birth another set of lungs. run children, run.

In one of the most savage displays of life, the newborn was delivered from the womb. The cord was severed, and the new life was cleansed. It's tiny heart beat inside it's chest. It's lungs made their first gasps for air. The innocent child took in its first few breaths, and the air around it went silent. The exhausted mother collapsed for lack of relaxation. The father was away on a business trip in Arizona. The doctor had already delivered thirteen babies today. Nobody was able to appreciate this savage display. No one had eyes that were ready to believe in the barbaric natural birthing process as a miracle. No one that is, except for me. I sat in the corner, and saw the new life pulsate like a few particles of dust that had fused together in the beginnings of a planet. I watched the tiny eyes blink, and the tiny hands grasp. I watched the innocence of the child radiate. I smiled at such a serene sight. The child smiled back. I saw his entire life play out before my eyes, and then I came back down. The doctor had just finished cleaning up, and the child was gone. The nurse was putting him down to sleep. The exhausted mother was now in a peaceful slumber, and I realized that she really did appreciate this miracle. She appreciated it more than I ever could. She was the mother of a miracle. All mothers are the mothers of miracles. The passing of new life into the world is a miracle in and of itself.

random piece of writing quite possibly inspired by the blood brothers.

I'm just catching you up with some of my better pieces of writing of late. Please, feel free to leave any constructive criticism. I appreciate it all. Thanks!
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weary eyes stare at the silver screen misfit. these eyes, they belong to the girl. she's intriuged and relieved, and lusting to hear more. heat is rising from the air vents that line the walls like picket fence, and she starts to take her clothes off as the misfit makes amends. she feels tension growing, and he shows no signs of stopping. all at once his voice rings out, and she trumphs it with a cry. the theatre's lights dim down and she can't see two feet in front of her face. then light shines down from a hole in the wall, and shows her that silver screen misfit. he's running all around with bouts of madness in his eyes, and she's lost with lust. it seems that he just made the temperature rise. the air vents pump the air and it's scalding just to stand, so she takes all of her clothes off, and mr. misfit lends a hand. she stands there as nasture intended, with silver eyes fixed on her breasts. she didn't come to this movie in hopes of getting rest. she came to raise the temperature, and hear what he had to say. she left devirginized from mr. misfit. oh why did his silver hands stray?

inspired by a visit to chicago

broken and holden with curly locks so golden. unfurled on a pillow that she ransacked from my bed. a golden colored bruise drowns the life left in her face, and she swims in her own eyes as they turn to a stone cold gaze. she lifts a finger and strokes the tomb as she leaves for tomorrow through her numbered days. she flies through the life that she never really had, as nerve damage causes her no pain. she drifts to the foundry where the dead man melts the ore, and realizes nothing is golden anymore. the pools of blood bubble up past the corduroy beaches she keeps. the rank smell of poppies being consumed runs rampant at her feet. she lifts her head and her golden locks unfurl, as she lays her broken body on my pillow robbed bed. she looks into eyes I hold so closely and starves the clock inside my head. she looks for answers in a questionable place and illegally delves to dream. I smile as she lifts her fingers to the nightstand, but at the sight of her gun there is no time to scream. broken and holden, she tells me it's time to go. she's working in the foundry digging up love so hollow. the gallows that she dug from nourished by the dead. the love that she came from was merely nourishment for my head.

reflection after reading Diary by Chuck Palahniuk

link your hand to mine. the physical and the emotional.a brick wall scattered with my brains.is this all the satisfaction you get?the roses on the wallpaper smell fresh.they're so misleading.stop. stop.there goes the fucking phone again.not for me. never for me.chipped glass rubies for me.chipped glass rubies for all.dont mind me when statues come to life, and rape us of innocence in the tempting night.cold and naked. starved of reason. a broken grotto. heal my wounds. this is the seasonof love and lust to burn and die. to make their assults on the sky. this is the season.filled with shit and sunken dreams, swollen eyes find it easy to paint pictures of your dirty misery. this is where it dies. dried blood and paint smeared in a line across my finger.fuck the metaphysical. this is not my wall. these are not my dreams.