Everyone should smile more often

Life isn't all that serious

We make it hard

The sun rises, the sun sets

We just tend to complicate the process

                  when 

              i say that i 

              hate myself

              i don't want

               you to say 

                  that i 

      am beautiful and great 

i know  that i am not   any of

that.    i am me and     that

is the   problem. i am   going

to be   the problem     until

the      day the i die     which 

i do     hope is soon     and 

if it      works, im so    sorry

that     i couldn't stay   and

that     i couldn't have   been 

any     happier  believe   me,

i         tried so    hard to   be

          strong       but i

          fear           i can't

          keep         this

          lie up        any

          more         i am

          so,so         sorry

          but i          just

          want         to die

          please        let me

One of the new prosers here loves to get likes and comments etc. I loveee that too! But I don't force it on people, and most importantly, I'm here to write, not become a celebrity! I would not like to post my reaction whenever someone does something I don't like, because simply whether I like their work or not I just keep it to myself, but this is not about work that I like or dislike. But this guy honestly getting on my nerve, he just tagged me like 2 or 3 times in the same post! He tagged me once and I ignored because he keep doing this ever since he joined prose, he would tag people and then remove the tag after they notice his post and like and repost it. So, he tagged me first time I didn't give him the like, so he tagged me again and again. And I'm sure he does the same with everybody because I been watching him and I noticed that he tagged tons of prosers and after he got the likes and comments and all the good stuff he removed the tag, to make it look natural. I mean, wtf! This is a place to express your sorrow or happiness or whatever you FEEL! not a fucking filthy, political place where you do whatever it takes to get numbers. And I don't want everybody to take it personal, I'm not against tagging, tag was made to tag, in fact, I appreciate so much when someone tags me, but not like that! Once equals tons. Not over and over till you get the fucking like! You made me do what I never though I ever would, which is this post, but you need to wake up and understand that we are honest people here, we might compliment each other, support each other, but we do not fool each other, we do not like filthy games. We're here to express not to impress. I'm really curious how do you get the muse to write if you have this kind of mentality. But let me share with you all this poem by bukowski, one of the most honest and respected poets. And maybe if my shitty words doesn't make sense his poem will do.

so you want to be a writer?

Charles Bukowski, 1920 - 1994

if it doesn’t come bursting out of you

in spite of everything,

don’t do it.

unless it comes unasked out of your

heart and your mind and your mouth

and your gut,

don’t do it.

if you have to sit for hours

staring at your computer screen

or hunched over your

typewriter

searching for words,

don’t do it.

if you’re doing it for money or

fame,

don’t do it.

if you’re doing it because you want

women in your bed,

don’t do it.

if you have to sit there and

rewrite it again and again,

don’t do it.

if it’s hard work just thinking about doing it,

don’t do it.

if you’re trying to write like somebody

else,

forget about it.

if you have to wait for it to roar out of

you,

then wait patiently.

if it never does roar out of you,

do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife

or your girlfriend or your boyfriend

or your parents or to anybody at all,

you’re not ready.

don’t be like so many writers,

don’t be like so many thousands of

people who call themselves writers,

don’t be dull and boring and

pretentious, don’t be consumed with self-

love.

the libraries of the world have

yawned themselves to

sleep

over your kind.

don’t add to that.

don’t do it.

unless it comes out of

your soul like a rocket,

unless being still would

drive you to madness or

suicide or murder,

don’t do it.

unless the sun inside you is

burning your gut,

don’t do it.

when it is truly time,

and if you have been chosen,

it will do it by

itself and it will keep on doing it

until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.

I

I am the personification

of lost time

Of days long since past

I am the memories

That you have long forgotten

I am the things

That you refuse to think about

The things

you don’t want to think about

I am the personification

of lost time

I am you

I am everyone

Thus I am no one

I exist

But only in your subconscious

Only in the back of your mind

I can't help but think of my friends when I think of the prism.

