Beyond body

Your soul wakes your mind

starts a fire inside

like lightning sparks the skies

thunderbolt striking ground.

You might think you only walk

with your body alone

while storm rages within

guiding you throughout time

navigating you throughout life.

You are unaware of what you are

you think small – endless cry

echoing through eternity,

until you find what lies beyond

body of three dimensional bond,

until you find solace

solemn tranquility within,

free your true will.

Until you discover your soul.

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Fearless

You call yourself fearless
when fear arises
you’re afraid shitless.
Coming to the spotlight, slipping down
down the slope in your precious white gown,
the saint in demon’s city angel in disguise,
rebel to no one but self
distant from yourself like earth from jupiter.
Walk talk high think low look up
perform a small bow when someone rises above
you are no longer in control, fear takes over
you call yourself fearless
when fear arises
you are afraid shitless.
Look fear in the eye stare in the void
don’t turn around try to avoid it,
watery slope down your cheek is a fear
that you are not afraid of
but you can’t stop to think.
Your brain dissolves like ink in water
but you can’t put on a cloak of invisibility like Harry Potter.
You wish not to be seen
not to be eaten by fear
but you are not afraid remember?
You are fearless you don’t give a shit .

Perks of open mind

Opened mind is like a universe unfold
from the dark lonely sky under moonlight
to infinite amount of stars to follow.

Chains are broken that held you so long
prisoner of close mindedness no more.
Endless possibilities lie within
all it takes is to believe.

Open your mind and fly high
among the shining stars,
fly over the sea of envy
and reach for the glowing sun.

Writer’s curse

It is not that I cant write anything at all, it’s that I need a story to tell. Fucking story, that’s right. I don’t know if I should be reading or writing or what the fuck to do in order to get it, but I do know the inspiration comes and goes like a freaking cold. When it comes its a blissful experience, as the virus of inspiriations spread itself inside my body multiplying the words and thoughts by an infinite amount. When it dies out, its carries the symptoms of withdrawal. It takes some getting used to. After you have just wrote like a freaking Stephen King on cocaine, you now have to deal with the loss and face your pathetic self in the eye, and say to yourself that you are worth dog’s shit as it comes to writing.

So thoughts can come in all forms, but what does it take for it to become a book? I know I try to write descriptive, painting a picture with words in a sense, but that is just one part of the equation, maybe the least of which carries you to the heights of writing a book. Authenticity, originality, good story, good plot, characters, and a number of fucking other things make a book. I think, no- I know!- that I have it somewhere deep with in me buried under the layers of wallowing and self pity, crying about how the world is cruel,and all the other excuses. It’s there, brewing inside of me like a tea in a kettle, just waiting for a moment to burst out with that loud hiss, that when you hear you know it’s happened.

And what the fuck is with the fact that I write on English even though I am a Croatian, which I care for with the same zeal as I would for a blade of grass caught in a whirlwind. English has always been with me, words only multiplying themselves inside my mind, and the sentences, without no proper knowledge of grammar, arrange themselves up over the years.

There is a number of talks and courses and what not on how to become a writer, and what the conclusion I derive from it all is one thing. And one thing alone. Experience. What makes a good writer is first and foremost an experience he had that either got him into the writing shitcreek or infused his words with that utter most pain or experience he had endured or went through. Likes of S. King and George R.R. Martin that, in that one talk I watched, where they said, how for example, rats have given them an idea, and launched their brain child of writing inside of them. So, what kind of experience are there to be lived in order to be a writer? Why can’t I just think of a story, and write a a book and sell it and make a good life, so I don’t have to work anything else for the rest of my life, and live off of the lorals of my accomplishments. That’s funny really.

The writer has to go through a series of a shitstorms in order to be good, recognized. Yes, that’s right. Life has to suck. No freaking golden child, born with a silver spoon in his mouth had ever amount to something in regards to writing. And look at my writing now, I write like a freaking englishman, with a speed of a 15 letters per sec and I can’t not relate that to my reading. The books that I read whether English or Croatian, or whatever, in which ever way shape or form they come they do something to my mind. Even though I am not entirely aware or not at all for that matter, my subconscious mind drinks it all in like a fine chardonnay. It inebriates itself with the knowledge which later on the fucker just shares if it’s in the mood for.

Why doesn’t something stick with me consciously? Why do I have to go through all this agony of waiting and expecting something to stick. I can write it yeah sure, but then I would have to read it sometime again, wouldn’t I? Well, I think that the brain knows best. I know – how the fuck? Yeah, but maybe it’s all we ever had is our brain. Nothing else is actually real. Have you ever though about that? Maybe the thoughts we so keenly tend to sign to our fucked up selves aren’t really ourselves? What if there is someone who pulls the strings of our consciousness. What if every moment is already written in stone, and what if we cant change one bit. So some say: ‘But I can decide one thing than do the other. How does that feel you twisted fuck?’ Well, I know I might argue that this is the truth, but hear me out for a sec.

The thoughts we have are one and only. There will be only one thing that will happen, and only one. If you flip a coin and it falls on one side, it will only fall on one side! There won’t be two sides at the same time, showing themselves simultaneously, but only ONE.
So, my question is this. How the fuck can we take any responsibility for our lives, when it’s all happened, happening, or happened before? Do you understand this? And what does it tell us about our writing?

Maybe there is a Mark Twain, Stephen King, James Rollins hiding in just some of us, and some are just not cut out for it. What differentiates them from the rest of the non S.Kings, Mark Twains and so on, is the determination and the searing desire for it. The flame that never burns out no matter how much it had been choked or extinguished. In my opinion it is the desire inside of you that lets you know if you are one of the cursed few.

So, this is a rant that just came out of me when I decided to write no matter what. To not stop and just pour my mind on the blank page in that given moment. So, my thoughts, feelings, and mood are all conveyed in this piece of shit of a text written above. I decided to share it with you. Maybe it carries some meaning that which I don’t know of or hadn’t think of one yet, but I encourage you to find it.

Silence

The silence holds all the answers

when the thoughts come flooding

in the dance of mindlessness

in between many questions

there is a right answer hidden.

 

Rambunctious is the solitude of the mind

for it doesn’t want to be found

it stays hidden under layers of “me”

its safety zone untouched.

 

Silence is your biggest enemy

and your greatest friend

it is the reflection of the soul

a place with no beginning

and no end.

Worm in an apple

We hold to what we know

We flaunter around as if we own

We reach for the sky, aspire to stars

We sail across the oceans, conquer more each day

We hold the great universe to be the end of what we know

Because our limited minds tell us we know it all

What if we are just atoms clustered together to form

That which we can not begin to comprehend

What if our lives matter

Only so something else can live?

We don’t matter

We are not important
Because we have no money
We don’t matter
Because we have it all
What good is a rise
If it’s followed by a fall.

It is only us who gives
Meaning to our lives
To ourselves we suffice.
We don’t matter to them,
If they don’t as well.

If it matters you so much
That you matter
No one will listen.
But you don’t have to yell
If you have got a story to tell.