My Father

              I love my dad, for all that he is gone most of the time. People in America often do not realise how their food and the other things they buy from the store get there. All most of them can do is complain of the semi trcks on the highway. My dad is a trucker, and  do not get my visiting time with him because he is working. I just wonder what would happen though, if all the trcks sddenly dissapeared. Where would we be then???

Truths

     And if I could wonder, where I really have been in the past 197 moons. Who am I, that others never see, the me that not even I know? It seems strange, that one who is real knows not even the fact that they speak in everlasting riddles, never to be true even to themselves. The only thing that I look for is truth, mayhaps it be the truth that none else seek. The truth in the stories that the conscious mind constantly makes, those that come from nowhere but from your truth. Your truth, the one that comes from you, that is there without any proving to be done---
                                                                   ----- A.C

Rain

                               People I know complain about the rain, for where I live it rains a lot. I however will stand in it, looking at the sky. Have you ever been at that crossroads, where you can't do anything but look at the sky in wonder because it is bigger than you can ever hope to be.
                                 It is hard to capture feelings in writing. People, classmates are always asking my about the fact that my art and writing always seems to mention rain and/or tears. The thing is I find truth in the rain, the water falling. The clouds cry you know, the rain is just their sorrow at what they cannot change about us. They and the sky see us always, see our cruelty and our hopes. It sees the good and bad in us, just as God can. For me rain is forgiveness, it washes those who need it clean. It wipes certain slates clean.
                     There was this book I read once. It was called Fearless by Tom Lott, I believe. I wept throughout the book, it was so amazing and sad at the same time. Well worth the read, I highly recommend it.

Why is it?

                 I can remember when I was little I would sit on the floor playing inside of my head. I had all these stories in there. Sometimes I could finish them, but most of the time they simply faded into my memory. Years later they would reappear, I still write down little bits so might I finish them when God lets me. Poetry has always been similar, Just a week ago I shared a piece in my English class, the room was absolutely silent in shock. Words are so beautiful.

Ravings

        What is it with such empty things? Each little thing in the world is made up the same things, the same basic bits, then why do we forget these things in the search of the something we think might satisfy our greed but never does.When are we going to stop trying to sell and learn to give? I am mortal, and face the same challanges that everyone else but I must admit I hold nothing close and stand apart from most because I find the trivial matters they worry over most annoying. I enjoy argueing over some things, enjoy bantering over the meanings of tales, how things lead to others and so on, again I plead I am mortal, and again I plead I do not understand myself

That song...

               I was listen to Mad World and I just broke down because of the truth of it. And I realized that most of us, as humans might not even know ourselves. Isnt it sad?