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Outside My Window - Nyrs Poem

Outside My Window

Ghosts pass outside my window
I can only see them in my computer's screen
These specters are an isolated crowd
Decidedly separated from me
I cannot speak to say "Hello"
Or the banish them from this place
'Though they talk to one another
I am left inside alone.
The ghosts I see are the human race
I can never say of that I am not a part
But of their existence I cannot be
Because I cannot understand their minds or hearts.

Kimberly J. Watkins
A.K.A.
Nyrsaeans
A.K.A.
Kyla

06/21/10
Gavin was one of those hot, "It" boys. He had the car, the rich parents, the huge house, the hot, sometimes almost too tight, too revealing clothes, the looks and the swagger of someone who knew the waters would part just for him and that vegetation, animals and humans would recognize him as their better.

So what if he was actually a god's honest prince!? And he lived in a castle. And he had good genes. And, and and...

Yeah. He's a royal. Royal pain that is. But that didn't matter to Sala.  She admired him. She knew that his snooty nature actually covered a kind heart. And she would later find, a twisted mind as well.

When Sala arrived at the castle that day, people were flying everywhere. Not with wings. The Menetians have other innate means of accomplishing that. Sala tried to stop any and everyone that she knew or who looked as if they might have some information. She wanted to know what was going on. Finally, someone took a moment, huffing and puffing, to tell her.

 "Its the prince. He's done something awful. TERRIBLE!"

My prince? Prince Gavin? That couldn't be.

Sala ran to the castle, instead of flying, and followed the largest crowd of rushing people. She'd spent many days as a child racing through these halls behind the prince and knew almost every stone her feet landed upon.  This hall lead to the prince's chambers. She pushed through the crowd into the room. There on the bed sat Gavin. Beside him in a quaking

ball was his mother. She didn't look physically injured and she wasn't crying.

"Gavin." Sala whispered. "What's going on here? What's wrong with the queen? Can I help?" He looked up at her with clear lavender eyes, smiled and shook his head.

Sala walked over to the bed. No one stopped her.  She was his best friend after all.  The queen lay there mumbling that she was sorry and that she hadn't meant to hurt her babies.  

Sala could only frown in confusion.  The queen took great care of her children and of the kingdom, especially since her children and much of the population had fallen quite ill during the last year.

Gavin slowly rose from the bed, took Sala by the arm leading her to the desk and two chairs on the far side of the room.  "She was poisoning us all.  For the last year, she was dreaming of our deaths.  She knows the power of her dreams."  Sala frowned.  Gavin frowned.  She too knew of that power, because the Divine also blessed her with the gift of Dream Weaving.  Every citizen was taught from birth that this was not a power to take lightly or let run uncontrolled.

Gavin continued. "I've been entering her dreams for a month now.  I made her dream of the people's health, her own sorrow, and her eventual demise."

Sala didn't know what to say, but did manage a shaky question.  "You aren't a dream weaver, you CONTROL dreams?"  "Yes."  He said.

Sala tightened my lips and stole a quick sideways glance towards the door.  Admitting to controlling dreams was taboo in the Menetis society.  If anyone overheard the royal heir's admission, even he would be subject to the laws of the land he might one day govern.  The crowd was hanging back outside the prince's chambers.  So it was likely that in all of the chaos no one was the wiser to how the queen became a tortured mess curled up on the prince's bed.

"My prince," Gavin's life-long friend began.

Gavin interrupted her, as he often did.  He was very aware of Sala's moods.  Speaking to him formally was a sure sign of worry or great displeasure.  "Sala."  He held up his hand to further silence her.  "I am well aware of the law.  Government has been the cornerstone of my upbringing, so being aware of the taboos linked to certain laws is only natural."

She attempted to speak again, but was once more halted.

"Speak with me later.  There are too many here who's loyalty I question.  The usual place, at the hour of the red moon."

The prince stood and nodded, signaling that the conversation was truly at an end, though the matter was far from closed.

Standing also, Sala bowed from the waist and slowly backed towards the door, her eyes securely on the floor.  At the last moment, she looked up and scowled at Gavin before turning and being swallowed by the churning crowd in the hall.

[Unfinished]

Random Poem

The Demon On My Back

He claws and scraps away my wings.
He's tearing out my everything;
My heart ripped and crushed from my chest,
My entrails a hot jumbled mess,
My mind filled with his sick dark lies,
Empty.  I want him deep inside
Yielding me to his hellish sights
My weak soul is shadowed by night.

I always thought he was my life-long friend,
My defender from birth until the end,
My guide into what others want not see,
Soother of the pain twisting inside me.
No longer is he named my lover Death,
He is simply the Demon on my back.

