pencils and erasure shavings. his body sits in the chair, illuminate by a candle tied to the slowly crawling blades of the ceiling fan. each chair leg is different than the two next to it. his chest lifts slightly; the relaxed breathing of one allowed to rest. his fists are still clenched under the table, palms stained with paint and sweat, cuts along the fingers. each of the walls is a different color, still dripping wet. the first is green, with neatly framed pictures of dish-washing machines and light-bulbs. the second is purple, with gold coins taped into patterns like dragons and smiles. no one pays attention to the third wall. the fourth is red, turning brown as it dries. stacks of notebooks scatter around the white tile floor, a few labels showing face up read: "Thoughts, Words, and Shopping Lists", "You Won't Read This, It's Too Long", and "Things You'll Want to Remember Later". the latter is missing a few pages. there are three picture mixed in with the notebooks.  the man's family, a fond face, and a goat chewing grass. on the first picture is written "wall two." on the second "wall four." and the third "wall three." the man sleep talks, yells at the fourth wall, and growls at the spinning candle. the candle disapproves.

The Dream That Saved Me

just a blog, about a dream i had last night.

it all started with a letter i wrote, to a certain someone i had never expected to be in my dreams; we'll just call him the Monster, although i know now that he is not one. the letter went a little something like this:
Dear Monster,
you must have assumed that i hate you, but you have assumed incorrectly. i admire you, and everything that you seem to be. you are unique, and although i only know you as your mortal enemy, i will no longer consider you evil. i hope that you can reconsider what you think of me as well.
sincerely, the Squid.
and that one is me, i am the Squid.
as soon as the letter hit the post box, time jolted forward. Squid was in a new room, but in the dream it was familiar to him, the house of a Friend, and he will be known as Friend. there were couches, and laptops, and music playing all around. Squid, Monster, Friend, are all talking as two new people enter the room. the Wolf and the Writer. Writer greets Squid and Friend with a skeptical shaking of her finger, and Wolf and Monster greet with a heavy and long embrace. in the dream this does not hurt Squid, this makes him smile. Monster begins to speak, stating that he will dye his hair blue to signify the love he had almost lost, and to show that he is a new person because of the friends he has gained. Wolf replies that she will dye her hair red, in honor of the one who helped her through her darker times, in honor of the friend (not Friend friend, just friend) that came back like he promised he would. and Squid decides to cut his hair, in honor of the man who would fight, not for the country but to find himself. Friend and Writer agree to do the alterations, and give a lot of hugs.
as the dream proceeds, everyone moves into different bathrooms and begin to alter the way they appear, a pact between friends. once, they had separately been lovers. but in the dream, they were closest of friends.
this is the way things are meant to be. when people try to change the course of the rolling earth, they may find themselves crushed by it.  i do not know what will happen next, or if anything will happen at all. i can only promise that i will be happy with it.
i do not know if you are angry with me, or if you are sad that i am gone. i do not know if you are happy again, or if you miss what could have happened. i am unsure as to what you say behind my back, or what you whisper before you fall asleep. but i know that if you really do care about me, our friendship won't die. i know that i will miss you.

This is a Thing

Not a Todd poem this time,
only a thing.
------------------------------------------------------------
you've been filled,
emptied,
and caged back again.
Brown hair curling higher in the heat
and white shirt lifted up,
leaned over and letting
the mechanical pseudo-fire
warm your earth-colored skin.

your own unowned hands,
charcoal-black in your mind,
wrote down countless words
on paper, bound between red skin.
but in this room, you find your wrists
chained down and out of reach.
relentlessly fighting to remember
all the names they used to write.



An animal, taught there was beauty in the world,
then made to leave the world behind.
once, you were content here.
but now you dream of breaking the chains.
------------------------------------------------------------
That came out terribly far off of what I had planned.
I'd stuff it all into a box again and bury it down, But it took so long to come back out last time.
Now I just feel aggressive all the time.

The Terrible Tale of Two-Heart Todd, Nautical Chapter

Part Five: The Singing Veins. 


The Fishermen man,
With a pen in his hand,
Signed his old ship to the boy named Todd.
Saying "This boat,
For me never floats,
And never again catches salmon nor cod."

