Monthly Archives: June, 2014

Three Part – 5.23.2014


I do not even behold her physical image at the first glance, simply a reflection is all that is needed to take passion’s hold. The smell of her French perfume infuses the lust within and with extended finger coaxes forth the rage inside of me. Movements captured forever within a capturing mind, she becomes my prisoner before chains have even clasped her wrists. Delicacy tantalizes the mind forcing transition’s movement in this tale we are about to write. We dance past the necessities of mere mortals and I feel certain you will accept your place upon appropriate pedestal as I take you. Gently now… come quietly into the night and force not my trembling hands to meet in wanted permanent clutch. Not just yet.

Remorse is for those with compassion, instead we meet The Urge. He sits beside me at the bar and whispers words of encouragement and comradery. Another drink to try and quench the fire that still burns hot. I sweat within my skin, not from nerves but from the realization of a dream. And what do you do now that your dream has been fulfilled? Does one return as normal to the everyday robotic life of those that have never lived a fantasy? Thoughts with sugar, taken with two shots of Grey Goose, shaved lemon, stirred with ice and served by a smile that gives life to a fresh want. I ponder dreams mixed with memories as I smile and know in my heart… the reality has just begun.

Darkness comes and then there is a light. It stands before me in greeting and I rush forward with surprising urge. Mere inches away I feel a pull, there are dark chains connected to my back. They keep me from advancing towards the warmth. I suddenly feel them begin to pull me back into the darkness. There is a wrongness that is not worded, but I somehow feel knowledge gained that something is not right. One chain dangles before me and begins to shake with invitation, I grab at it with desperate hands. As I begin to yank upon my possible lifeline I look up at a familiar face, she glows with radiance and  resolve as she stares down upon me. Understanding comes with violent punch upon my soul as the pieces come together of what has happened. I feel a release of pressure and watch as she drops her end of the chain, my last hope, with a dispassionate gesture. The one below allows me plenty of time to understand that her action is the last in my life, as the tale’s last word is penned with my wordless cry.

-Opinionated Man

Winternight


Winternight freeze my soul. Solidify it against the compassion that seeks to infest my heart. Harden my demeanor in the days to come.

I stare across a sea of frozen blades of grass. They crack and pop with the realization of their humanity. Their screams join the sounds of growth that surrounds them, pictures of life amongst the graves of the dying. Crystalized limbs reflect the light of heaven and shine a beacon into the face of God. To make him aware that though we may die with the coming sun, we were here once and we mattered. Remember us.

-OM

A Connection in my Pants


I feel a connection in my pants. It comes in the form of a vibration and a sudden awareness of interest. Where do the unsuspecting eyes currently dwell? My pants know. With their awakening comes a rebirth of personal satisfaction. Waves upon waves of limelight roll ashore in the form of green envy. And as the man walks upon the beach he feels yet again another connection through his cell phone resting within his pocket. It is his leash to the world, even when he simply wishes to disconnect.

-OM

The Bad Son


I know I didn’t call. What a shitty son I am. It took me three days to call you after surgery. I am sorry. I called you tonight… and I still feel bad. You are the strongest person I know, the most giving man on this planet. If I could even live to be a percentage of the man you are, my kids would be lucky.

It is hard to hear of you in pain, mom or you. Both of you have had such a rough year and I have not been able to do all I could. One day I will be able to. One day I will be able to give you the world and let you rest finally… finally rest. That day is not today. Today I am the bad son, but one day… one day I will make you proud. One day.

I’m sorry,

Jason

Lost in Your Book


I found myself lost within the confines of your thoughts today. Trapped between two unbending covers, I gave up seeking escape and instead realized myself to the idea of entertaining your thoughts. They are so clear and vivid, teasing my mind and challenging me to be as good as you one day. If only I could be. My pen drips ink and dries from hesitation… or is it fear of failure. I look to my left and right and see examples that outshine me. How can one possible appreciate the moon when there are two radiate suns to steal the spotlight.

