The crevices of The mind

Hewleus Prime (my laptop) is stuffed to the very last mb of his Memory with my photo's, poetry, english essays, video's, and music. If Hewleus could speak I'm sure that he'd tell me that he's too young to harbor everything that I have ever thought/felt. But he cannot talk, and each day when I'm not taking advantage of everything social in my dorm, writing on the blog, melting my brain in class, or staring at the creme' ceiling; Hewleus is learning more & more about me. He keeps sending me little signs (virtual memory too low) and frankly I've grown just as tired of it.

So I sat and I thought about it, "Why give all of myself to someone who doesn't appreciate me? There must be someone, something out there that sits in wait of something new to lay their eyes over, to laugh at, to grimace at, to take and call their own with no regard to how I feel about it...There must be somewhere, someplace that I can put all of this nonsense."

..And that's when it hit me, it is possible that someone visits this blog daily, looking for something new to read or to think about; with no avail. In fact, you're reading this now because you're hoping that I won't dissapoint you.

I do not plan to.

Welcome to the Crevices of the mind, free of anything that you've seen anywhere else. Photography, poetry, random thoughts, maybe a video here or there. Everything that you will see under anything entitled "The Crevices of The Mind" is a direct product of the mind, body and soul.

Here is a poem that I wrote a little while ago, with matters of the heart on my mind obviously. I hope that you enjoy and I'd appreciate your comments.

Welcome again,

"They say that love's a destination,

so for now I'm complacent, patient.

Pacing myself, slowing my heart beat for the day that I might face it.

Fed up with the facades and fools growing closer to the spaces

that love dwells.

Contanminating a land not meant to be tainted

by time,

but of it I know well.

Hours have past these years at last,

growing closer to the day that I'd be under spell

once again, through fields of dreams and the backwoods of hell

where once I fainted.

And faintly became amazed at the ways

that under daze sanity and sense do fade like the ringing of the bells,

marking the end of days fueled by youth and well



Breathing's not so easy, not so alone now.

Grown now, surrounded by glazed eyes,

drone's who's intentions only time will tell.

Is it love that I have within my sights?

Only time will tell.

And only this rhyme can tell my tale of a heart that failed to beat slow enough

rapid contractions caused my actions to act like I was so in love,

which I was.

But for some I guess that's the killer of a buzz that they call crush

So her crush was crushed,

and I got crushed.

Came back from a cloud called love

and she took flight to the sky called lust

See she might never flee to a place that she couldn't feel when her eyelids fell

The cloud was too high for her to perceive so her eyelids fell,

in wait of the sun to highlight the sky and undo the spell-

under which we'd fallen.

And that made things too hard to believe.

Lung full of sky but too hard to breathe.

Wheezing was the sound of my evenings

but easy.

Here I am now, with nothing but time by my feet

that creep closer to the land of the sweet

believe me, my mind has aged and my heart's been seasoned.

For just long enough to leave me staring at the ceiling sleepless,

feeling a little bit beaten wishing love woud relieve me-



or passion would free me from this journey.

This cursed traverse where mental roads have burnt me,

screamed on the inside so only my demons could have heard me

and turned me to neglect the progress that I might have made.

Slave to the story from a book that's been misplaced,

titled lost love, binded in leather, pleasure, and feathers from the birds of space-

stars I mean with ink that's green and a map on the last page.

At a place that few have traveled to by mind than chose to erase-

the directions for protection of a heart who could no longer fight it

or it's inhabitants.



Back from this place, loss on my face,

but feel regret for time lost?

I haven't since.

Nor do I wish to rewind it,

I'm not a victim but a culprit of misguiding

It seems to me that in light or on a scribe love is where you find it,

or choose to write it.

etched on a tree, or in a set of pretty brown eyes that I've found to be blinding

or trying, with every step that I take temptation is hiding.

Disguised as lips or fingertips that confine me from writing and flying in hopes of finding-

where love dwells."