I firmly believe in giving more than what you take in, especially from friends.

I believe firmly that what we take in, are different parts, or different pieces of our friends input from other sources.  

We bend the "light" if you will of their inputs from their other friends, and us too.  But what emerges, is the processed thoughts of their experiences, the "bullshit" if you will 

of their own experiences, be it good or bad and then, it is emitted to us, their friends. and visa versa.

So you see, it makes all the sense to me, that we are like the nature of prisms.  We take in these sources of knowledge and feelings and then we bend these thoughts, feelings and emotions based on previous experiences or thoughts...or influences (other lights) and continue to disperse or propagate these inputs, much like the light and the prism.

eh, what do I know...I'm just spewing bent light...

They called it breaker.

No one climbed it anymore, despite its bough, crotches, and burls having placements ideal for such things. It begged for a fort or even a tire swing. The tree seemed a haven for kids looking to live out fantasies of flight and fights with dragons.

The trunk, stout and lumped with misshapen growths, stood in the midst of broken dead ground. Rock had been removed, but the dirt was of a hard quality only found in California. The state's lack of true seasons, beyond I think it's Fall and Summer, as well as its penchants for droughts, lead to dirt in need of moisture and thus a disposition nearing cement. The tree itself, a live oak of a massive nature, lived up to its name and stayed green.

The first branch shot forth at a height easily reached by a jumping seven year old. Said branch remained strong under weight, thick as a wrist and near enough burls that played the part of footholds. The spacing of the leafy offshoots thereafter were ladder like. A child, joyous and lost to the thrill of the climb, scaled it with a ease lent to kids without fears or concerns found in the confined souls of adults.

That is when the tree struck, or failed. Once the child was high in its embrace, grasping a branch, preparing for his or her next upward movement, weight resting fully upon the thin bough, it would break. Sudden and terrible, thus torn free of the life source of the trunk; the branch would fall to the hard unforgiving earth, clutched within the trembling grip of a terrified child.

That once sure and strong child would break on the ground, holding the oak's sundered limb.

And so the kids would stay away, for a generation, for the memory of children is flimsy and prone to forgetfulness.

Then it would break them, to remind them.

°~~BREATHE~~°

And keep me alive

For your breath

Synced with my soul

As you breathe I survive 

Let me hear your voice

Through my heartbeats-^-/\_

When my tears are falling

I listen to your tweets~~

Over and over again

Sing me a happy song

As you happily flying ~^♡^~

I’ll quietly watch--

While biting my tongue

Keep the smile on your face ^_^

And pour me bitter in my glass

If that makes you happy

I’ll drink your bitter 

Silently-- and tear off 

       My Heart-        

      A            T

       P          R  

             A

So my heartache 

Doesn’t disturb you.

Sitting there, your yellow, narrowed eyes glaring into mine. 

I know what you think, or should I say what you scheme? 

You plump beast that rolls in the dust. I know your plan. 

Creeping through my house, swishing your tail. 

Jumping on my bed when I dream and can not defend. 

Then laying your fat belly across my face in hopes, of me, to suffocate. 

The oldest breathed water and wouldn't stay in the sea. Sprinting across the crags, he lived puddle to puddle. Why not just stay in the ocean? But I think he was broken.

The second found cadavers that walked and talked and kissed but were dead. Second would give them pieces of his soul so they could glow, but soul isn't sunlight.

Third lived in a cloud fishing for people. When he caught them he would reel them up and eat them. Little stink pieces of heart and blood dripped from the vapor. I would have liked Third, maybe. At least he knew there were worse things than being lonely.

Fourth lived by an ugly statue, a humpty dumpty god. At night he burned his hands in fireplaces, and in the morning he pieced the monument together with Third-World tools. Noon, he would write poetry on its corpse.

When the Fourth died, there were no children to complete his work. But dying isn’t disappearing.

These were my brothers. They speak to me and they make me want to do terrible things.