milkscientist

'Tis easy. 'Tis easy for the Atheist, the Darwinian, the Theorist, the Scientist. the Physicist, The Chemist. 'Tis easy for them to pin the beauties of nature onto science. 'Tis easy to say, the multicoloured rainbow, the animals, plants, people of the earth are Founded on the hard basis of science. But for indeed, if it was so, and if persay, The people of the Earth have common ancestry with the Animals, Why do we treat them so? Why do we not treat them as we do our Brother And let them live in the same House. But we Cage them And Beat them. And Eat them. Do you Eat your Brother?

The Memories pound on the lid Wondering why I keep them encased in a jar Tight space They cannot move Perhaps it is better Perhaps if I keep them Locked up long enough I will forget And there will be no more pain nor worry. But if, and only if I can keep the lid Tight For in locking out the pain, The happiness has been left behind.

I rummage through The storehouse of my memories Searching for a sign A reason For everything that's happened Hoping perhaps Hoping beyond reason Hoping that there's a cure for this Hoping that maybe, just maybe Everything will be back to normal If only I knew what to Say

Emotions bang on the door Struggle valiantly To prevent the flow from escaping Doors of my self control Splinter Slowly. Try Try Try The door cracks The door breaks They rush through it Filling the empty gap that rational thought Has left behind And they still wish to Escape Scream, Shout, Stomp The emotions Move to my muscles, ready for action And they stop. The scream dies in my throat The muscles slacken And it is over As quickly as it Started.

Paint on a splattered canvas The artist holds his palette Glaring Anger flares Makes its spot, slashes of paint His emotions manifest Red, Yellow, A glaring orange Splash themselves On white canvas At the end of it, All is done and finished He hangs up the artwork He is Calm.

Life We hold stones in a Broken basket They will fall soon And yet we Pick up the pieces. Sharp stones, Smooth S tones Let the sharp ones drop. They cut. Hold on to the smooth ones As long as you can. But still, the Road is short And you will reach the end. Soon.

Haunted. The final image, in his mind. The last glimpse. Falling. The air closing around him Whistling Perhaps he had been Wrong

SALT AND SUGAR Salt and Sugar. My house had both, salt kept in a small container, a teaspoon there, ready to be thrown into several recipes, just a pinch. And while the parents weren't watching, I would slip into the kitchen, and take a bit of salt, dab it onto my finger, and lick at the salty crystals. Sugar was rarely used, kept in a cupboard out of my reach. I had heard of sugar melting into a syrup when heated. Salt and sugar were the same to the youthful me, both white crystals, delicious to me. I had seen sugar syrup, I had heard of it. And my young mind, treating sugar as sweet salt, treating salt as salty sugar, felt that somewh