Orange Crescent Moon

Saturday night rush

In the distance are neon lights. I hate those crowded pubs. Too much noise, too much chaos, and too much vigor Enough to shake your ego.

Someone taught me how to inhale. Without warning, the pretty lights overtake. Soon, I start to dance and lose my nerve. Everything seems to be a celluloid layer all over again.

Sweaty shapes and colors under the electronic sound invisible groping and hugs between my laughs Soon I'm all yours, both kissing on the latex couch. Hearing all the pandemonium inside my lungs

I found myself in your room, on your bed. Inside the linen sheets, deep in the embrace You are kindly talking about our future while caressing my head. I'm listening, letting my feelings for you finally rest.

Waiting for a Car

Waiting for a car. Cold street night, Looking at how people talk, Dancing clowns in the park.

Adults are drinking in the warm bar. Delicious displays are full of pie. Black, dry coffee is steaming from the cups. While my bones are crying mad.

Now clouds are stealing the stars. I almost felt a presence touching my arm. The vehicle is here, and the doors are ajar. A pleasant hug inside while the rain pours down the night.

Wraith

The little girl at night wept.

It is no use, no time to pray.

The family man could hear her.

His time is about to end.

What a pain! So much despair!

Since the failed business, his destiny has been set.

The unrelenting foreign sorrow,

Is the hunter for such bad men.

Trapped inside his home alone.

There goes Mike O.

He was drained of blood.

Every single associate is now cold.

"I didn't do it," he shouted.

"It's not my fault, you know!"

But the walls answered with blood.

And he hears the creaking floor.

"Please! Don't come closer!"

He fired into the empty hall.

Midnight was announced by the grandfather clock.

Now her presence is seen in the corridor.

On his knees, he crumbles.

Praying to deaf gods

She touched his shoulder.

All her pain flowed into his soul.

Before being drained of blood.

He saw through her eyes what he had done.

He felt short of breath,

His finger nails are hot as hell.

He made the mortal order.

For a crime she witnessed herself

She was buried alive.

Thus sealing his twisted fate.

Diagnosis

The merry-go-round will not stop.

It's futile to cry; everything takes its course.

The storm is rough; it will stay for long.

Under the sheets, I hide from the screams.

I cover my skin in body cream.

My face is free, my conscience is clean.

My redention is nigh

She said, 'Everything will be fine'.

She offered her hands, but I didn't comply.

Have a nice day!!

How can a nice day produce such a fright? What's behind the pale clouds? Is it a wing? Or is it a horse?

The sound was deafening. Everyone cried in agony. For they have returned.

What on earth is this? Am I insane or full of bliss? the light, should I touch it? afraid. Am I afraid to be left behind?

The first damn one was vaporized. Some woke up, others were still entranced. There's no point in rescuing them.

No, it's dangerous… Or did I imagine it? So marvelous, so pure, why is getting close? I must run away from here… But why would I do that? Why is it blinking? What am I looking at?

A violent stream could be heard from miles There were people a second ago; now there are salt piles. Those who survived will never again see the sun.

Writing dialog 2:

Two friends were drinking ice tea on top of a bridge, overlooking a dead road.

-"So... how was your week?" Asked Suzzane, mixing some sugar in the cold infusion.

-"Nothing out of the ordinary; I went to a cemetery," said John, sitting on the bridge's guardrail.

-"Thank god you didn't do anything weird! what happened? was someone you knew?"

-"No, the professor recommends that I see some scultures for my anatomy assignment," answered John nonchalantly, serving himself another glass of tea.

-"Let me get this right," said Suzzane, with a contagious smile. "When someone says sculture, do you think of cemeteries?"

She had a quirk when talking about something funny; she would move her hands as if they were a tennis fan, moving his head from one opposite side of the field to the other in mere seconds.

-"No, it wasn't my first pick; museums aren't cheap, you know." John almost choked on his tea. He was about to ask Suzzane about her week when suddenly heaven became real and in technicolor, a great roar could be heard from miles, John almost lost his balance from the guardrail, the silvery light became lighting shooting upwards, breaking that afternoon's peace in the valley, shaking bones, breaking glasses, and damaging eardrums. The rocket, the last wonderful thing humanity created, was now in high orbit, leaving a white, fluffy cloud where it once flew.

They were rigid, looking upwards, not in glee as Suzzane's little brother, but with disdain. The first rockets were a great talking point among the people of the valley, some sort of privilege and pride they share and show like a medal to the region, "They are close to the stars!!" Would said journalists but now it's more like a nuisance. The Mac's and Roudy's were the first families to leave, followed by the Carlson's and the Evans. Soon the grand majority of the town was a collection of empty spaces, lost in time while the future was roaring and flying no more than 6 miles from them.

Suzzane broke the silence.

-"The old tongues said that winter and fall were below 68 degrees, and that the rockets brought longer days and shorter nights." Said Suzzane contemplating the amber liquid flowing from the broken glass.

-"I went to the cemetery because it's quiet, no packs of people, no flashes, no laughs. I mean, what kind of museum puts on display bright colors and chalkboards? Cemeteries have that hidden effect on us; it's no place to be joking; it's solemn. A radiography of time, where different art styles and movements solidified for eternity, did you know that the real Gioconda was burned for her smile? Cemeteries have this aura of the past, the unbearable past, where all the bad, decadent, and violent were normalized, a place where museums go to die, where memories are set in stone, crimes and regrets are visible for you to be horrified or wonder, not only did I finish my sketches, I came with horrible conclusions."

But before John could elaborate, another wonder of humanity rose free from gravity. A deafening chorus made by millon dammed souls.

In order for something to prosper, other things or someone must be wretched.

-"I'm sorry about your father. I know things seem bleak, but he will get a job really soon." Said Suzzane, enveloping the broken glass in newspaper.

-"Thanks, it was a long week." John sighted, jumped from the guardrail to Suzzane, helped her put the glasses in the basket, and they started to descend the bridge.

-"My little brother is obsessed with space; he wants to be an astronaut when he grows up."

-"Good for him, I guess; at least he doesn't need to commute that much from here."

And they walked together, alone, in the middle of the dead road to their homes.

Ah yes! Antidepresants!

You can't be depressed if you are uncouncious...

Dear Old Lucy

Dear Old Lucy, she never came back. She sailed alone, to a far away land. Nor sea or the drowned knows her whereabouts. Only the silence of the wind, might calm her down.

They used to quarrel and shout so much. The booze and smoke, let her dream a quiet life But fists and poison, cut all of that Only the silence of the breeze, might wake her up

Tragedy and fate are looking for Lucy She has a great debt to pay However, her naked steps were never heard The only witness, was her dead friend

Dear Old Lucy, she never came back She sailed alone, to a far away land Nor sea or the drowned knows here whereabouts for she has cheated death at such stormy night

Lots of artist sing about love, woe and abstract perceptions. Hovewer, I propose to sing about mundane things, such as that slice of pizza that calls upon you at night when you're 12 beers deep, or that thing that lives in the walls and steals your left socks.

Life is to short to worry about emotions.