I curse my life in rotation as I consider the freedom of passing meteors. They blaze trails of accomplishment within my sight, taunting me with their ease.

A book is a lost relic that contains the past thoughts of a person talented enough to capture them before they die. One might think this is an easy task. I speed read and probably only retain about 60% of most books that I have opened. I have opened a lot of books though. If I happen upon a diamond in the rough, it would take the form of a gospel that I would devour to the last word. It is a rarity to be sure, but it has happened in the past. And still I seek the next one, to become lost in your book.

-OM

Mental Me


They call me “Mental Me.” I see that asshole mixing the medicine again with my tea. I give the nurse squirrel eyes as she hands me my pills. As long as I look crazy, I get to live tax free. I may go to prison soon if Fred touches my stuff again. I hear though that even if I went to prison… I would end up back here. It must be some kind of circle of life. Or imprisonment. There was something I intended to do. What was it.

-OM

Step Inside


Step inside my mind and walk with me. Put upon your ankles these smokey shackles of wishful thinking that my imagination creates. They torment the spirit willingly, even as the chains of obligation force your hand to write. You need not edit reality, when morning’s crust has been removed from either eyelid. With each falling piece comes an awakening and a desire to pen fastly fleeting dreams. An inspiration sought, an inspiration found, or perhaps an inspiration you have always had…

I see the seasons. They present themselves together like four unruly brothers, each vying for their time in the limelight. Above them banners float with strongly written reminders by Thoreau and Walden. Voltaire sits in a corner occasionally jotting down notes, looking up, shaking his head, and then writing more notes. “What is he writing?” I ponder an Indiana Jones scenario where I steal those scribbled treasures, but then reality’s post-it note reminds me I am the Short Round in this scene.

-OM

 

 

The Sitter


She is coming, I know she is near. I heard my mother whispering to my father about it… actually they were speaking in a regular voice. Curse them for looking down on me. But I understand, I know what is going on. All their fine clothes, smelly perfumes, and playful hugs and kisses don’t fool me. I am on to these two fakes this so called Daddy and Mommy figure I must pretend like I love or they take away my food. I mean what kind of sick world is this where a kid can’t just sit and be left alone. All the sudden the world turns upside down and I am flung around in some kind of centrifuge… much like when I appeared in this world. I would shudder, but that might remind me of the experience further. What was that? God… is that you again? No… no it is the doorbell. It is her. Escape! Help! The floor is shaking! Don’t run at me foul woman! I have been secretly watching that delightfully gruesome MMA sport that the Daddy creature seems to enjoy so much. One day I will tell him he would never last in a ring… pathetic. Put me down woman! Wait! Where are you two going! No! Don’t leave me with this ogre! NOOO!!! …damn.

Stuck with the sitter again.

-OM

Her Name


All I care for is a name. A label to place over the angelic face that I see, do I dare to clothe her in flesh? Is she instead the phantom I know her to be, ever fleeting from my grasp? She has danced away from my arms for years now, wearing a different face, but sometimes the same dress. A devilish red or a flash of heavenly white, it is the same tantalizing reward that I receive. I know her, I know her, but what was her name. My mind shatters from the strain of wanting to solve this mystery, of needing to understand.

She smiles and in those moments I feel the cramping of pain inside. The affliction has been known by many names, first love, love at first sight, and just a general sense of painful love are all understood conditions. Her looks and knowing glances are a testament to her attempts at murder. What a cold smile, the type of expression a killer might have while grinning at the moment he inserts his dagger into your heart. Who would have thought that the world’s deadliest assassins would be women? And to think that they can extinguish a life with a glance and crush a hope with a simple “no.” But still the men long only for a name.

-OM

That Song


This won’t make any sense, my bad…?