His fingers creeping through my mind;
He's keeping cadence, keeping time,
With the blurred shades of dancing trees
He sends to me in waking dreams.
He steals my time; my nights and days,
Coloring all in hues of grey.
I've fought against him, need to fly,
But I am bound until I die.

I always thought he was my life-long friend,
My defender from birth until the end,
My guide into what others want not see,
Soother of the pain twisting inside me.
I have renounced him, my lover called Death,
He was my friend; my Demon on my back.

Kimberly J. Watkins
A.K.A.
Nyrsaeans
04/29/10

Write Fight #9: Time

What is time?  Time is the enemy.  Something that can't be controlled.  Or at least that's what "They" tell us.

I have always slowed time or made it stop, but never really enough to do much good.  I'm still growing old.  I still mourn the lack of knowledge about what's after I have no more time.  Or will there be time after this?  Then again, isn't time something man fabricated to help make sense of life, like religions and gods, goddesses, and pantheons?

If there is something after this, will it be an alien planet?  Will I find out I was an envoy sent to earth?  Will there be reincarnation?  I could end up as a cockroach that only knows its running out of time by its biological clock's need to reproduce itself thousands upon thousands of time.  What if I ascend to Heaven or descend to Hell?  Would the only thing I acknowledge be God, the City of God, streets or Gold and gem encrusted gates?  Or maybe I would pass the time knowing I only had time... and agony as I burn.  I hope for the Summerlands and a goddess that is at least proud of her crazy wayward child.  I could see those who've moved on before me, play like the kid I am, and explore the mysteries that were left clandestine to me while counting down the seconds on Earth.  Then again, there could be nothing.  Oblivion.

So what is time?  Yes.  I think of it as the enemy.  I panic as another day, or for that matter hour, goes by.  What have I done with my time?  What have I lost?  What have I grasped?  What paths did I choose that let what's most important to me simply fall away?

Time is scary.  That's what time is.  Its a scary, subjectively necessary, human created, distraction from just living.

Write Fight #7: Historical Challenge

She was a beautiful child.  She truly was.  Her light skin, slightly curled hair.  And eyes like the Master's; hazel.  Her mother knew she wouldn't be in the slave house with her for much longer.  She was almost weened.

The babe's mother wondered if it would be better to cover the child' face, hold her under the water or simply snap that tiny neck.  Could she endure knowing her child would face horror s that she had known in her thirteen years or worse?  Her people were strong.  Her mother had told her in the native language of her people how she and others had sailed across the ocean packed and chained tightly together and stacked on top of one another.  She told her of the dead bodies rotting under the live ones and the once free people who were thrown over the side to lighten the ship's load.  And yet, here they still stood.  Back breaking labor and rape did not kill them.  That was left to the whips, hands, ropes and guns of the white Masters.

She'd never known a man before the Master took her.  That in and of itself was a death, and not a small one.  The Master had talked to her while her did what was natural to his kind.  He told her how pretty her dark skin was.  He said her lips and nose weren't as ugly as most of the other dark women's.  In fact, she was much prettier than her mother, whom he had taken when she was only 15.  As the Master had pushed and pushed, rocking his body and hers, he had gripped her small budding breasts while he grunted and mumbled that their size was almost like that of his wife's.  When his moment came he'd hurt her more as he shoved inside very hard.  She didn't make a sound, even then.

The all too young mother looked down at her suckling baby.  It was the main house for her.  You could barely tell that she had a dark skinned mother.  As she brushed her hand over the child's head, she thought that she would give her baby's life a chance.  After all, she was not living her mother's life trapped on a ship, and her babe would surely have a better life than hers.  A White life.

Write Fight #6: From a guy's perspective

The vibrations sang through my whole body.  The sound might be beautiful if coming from deep sounding brass bells or if it could be heard at all, for that matter.

As it was, the kick elicited a strangely dull yet sharp sound.  The hollow feeling, not unlike striking a xylophone key in the shape of a ball, seemed to lodge in the pit of my stomach.  I could only grunt and collapse, hissing as I attempted not to vomit.  Vomiting is only manly when you've gotten plastered, and its obvious to your buds, because you're running around acting like a maniacal jackass.  Unless the kick severely damaged my sack or there was blood, losing the remnants of my dinner was not an option.

I had to remember how to breathe and also remember that the guys were watching.  I couldn't lay there forever.  Its not as if I were the first man to take a foot to his cock and balls.  All there was left was to get up, breath and walk it off.

I strode over to the guys shaking my legs out and breathing like a runner just finishing a marathon.