The Singing Veins,
A suitable name,
And as large as a fishing boat could be,
With partly torn sails,
And rust colored nails,
She was the shadow of death sailing at sea.

So the deal was made,
And the price was paid,
Simply to sail the Veins with love.
For despite her great size,
And her ominous guise,
She was a barque the fisherman was proud of.



Part Six: Ghosts of the Veins.

Listening,
the sound of two heart beats,
unwanted by the rotting ship,
interrupting the sleepless chantey
that Todd found them signing.

Amidst the shattered wood,
Laying in the cold cabin,
Ornamented with dust,
Never speaking,
Ever screeching.

"We
watch the stars,
We
work the deck,
We
set your course."


Just two parts for today. I have a great idea about a seventh and an eighth (which will be tons better then these two), I just need to think them through better first.
A few side notes,
I've decided I want to be a pirate.
do terms like "running late" apply to people with no legs?
do aliens ever aspire to be human? cause I'm sure most humans aspire to be aliens.
I send my sentiments to Nine Tales.
I'm searching for something to combat all this cold.
and Bret McBam, if you're out there, you can't run.

The Terrible Tale of Two-Heart Todd

Part One: Born Beating Twice

A beat for the morning, a beat for the night,

A beat for this story, may you like it all right.

A beat for smiling, a beat for the old,

Who might be reading this story I wrote.

Two beats for the girl, who feels alone,

For she needs this tale, and the two hearts that I own.

A boy with two arms, two legs and one nose,

Two eyes, two ears, two hands and ten toes,

Healthy and loud, the way every mother seeks.

But with two hearts singing, he was labeled unique.

         Or a freak?

Feel free to say it, I’ve had worse.

Once in the hospital I frightened the nurse.

She passed out cold, but not before pointing,

And saying aloud what all of you are thinking.

Beat, Beat.

The name’s Todd.

Part Two: Zombie Girl

Tick-tocking clocks take a toll on flocks,

Rotting thoughts and lots of storyline plots.

And my hearts, sweet and tart, could never once start,

To view you straight through for the true you.

With papier-mâché and a yellow beret,

And a skeleton made out of wire,

I used paint for your face and a necklace I made,

And your shoe was a broken toy tire.

I sculpted your heart, with patience and art,

And your hands I carved out of clay.

Even down to your hair, I tried to be fair,

But I’m still as alone as yesterday.

Your feet hit the floor, like ages before,

But tonight they are dragging alone.

We still never speak, and the tears on your cheek,

Are hidden behind hands of bone.

But I can’t say I care, such emotions are rare,

For the boy who was born with two hearts.

I did all I should, but you turned it to dust,

Like I knew you would from the start.

Part Three: Two-Heart Todd and the Ink Drawn Girl

Rain was falling, piercing

Through the layers of clothing,

Hiding her skin from the world

She was created for.

Drawn to bring pleasure to hands

That could never handle her.

Stained onto the wall, her body waits

For the storm to leave.

So she can dry her colorful flesh in the sun again.

From the pulse of a hand,

Holding out an umbrella,

Warming her skin,

Tracing her sketched body,

She tries to hide,

         Ashamed,

         Afraid,

         Alarmed,

But the Two-Heart boy will never leave her.

She looks up, eyes glowing,

Changing colors in the rain.

“The heart I have left is broken,”

She solemnly manages to say.

And says the boy,

“You can borrow one of mine.”

Part Four: Two-Heart Todd and the Fisherman

“Call me the Fishermen Man,”

Says the man, raspy voice

Crawling through the fog,

“But it’s really your choice.”

Seated on marine barrels,

Lined across soiled docks,

A story was weaved,

Of all the things he’d done wrong.

         The story was quite long.

“I am the fishermen man,

The fishermen man

With his fishermen hands,

I am the fishermen man,

But today I have no fish.”

A hard-worked hand moves up,

Only to brush away the long blond hair,

And the pressure grew stronger,

As he heartily breathed in ocean air.

“But dear boy, this fisherman

Was meant for the stage.

This is why

I was never a good fishermen man.” 

(this is blogging, foreign to myself, I will write things).