I hear it playing, reminds me of the club and the shades of smoky grey. The line between realities, I revel in the feeling now. There it is again, a flash of image sparkling along visionary lines. Taking me there, back. Like a rose found, plucked, and then left… burning the image is simple when revolt of the mind occurs. The brain supersedes the soul and revolution’s banner is raised. It plays a sad song, like a saxophonist on a warm evening. When the mood is right and the feet do dance, how they dance. Dusty floors meet sparkling ball rooms to cascade as fireworks in my mind. And still the music plays, that song… you.

-OM

If I Could Write a Prayer


If I could write a prayer what words would it say? To what god would it drift, would she even notice? I could tell a tale of dreams gone to hell, but reality is raw enough. Burning supplications I watch as my prayer floats like a dream… only to stand in line.

-OM

I Could Change the Stars


I could change the stars with a single hand cupped with desire. Pointing them in the direction I wish, a God walking among men. Or are we perhaps fools amongst fools as we walk with our heads down and ignore the light? Would anyone even notice if I were to alter your perception or would it be lost through the glaze of routine.

I see the world through mirrors because staring directly at pain is far too hard. How much easier is it to accept an image at a glance than one before your eyes? I weigh this thought even as my mind decides for me. I shatter the glass ceiling in hope of seeing the sky once more. I lay down and dream that I could change the stars.

-OM

Glitter


Throw it up in the air.

Make them stare… make them stare.

Washing away all their cares, as it flutters down into their hair.

We win again, a little sin for us men.

Mind not the grin as we begin again.

Glitter in the air.

-OM

http://aopinionatedman.com/2014/06/03/for-males-only-women-are-easy-to-understand/

The Writer


He struggles; internally his emotions are a tangle as he sorts through the labyrinth of his own mind. On the outside he is calm, a placid lake. He chews his pen and contemplates his next piece. Like the artist, with their visual minds, a writer can see their finished work. It is sometimes a distant horizon, an unsure future over a faraway hill, and yet the writer knows it is there. Much like a blind man can still feel the warmth of the sunlight on his face, so too can the author feel something important is about to climax.

His pen moves like a paintbrush, painting the canvas of the reader’s mind with tales and stories never seen or heard before. It is this foreign invasion of ideas and dreams that draw people to reading. It is why the writer is. The pen may just be mightier than the sword, for daily it conjures up whole armies of men with passion, demonic adversaries, and stories of triumph. What sword has ever lived through as many painful lives, joyous memories, and future aspirations as a pen does for any with the strength of arm to wield it.

The writer remains motionless, but if you could peel back his skull and see the gears turning it would inspire even the oldest clock maker to find his passion again. Beautiful to behold, and yet it is at the same time scary to imagine what such a mind might do if trapped or tormented forever. The words that might erupt from such a mountain, astonishing anger could certainly come from this same source. The writer simply smiles at these notions; to the writer his body represents a beacon channeling thought onto paper, parchment, or even dirt. To record our past is to ensure our future learns and becomes better from it. Well, we can hope this is true. Such notions are for scholars, the writer just writes.

-OM

To steal a thought


I could steal your breath with a thought or replace it with a prayer. Upon the backs of broken wings I lay my dreams tonight. Soundly do they sleep, careless to the idea of realization. I water that garden daily and look to the sun for some help to bring my ideas to fruition. It must be me. And so I take my answer with me and roll it across my knuckles as I whistle a nameless tune. The same tune as yesterday.

-OM

The Session


He comes and goes. There is no pattern.

And here I hang, arms tied above my head like a slaughtered pig. Or a pig waiting to be slaughtered.

The door behind me bursts open, the only door in the room. I have thought of the existence of that door for days now, or has it been weeks?

Hands grab me and place me into a chair. The same chair, possibly once part of a nice dining room set, now used for man’s evil deeds. The types of sin we only do behind closed doors.

It begins.

The punches are expected, the session normally begin with them to wake me up. It isn’t to break me, they know that won’t work, instead it is to humiliate me and show they can. It is like a slap in the face.

