Melting Lives


A single snowflake lays in a field. Alone he waits for death and somehow contemplates the irony of it all. Who the hell ever heard of a single snow flake falling?

He thanks his maker still that he fell facing up. It would have been a shame to slowly melt away his life facing down towards the ground, possibly watching his life passing forth life to another. Lucky blade of grass. Who the hell made you so genetically superior that you reap the benefit of my death?

But instead of wasting his single tear on despair. He swallows emotion for the moment, the way a frozen heart only can. He looks to the sky, to what he assumes is where his maker is. For had he not fallen from the sky? Whichever brightly shining bulb of light had conjured him, even for what is more and more feeling like only mere minutes, he still gives thanks. And as he feels his heart begin to melt he begins to find understanding in death and ultimately some peace.

-Opinionated Man

We are


… and have kissed my way through your resolve not to be loved. We are. We are more than a moment or the last moment with all the moments in between. Could I set in stone a desire and place it upon your finger. What routine action would such a display accomplish that cannot be known by the beating of my heart. They are in rhythm as one and when we concentrate on that unity all else fades. Nothing matters as we silence the world for a moment. A shared moment of knowing that we exist together, even if the world doesn’t see us. Our hearts see each other and reaffirm one fact of life. We are.

-OM

Train of thought


I see my train of thought. A giant yellow train worthy to be seen. The front of the train, I don’t know what it is called, but the fucker sure is big. I imagine my train is most likely one of the best trains ever built. It is yellow because I am tired of the blacks and whites.

I believe it is a coal train. Yes, yes indeed it is. I see a yellow man shoveling that coal, damn look at him shovel. Must be why we are going so fast, hell of a ride. Oop, look there goes another white train… slowly losing us in our dust. And a black one, red one I start to lose count. It doesn’t matter because my train is obviously winning. What a great fucking train.

-OM

The Cutter


She draws upon herself with beautiful knives of steel. With each stroke she paints a picture of her pain… with pain. Each cut produces a blossom of relief followed by a single tear of desire. A yearning for relief so strong is present that the hand acts without thought. It creates etch marks upon the arms and legs to mark the turning of each page. Another chapter of depression is finished, marked by the flowing of blood. They form droplets of periods and commas on the floor that highlight the desire of the moment. The emptiness of the page that follows reveals more than a lack of desire to write. The absence of a picture paints the image of pain that would be understated by words. It is instead underlined by the “swishing” of a razor and a pained smile of contentment.

-Opinionated Man