"Dude!  Your kid's got one hell of a kick!  You gonna let her go out for soccer when she's older?  Damn!"

Grunt.  Breathe. Walk it off.  That's how we deal with pain.
He stood in the middle of the room and pushed his hair back, watching the other students as they filled out their test booklets.

"Mister Hersh, sit down and finish your test."

He laughed, it was a sound like none of them had ever heard. In fact, several people looked up at him, and he knew he must sound completely mad. Past mad. Sheer fucking insane, in fact.

"Mister Hersh, I'm warning you."

It had all started so simply. An argument with Lia over how he never put the toilet seat down had gone on and on until they were screaming at each other and he'd reached out and hit her instead of pulling her close. It was hard being 17 and living with your girlfriend. Harder still when everything was going wrong all at once.

She'd started to cry, of course. That always made him feel bad, though it'd always been from words before, not him slapping her. He felt like shit over it, but once you were in the midst of something like that you had two options. Stop moving and breathing and thinking at all and say how sorry you are a hundred times... or hold onto your pride and tell them how they fucking deserved it.

He'd, unfortunately, chosen the latter. Lia had come at him with her claws out, literally. And instead of taking it, like he should have, he hit her again, and again. And the, he kind of... blanked out. Until now.

"MISTER HERSH."

He turned toward her, and a sick smile crossed his face. "I've already killed one bitch today, Mrs. Kline. Shall I try for another?" He stalked toward her, the laugh growing in the silent room.

And then the world went black again.

-----

"Russ? Rustin... What's wrong with him?"

"He keeps saying he killed them..."

"Killed who?"

"A teacher. And... well, you, Miss Bowers."

"I don't understand."

"Nor do we."

-----

I hear her. I can see her. Hell, I can damn near taste her. She's haunting me. Lia... I'm sorry. God, don't you know I'm sorry? I'm so sorry...

Weekly Prompt #2 - Saturday: Pride

I've missed it every year except for one. And that one glorious one time just had to be shared with someone I no longer care for. How I wish I could separate him from that experience.

Each year there've been promises made, and without fail, each year, those promises are broken. Not surprising, since I seem to consistently break some pretty big promises to my lover. Knowing that, is there any wonder that I can't keep a promise made to myself? I think not.

The web sites are always rockin' with pictures and info. about the groups that attended and the causes that were supported. Everyone looks so happy, freer than they would be at any other time on any other day. People are always dressed to the nines, dressed to represent their groups, or to fit the community and societal label they have chosen to take on. There are also always plenty of people who are dressed as little as possible. I may blush or even drool, but no body minds. It is a time to come together and literally let it all hang out if that's what you choose.

Maybe I'll go this year. Its very doubtful with a lack of vacation time. That's very frustrating since there's even an event here in town. I'm surrounded by opportunities and for whatever reason arises at the time, I never attended. Yeah, maybe this year. YEAH! Mid-MO Pagan Pride 2009!!! HERE. I. COME!!!!!!!
There is no God, god, goddess, Great Spirit, Buddha, Ala, or some unknown entity that we can't see or rarely see or that just so happens to be hanging out in some stupid flower or a tree. Its not as if they are really just waiting for us to ask, "Hey, flower! Hey tree! Is it okay if I cut you down, kill you, uproot you from your home for no other reason than I just want to? Pretty please? I'll even cut into the wind so your spirit isn't angry. That and so much more I have absolutely no belief in.

So what do I believe in? Man's brain. His higher reasoning. If we applied ourselves we could be infallible. Man has proven himself time and time again to have no need of a god or some spiritual force. We are born, we use our brains and then we die. Simple. Poof! Gone. Nothing more. No fucking pearly gate, no Nirvana, no reincarnation, no Valhalla, NOTHING!

Why do I believe there is nothing and no one? Well, lets see... Why do we absolutely have to have someone directing our path, so to speak, or some better state of being to which we must strive? Strive to be smarter! We don't need some deity to help us with that. And as to an afterlife? Why reward and punishment? This life can be just that all by itself. Purpose, purpose, purpose! That's why we want some lofty goal to reach or some reason to behave or live knowing the just are rewarded and the depraved get their comeuppance.

I believe we are just here, maybe by some cosmic accident.

Write Fight #4 - Poem

A. Thought

The disconnect of our minds--
Roiling tumultuously in the dark
Reach out into the inky blackness
Else only crude words will find you

Salvation devoid of comprehension
Devoid of emotive chains
With which all people are bound
And to which they crawl and bow

We cannot know you
Curled and rocked by this storm
And anger drowned
By clanks and crackles of speech

Salvation without touching
Satiation and no outward bliss
The truth is delivered
And yet the demons are our own.