A hand slaps me in the face. I try to grin but after days of this the swelling has made it hard. You never show fear to your captors, they feed off the emotion like sharks.

It goes on for hours and I begin to scream very early into the session.

“What is the answer?”

I do not know, I truly wish I did. My voice has long since gone hoarse from the continuous yelling in pain. My tormentors are kind in that they allow me a brief sip of water in between sessions.

I never see his face. It is a man, no woman could be this cruel… at least none I have met. It might be the same guy or a different individual each session, but it is still the same result. Pain.

We begin again.

-OM

Steady Hand


I do not know what time will bring. What sunrises may be seen or songs we might sing. I do not worry about the ending of a story until it comes. When your eyes are always focused up ahead you tend to trip over the smallest stone.

Being caught by your steady hand allows for some divided attention. For when support is felt, courageously do we strive on towards common goal. Let us never feel the weight of the vanguard, for there is no lonelier soul than he that guards the rear.

You will never keep the company of only a shadow as long as I live. For a shadow has no soul and you lose a little of yourself when you willingly connect with the soulless.

Choppy waters turn into placid lakes of calm. We bask in the peaceful bliss of being unafraid. Your hand steadies my nerves and calms my demeanor. The sureness of your touch is equal to the solidity of your presence.

I will miss you.

-OM

The Rain


A concert of nature takes place today. It starts with a steady rhythm of tears from the clouds of above. They strike the window in death and the sound that comes forth joins the rest of the chorus.

Queue the thunder now. It rumbles in the background trying not to outshine the rain. And yet it will willingly block out the sun while turning face to darkness.

Sound and light are needed. Where is the lightning? Ah, there it is. Steady, powerful, and yet we love the unpredictable nature of it. The lightning presents a variable for this symphony and the crowd is delighted by the display of aggression.

Through it all is the main duet. A waltz between the beating of the heart and the consoling rain from above. They sing to each or are they actually competing for your heart?

Who can say… but today there is still the rain.

-OM

Blogging isn’t Writing


I feel the need to clarify my last post about blogging because it reads like it may possibly be a contradiction to what I have said before. Blogging isn’t writing. For me blogging takes the “form” of writing because I love to write, but blogging is really presenting “any materiel” to an audience. That can be anything and does not necessarily have to be poorly written posts and awful poetry like I have the habit of publishing.

I wrote before that I “do not write for you.” I stand by that. I don’t write for any of you, I write what I feel like writing. Many of the topics I write on lose me a certain amount of followers each day. There are some that might say “well that is stupid, why would you write something that knowingly chases away a reader?” Because “I don’t write for you, I write for myself.” I pick subjects that I like, find amusing, or see other people ranting on and decide to care about them as well.

My blogging is different. I blog for an audience and ALWAYS have. My goal has always been to create a large blog and I have never tried to make that a secret. Blogging is therefore about an audience for me, but the writing portion I keep pure by still doing me. That should be obvious by now.

Maybe that makes a little more sense than the last post did. If it didn’t I blame my tiredness.

-OM

The Tower


It stands, tall and proud.
A pillar to the world.

A tower, split in half by color.
Torn apart by choice.

Alternating, its pattern of black and white stone.
Beautiful to behold, yet strength is given up.

For when visual orgies are the focus.
Strength and unity are lost.

And when we live by a creed no matter what.
We die by that creed.

Those that are brittle, do not adapt.
They cannot weather the sands of time.

-Opinionated Man

The Writer


He struggles; internally his emotions are a tangle as he sorts through the labyrinth of his own mind. On the outside he is calm, a placid lake. He chews his pen and contemplates his next piece. Like the artist, with their visual minds, a writer can see their finished work. It is sometimes a distant horizon, an unsure future over a faraway hill, and yet the writer knows it is there. Much like a blind man can still feel the warmth of the sunlight on his face, so too can the author feel something important is about to climax.

