#i.a.s.a.t

[theresnooneforus]

Fragment 18:

Just because I say beautiful things does not mean I'm a beautiful man.

[theresnooneforus]

The little legless messenger

The little legless messenger 

surrounded by endless letters.

Expanded portals into lives and although most are good and fine 

he strived to make them better.

Little love notes for

the man who’s heart is broke.

A little extra money

to pay the land lord we all know is scummy.

Little ripples on the lake of equal ground.

Made by the man who never makes a sound.

The little legless messenger

return home to empty box,

surrounded by little letters all of which can talk.

-I.A.S.A.T

[theresnooneforus]

Fragment: 17

I hate when people say “You mean more to me than words could express.” As someone who’s decided to spend his whole life surrounded by words nothing sounds more like bullshit, if i mean something to you, try

-I.A.S.A.T

[theresnooneforus]

Fragment: 15

Like kids playing copernicus she is something to spin around...

something to tumble for.

-I.A.S.A.T

[theresnooneforus]

Fragment: 14

With our words we tried to help, but we really couldn’t tell.

Are our words just that empty or are they avoiding our yell?!

-I.A.S.A.T

[theresnooneforus]

I told you I loved you (Today)

I sat in the audience content with todays performances, thoughtful. 

After all how could i be disappointed?

I came here to observe and details never fall short.

A woman expelled herself from the arms of the curtain with doubt in her steps like a child leaving it’s mother on the first day of schooling, taking her place center stage and as the center of our attention.

To my surprise she was crying.

No, she was not bawling and whipping her eyes. Just a shallow sniffle, a slight redness to her eyes as if an artist had made the last minute decision to shade her portrait with sorrow.

She spoke in trails of air softly escaping her lungs.

“I……I…..um…”

Her lips slammed like an iron gate, the words ceased. With trembling hands she reached into her back pocket producing a neatly folded square of paper.

What secrets this square held I never discovered. For she, without opening it, returned it to the safety of her pocket and turned on the stage and started towards hers.

Burning with intrigue i watched her slowly step.

One foot next to the other.

Away from me.

The crowed was trading whispers of “stage fright.” and unwarranted judgment.

How close minded! They were wrong of course. Stage fright, ha! Did you see the way she looked at us?! She was not timid she was not scared of us! She was searching us row after row searching for ghosts.

I yelled at her, angrily.

“Come back here!”

“Tell me!”

She couldn’t have heard me. She did, however; turn around and return to our attention.

“Today.”

she stopped, although she spoke forcefully now.I smiled, it appears as if her mind was made up.

“Today, I was meant to perform for you a poem I wrote but that poem is no longer mine.”

She took out that square. The same square that was previously hidden away, crumpled it up and dropped it at her feet.

“See today…..today, today, today, to-day, today, has not gone as planned! So why should this?”

She hesitated briefly then continued, determined.

“At twelve-thirteen today my husband left me.”

She retrieved her phone from the pocket opposite to where her poem was held and clicked a button. The screen brought light to the pale sad features of her face.

“Six hours, twenty three minutes, and fifteen….sixteen…..seventeen….”

My own watch, usually located in my vest pocket, was by now in my hand. I thought it right to watch the time melt away along with what remained of her heart. I spoke with her, whispering all the way to thirty for what seemed like an hour on it’s own. “Seconds ago.” She finished, “My husband of three years walked out on me. The hands that held me so close and marionetted mine to write have revoked me. They have banished me from the shores of promise and their is no land in sight. It is possible a tiny island may one day show in the distance, but one thing is certain, I will never love the same again.”

She led her words echo ruffly through the room as she caught her breath

“And you want to know what the worst part is?!”

she asked in a raised voice all the while choking back tears that were threatening to drown her viewers.

“I can count exactly how long since he broke my heart, but i have no clue when he stopped caring if he did.

She stopped speaking, the tears finally escaping, running down her face too fast to be caught by my support. I felt so separated from the audience as i watched a few things happen.

One: She lit up her phone one last time before checking the clock and violently throwing it on the floor. Destroying any physical reminder of her husband.

Two: Shaking horribly she turned and began to exit the stage, paying no attention to the shallow cut on her ankle.

Three: The last thing i saw at that performance was every clock in the room stop and begin to melt off the walls and through the cracks in peoples hands.

while she left you could still hear her whispering as she walked away.

“Six hours, twenty seven minutes, eight…..nine…..ten…”

My watch ,unstopped and undisturbed, was now returned to my pocket where it continued to tick and tock definigly. I stood up, moved to the theater doors, and shivered as the cold air introduced itself. I thought back to the tiny piece of paper left wrinkled on stage curiosity urging me to go retrieve it and discover what it held.

I did not. Instead, despite the temperature, I ran all the way home and told you I loved you.

[theresnooneforus]

A sick little poem

If death made you smile. I'd slit a few throats and be gone for a while. And as the cops chased me down and labeled me "creep" i'd stand up proud because i made you dream sweetly. -I.A.S.A.T

[theresnooneforus]

Stories

Today i asked myself, "Why do i write?" Now of course the typical answers i've heard a hundred, no a thousand times came spilling into my head. "For my wife." "To help my friends." "For the helpless." But none of these clicked into my motives, none of these subjects made me lift the pen. I didn't view a homeless man trip and fall into the gutter as we watched his life slip between his fingers much like the last scrapes of dinner into the drain grate. I didn't watch my friend lose her mother and father then out of pure grief hit the bottom of a bottle that always hit back harder. All i did was almost die. No not one of those near death experiences where your life flashes across your eyelids and god speaks to you the essence of your soul, in fact god never spoke to me much at all. Not nearly something that special. I held a knife against my wrists, slid it half way across and wrote the first line to my first poem right there in the grass. See I don't care much for just words and if i did i would simply read the infinite possibilities of the local library. I care about stories. But the more movies i watched, the more protagonists i watched overcome their fears that seemed very distant from mine for reasons that wouldn't convince me to crawl out of bed, I felt more hopeless, the world didn't understand and neither did i. I couldn't find the words to cut together the sloppy strings tangled in my head. So i joined the search to find them, to create them. I write because i like stories and mine isn't told. It's not portrayed correctly in a painting or punctuated correctly in a poem. I write because i'm waiting for something to click, and if i tell a few different stories or save a few lives in the meantime then so be it. -I.A.S.A.T