The Lost Boy

She looked so beautiful in her dress down to her heels, with her smile as beautiful as the moon. She was mine once and now I’ve run out of chances…I messed up the most perfect thing in my life

A regretful memory floods my mind, its going to be a very long night. I’m cold, alone and wishful..nothing I can do will fill fix this issue. I trace the painting you made for me, only to crumple up the paper as I lay it next to me. 

The true happiness in my life comes from sitting on an empty lot in the early morning. No lights to ruin the night sky, each star perfectly visible like a beautiful painting. Laying down on my back I feel like I’m walking on the stars as I count each passing car. No disruption, no commands just that small little star I named after you and my rested mind.

I do still love you and the way you smile. I do still think you’re perfect in every which way. Your life will be one of miracle because you my dear…you’re the angel every man has been looking for I’m still am and always will be honored to have been called “yours”

I want to know why? Please say something I swear to god I’ll behave! This isn’t for tumblr, this isn’t for notes this if for you to read and for you alone. Please I sit here once a week singing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star because I wonder about how you are. I drive around mid day to clear my mind but at 3am you waltz right in and take no time to seep into the back corners of what little brain I have. Please darling, my sunflower, my moonlight. Do not leave me rotting although I seem to deserve this I ask only for a hello if thats what I can have. 

thelostboy1795:

I can’t keep these mental images from appearing each time I close my eyes. Your voice is so so distant but it seems to be ringing in my ear. Longing for you to respond, my body forces itself to lie down with my eyes wide open as I count the clicks from the clock on the wall.

Words written in stone fade, the dust picks up the pieces of love and the sun washes away the dreams that were not dreamt. Standing in a field full of nothing I plead for something…anything

(via literary-enthusiasts)

“And now I cling to what I knew
I saw exactly what was true
But oh no more.
That’s why I hold,
That’s why I hold with all I have.
That’s why I hold.

And I won’t die alone and be left there.
Well I guess I’ll just go home,
Oh God knows where.
Because death is just so full and man so small.
Well I’m scared of what’s behind and what’s before.

And there will come a time, you’ll see, with no more tears.
And love will not break your heart, but dismiss your fears.
Get over your hill and see what you find there,
With grace in your heart and flowers in your hair.”

After The Storm

Towards the end of the day, my mind is set on giving up, caving in and waving the white flag “you’ve won I cannot carry on”. Sitting with my eyes wide open at 1am I yell to the empty walls of ny home “I will not, can not give up no matter what this will work”. My neighborhood worries about me and the friendly voice in my head has taken a vacation “the stress level is too much for me”.

Music soothes my mind, the click of my fan brings back memories of a life time ago that is right around the corner. Do I run back?

They (the ones we always look up to) said we would be better off praying to an imaginary god hidden deep in the clouds where the planes cannot find him. Doing so we notice that nothing will come of this magical cloud man but still we find “comfort” in speaking “with him”. Stories about him are written in books dating back as far as we can count, differing variations of this story are spread around. Wars are started, blood is spilled and tears are shed. An odd future is projected into the minds of the unknowing and the slaves to social norms follow lead as the “master” spreads his “good word”. Lets think about that. 

Puffing on a cigar we walk by the people we deem “disgusting”but we preach up and down to help those in need. Yet when a young woman with a “will work for food” sign knocks on your car window your only worry is the finger prints she is leaving behind. Lets think about each promise we make while we kneel. World peace, stopping world hunger and solving poverty are all discussed behind cement walls, at a fancy restaurant while we worry not about the money we spend on the food but the fact that our drinks have not been refilled. Lets think about that. 

Now I am not religious but I quote:  ”When they kept on questioning him, he straightened up and said to them, “Let any one of you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.” Lets think about that as we sip champagne to the profit we made last quarter all the while swearing that we love everyone equally. (John 8:7) 

You ever sit and wonder why? Why get up and try again?

Simple. You get up you try again, you fail but never stop attempting. Insanity is a word made up by the less dedicated, headstrong is an adjective created to express self-willed progression. With each attempt you learn something new.

Why? That question answers itself at the end of the struggle no matter how long or how short. 

Dream catchers are strung up in the back of the house to catch all the bad dreams so that they can be used against the dreamer at a later date. A voice in his head says “give me the patience to make it through the day without breaking down” last nights dreams were nightmares from a time not too long ago. As he woke up covered in his own sweat he saw her in the corner of the room looking over him as he screamed silently. His voice has left him just like his soul left his heart a long time ago. 

As he gets up to walk over to her she opens the door and walks out, hastily he follows her as she rushes out of the house and down the street. Fast forward 25 minutes to his bloody feet and cold torso, she is standing in the water with a teasing smile on her face. He knows he shouldn’t but he does, he runs into the water and everything goes black.

