Triskele
12-28-2006, 01:40 AM
hey y'all, this is a freewrite in progress, so i need some help as for improvements, i don't know what to do, but it just doesn't feel done... ya know.
Portland
Wet, its always wet. the cool air paves the street with diamonds when the sun shines down. Fading slowly to black with the heat of the day. Telephone poles once plain, brown, sticky with tar, have been encased in flashes of neon flyers lighting the streets. Despite the obvious chill the boy wears his layered shirts that hang loosely over his feminine jeans. This the result of desperation for someone to hug his slender hips, because no one else will. He walks, ear buds in his ears… music wafts behind as he shuffles down to the coffee shop up the street. Small, liberal, independent, addictive… representing everything he tries to stand for. He takes his usual seat. Alone, isolated, cornered in his opinions, and lights up, moping, in some permanent state of melancholy and rebellion. He rants on, mock opinions derived from rumor, each sentence flavored with obscenity. “ Down with the man… he’s keeping me down”, he says, so cliché its sickening. Vocal masses lack mind to speak. The cigarette smoke swirls then dissipates. The cold wet air weighs down his poison. He cherishes what he doesn’t understand, strives for conformity…to the strange, the odd, the new. He finds his comfort in being different, but in his abnormality he is tossed and turned in the current of society… swimming, drowning, going against the current, thrown violently into the latest trend. This is his loss, he is fake, his soul lies in his search for harsh reality, in trying to be everybody else, he loves himself, as he tries to be different, he is the same… as are we all. So stop deterring form normality, and float with the current until you find yourself…alone… in company with the world.
Portland
Wet, its always wet. the cool air paves the street with diamonds when the sun shines down. Fading slowly to black with the heat of the day. Telephone poles once plain, brown, sticky with tar, have been encased in flashes of neon flyers lighting the streets. Despite the obvious chill the boy wears his layered shirts that hang loosely over his feminine jeans. This the result of desperation for someone to hug his slender hips, because no one else will. He walks, ear buds in his ears… music wafts behind as he shuffles down to the coffee shop up the street. Small, liberal, independent, addictive… representing everything he tries to stand for. He takes his usual seat. Alone, isolated, cornered in his opinions, and lights up, moping, in some permanent state of melancholy and rebellion. He rants on, mock opinions derived from rumor, each sentence flavored with obscenity. “ Down with the man… he’s keeping me down”, he says, so cliché its sickening. Vocal masses lack mind to speak. The cigarette smoke swirls then dissipates. The cold wet air weighs down his poison. He cherishes what he doesn’t understand, strives for conformity…to the strange, the odd, the new. He finds his comfort in being different, but in his abnormality he is tossed and turned in the current of society… swimming, drowning, going against the current, thrown violently into the latest trend. This is his loss, he is fake, his soul lies in his search for harsh reality, in trying to be everybody else, he loves himself, as he tries to be different, he is the same… as are we all. So stop deterring form normality, and float with the current until you find yourself…alone… in company with the world.