His pen moves like a paintbrush, painting the canvas of the reader’s mind with tales and stories never seen or heard before. It is this foreign invasion of ideas and dreams that draw people to reading. It is why the writer is. The pen may just be mightier than the sword, for daily it conjures up whole armies of men with passion, demonic adversaries, and stories of triumph. What sword has ever lived through as many painful lives, joyous memories, and future aspirations as a pen does for any with the strength of arm to wield it.

The writer remains motionless, but if you could peel back his skull and see the gears turning it would inspire even the oldest clock maker to find his passion again. Beautiful to behold, and yet it is at the same time scary to imagine what such a mind might do if trapped or tormented forever. The words that might erupt from such a mountain, astonishing anger could certainly come from this same source. The writer simply smiles at these notions; to the writer his body represents a beacon channeling thought onto paper, parchment, or even dirt. To record our past is to ensure our future learns and becomes better from it. Well, we can hope this is true. Such notions are for scholars, the writer just writes.

-Opinionated Man

Dear You


I do not write for You, I write for Me. My words sing a single tune, a melody of my creation. It is not a duet. These words are not yours; your presence does not affect them. Gladly will I allow you to hear them, you may even bring them into your heart, but do not forget they are not your words. Like a person given the wrong blood type, just because wisdom may come from my sea of emotion, do not search this sea for salvation. This sea is polluted already, in its depths loom skeletons that have been overthrown, but not defeated. Take care that they do not find your pond to nest in. They are tricky beasts, perhaps you have a similar type in your abode, you do not want mine – they are angry. My demons are angry in defeat, they are raving mad in neglect; I have not fed them in a while.

There is no professional title in front of my name. I do not wear a white jacket to work; I do not conduct physicals or daily checkups. My name is not doctor this or teacher of that. The soap box I stand on is borrowed; it is missing from one of my fellow blogger’s sites. I figured I might as well start somewhere, a blog or a street corner the risk is the same and the rewards are just as sweet. I blog to blog, I do not blog to write. I do not hope some rare gem or master piece will be given birth here, this land looks pretty barren to me. Thus is the harsh reality, the reality that we are all finding ourselves and are not readily fit to try and help anyone else. I do not strive to do that. If I were to try to lead it would be a magnificent circular adventure, starting from the bar and ending gloriously at the bar. If I led you down the same path as I what would occur is a mass pile up of arms, legs, and confusion on where it all went wrong. There would be no epic ending here I am sorry to say.

Dear You, I just wanted to say be You and be strong. Come not through these doors looking for answers, but if companions are what you seek, companions are what you shall find.

-Opinionated Man

Forgotten


I walk past them all. Smiling, laughing, showing me what I have missed in life. What I am still missing now. They avoid my presence like a plague and do not even have the courtesy to acknowledge their disdain for me. What could be worse than to not matter to the world? Perhaps if that world makes it clear you do not belong.

The shuffle of my steps on the boardwalk sounds cacophonous to my ears. I shed a tear as I realize I am the only one that is aware. My trail of human raindrops is the only sympathy found for my still beating heart. Can it still be beating? Do I not feel it failing as my destination draws near?

I glance at the moon and ask the question again. He smiles down upon me and shines with radiance. My resentment mounts because I know the same smile is being given to those that are happy and content in life. It is not fair. Resentment turns to resolve.

I step off the pier and I am forgotten, as waves of other people’s happiness washes over me.

-Opinionated Man

Dreamless


He drinks a cup to stop the dreams. To remove the memory of what he’s seen. Glazed eyes, can’t hold the light… it flickers to death in the night. Where does my heart rest? On distant shore lives misconceptions of bliss. Unwanted heart find comfort elsewhere. For there is no care here in this place called home.

Jal ja eastern moon.

-OM

4 am


Hello the night once more. You awakened me with dreamless arm and shatter peace with splintered thought. I wake up in the fog of war and attempt to gather the pieces still. Left hand reaching for ever present connection. Lighted screen reflects off tired eyes. But my fingers do not care and thoughtlessly record the night…

-OM

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