Sirens, red and blue lights all rush to the cliff at the end of the road. Another jumper has been found just this time no one knows that all he was trying to do was hold her one last time before he moved on for good. 

Pick words from out of my chest, these artificial lungs don’t breathe in life anymore. Dance in the sunlight because the lights go off and the moon is gone. Live in the moment, the day won’t last much longer and your memory is getting bad. Love like today is your last day, that rope and chair are looking like amazing combos but I want to be the one to kick the chair…

He awakes to the sound of cars passing by and drunk people singing in the pub down the street. Its 0603 and the work day begins, he walks over to the black box hanging from the wall 718-483-6674 is written in pen on a piece of paper its his boss’s number. “New crates from the harbor have made it to the storage unit” says a deep commanding voice on the other end “I will see to them Mr. Sal” reply’s Frankie who now is clearly visible from the window that overlooks the street below. A young man from the back corners of the inner city brought into the “real world” by one of his grade school friends who told him that this guy he knew had work and anyone interested could swing by and try out. That was 5 years ago but to Frankie that seems like a lifetime ago, starting off as a dock hand he was moved to driver, group leader and now a shot caller in control of a small portion of the massive area his boss…”the Don” owns. 

As he walks down the old wooden stairs of his apartment complex an old familiar face greets him “Good morning Mrs. Jay how are the cats?” to his surprise this is the one time Mrs. Jay does not respond she just pushes past him and shuts her door. A fifteen minute walk past bakeries, clothing stores, grocery markets and what seems like millions of people and he arrives at the storage unit everyone knows as “The House” because it always seems to have residence no matter what time of the year. Busted out windows run along the rafters at the top of the building, its cold this time of year, as he rubs his cold hands he looks around and notices something. Oliver Jay isn’t at his post watching the door like he should be, one more quick look around the room and he notices he is not there at all. “JUNIOR! get over here” a young boy no older than 14 runs over “yes sir Mr. Frank sir?” he replies fearing that he might get in trouble for something. “Junior have you seen Oliver around at all?” a quick look into the young mans eyes and Frankie knows everything he needs to know “don’t worry go back to work Junior”. A 25 minute car drive and he arrives at the Mansion where all the families gather once a month to discuss “peace” and “unity”. Frankie runs up the stairs, past the four guards and straight down the hall into the Don’s office, he is startled to find the group of shot callers already there sitting at the table with the big man himself at the head of it with a map in his hand. He looks up to see Frankie standing and instead of gesturing for Frankie to sit he slides the map across the table and says “find them, get rid of them and give that boy a proper funeral” 

It is now 1245 and Frankie can’t help but think to himself “just another day in paradise” as he drives along the highway in a car full of thugs with another car full of more thugs right behind them. They are working their way into the “enemy territory” something most men in the car are used to seeing as they all just came home from the great war overseas. To them this is a simple game of cat and mouse but they know much more than the mouse does. As they roll down the neighborhood school kids begin to hide in their houses, mothers carry their newborn away to safety and the old ones step back from the curb. Everyone in the area knows who they are and what is about to happen. Frankie looks at the name on the piece of paper that was handed to him right before they left the mansion and he repeats it over and over again in his head until its time to get out. Black trench coats, black hats and black shoes move together as one into a small restaurant and in the corner of the room a man stands up and begins to beg for mercy “please god no I was only doing my job!” Frankie stands firm he has heard every line in the book “James Smith?” the look on the mans face is enough evidence for Frankie to know that this is the man. Frankie waves his hand and as he looks around the room he notices a family eating lunch “go outside and come back inside when we leave, you saw nothing” warns Frankie. A gunshot erupts, screams are heard and the black mess swarms back out of the building and into the cars before the smoke from the barrel clears. Quick, clean and a warning to the other people; you do not mess with the family from this town if you do this is how you end up…a splattered bloody mess in the corner of a small restaurant and no one will ever think twice about it. You will be cleaned up, thrown out and business will go on as usual. 

The time is 1845 and Frankie is at home now with a glass of scotch and a cigar by his side, the phone rings and he stands up to answer as he does a voice comes across the headset “good job son, no body reported the body and the police had no reports of anyone saying anything. Keep up the good work and you might very well end up where I’m at one of these days.” the phone hands up the dial tone comes up and Frankie smiles knowing that this is just a Monday and work is 24/7 for a man like himself. As he walks back to his table he can’t help but laugh at how that “Hitman” they took down today cried so much when he was confronted…he would never do that he says under his breath as he knocks back the scotch and drifts off into a dream from a lifetime ago…