book

Bartholomew's Flower Garden

 

Prologue

 

 

  As the reporter walked down the long white hall he looked down at the white floor and then up at the white ceiling. He then quickly looked back down at the white floor. He could hear the sounds of blood curdling screams and loud mumbling as he passed by each black door in the long white hall. As he passed each door he walked quicker so he could catch up with the tall skinny guard. The reporter finally caught up with the guard when the guard stopped in front of the last black door at the end of the long white hall.

  The reporter stood beside the guard and they both stared at the black door. About six feet up and near the center of the black door was what looked like a ships porthole. The reporter looked up at the guard and the guard looked down at the short stocky reporter but neither said nothing. The guard nodded his head toward the black door as if to say, “go on you asked for this.” The reporter slowly turned and faced the door once more and scooted his feet toward the black door. Though he was moving toward the black door it seemed to him as if he was not moving. When he finally got about two feet from the door he stopped and turned around to look at the guard once more. The guard just kept staring straight ahead and still said nothing. The reporter walked slowly closer to the black door until he was about six inches from the door.

  All of a sudden a face not much bigger than the porthole window popped into view behind the black door window. The reporter quickly jumped back until he was beside the guard once more. When the reporter looked up at the guard he thought he saw the and heard the guard snicker. The guard kept looking straight ahead as the reporter turned back to look at the face he saw in the window of the black door. From the look of the face it looked as if the man had not slept in a couple of months. The white in his eyes were blood red and his hair was pointing in all directions. The reporter later found out that the man behind the black door was not allowed to have a comb because he might try to kill himself with it. As a matter of fact, he was not allowed anything that he could use to hurt or kill himself.

  As the reporter kept staring at the face in the window he noticed that the lips on the face were moving. The reporter was so frightened that he could not make out what they were saying to him. He then saw the face disappear from the window. Finally the reporters curiosity overcame his fright so he moved closer to the window. When he was about four inches from the door the face came out of nowhere and popped up in the window again. The reporter lurched back a few inches than steadied himself. This time he was determined to put his fear aside and do his job. He moved about two inches from the window in the black door.

  “Do not be afraid” said the face of the man behind the window. “I could not get out and harm you even if I wanted to, which I don't. Why are you here?”

  “Didn't anyone tell you?” the reporter stuttered.

  “Tell me?” the man laughed. “Do you think anyone comes here and tells me anything? I surmise you are like everyone else. You want to hear my story as well.”

  “I heard what a great detective you were, I mean are.” the reporter said.

  “Well I do not know if I should tell you or not. I mean no one believes me. I doubt you will believe me either.”

  The reporter thought to himself and started to turn and leave. He knew the man , crazy as he may be, was probably right. He would not believe anything this man had to say nor would anyone who read his story. The reporter then thought about how he could not blow his first assignment. If he did he knew he would be fired and would have to give up his dream of being a writer and a reporter. He would have to go back to his previous job which he hated. The reporter knew he would have to find a way to get this man to tell him his story.

  “Don't you think the world should know the truth about what happened? Don't you think your side of the story should be shared with the world? Don't you think that the world should know what really happened to Bartholomew and his flowers?”

  The face disappeared again from behind the window. The reporter was more determined than before to get the story from the man behind the black door. The reporter walked closer to the door until he was only about an inch from the window. He looked inside the room and saw the white padded walls in the room and saw the man he had been talking to sitting on the far wall in a black straightjacket talking to himself. The man then looked at the reporter and struggled to get up from the floor. He finally stood up and walked to the side of the room the black door was on so the reporter could not see him any more. The reporter no longer was afraid was considered this assignment more as a challenge to his skill as a writer and a reporter. This time when the face popped in the window the reporter did not move and tried to show no fear.

  “Alright,” the man behind the black door said, “I have deduced you are right. I must tell you my story but not for the reasons you think. I tell you not for fame or even to get me out of this place. You see, though you may not know it yet, I am safer in here than you are out there. I will tell you the truth about what happened in an effort, as futile as it may be, to let the world know what evil is already here in the world. Although, I still doubt you or anyone will believe me I guess it is still my duty to try and give a warning.”

  As the reporter took his notebook and pen from his pocket he knew this may just be the story for which he had always been looking. He might even forget about turning it into the newspaper that had sent him and instead write it as a book.

  “Are you ready?” asked the face behind the window.

  “Yes I am ready to hear all of the story.” the reporter said.

  “Very well. This is the true story of Bartholomew's flower garden”

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This is the Prologue to the new book I am writing....

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book reading

do androids dream of electric sheep the book i did read.. short story compared to the story of life.. i read the book of you and flip its pages quickly quickly my friend.. lover unknown person known.. lover known person unknown..

i read that book and as i do soft fingers trail across text.. the book of you has pages stiff and soft.. rough and smooth and at times i read it slowly too.. every puntuating mark a shock to my brain every train of thought rushes to my heart..

and i follow it chapter and verse to get to the heart of its creator.. i read the book of you and hope that it is not word for word as society has written..

but sometimes it is.. your passion plain to see becase you are used to being read by the average reader instead of hunger of imhotep.. child locked in a room trying to find the cure for a dying mothers cancer i sift through the words.. one on by one not missing a single stroke of the pen or drop of the ink pressed to print..

pages flip so fast they catch afire upon my fingertips..their heat fans out as i read on.. every day a few more pages but i know ill never be done because you are constantly changing the story.. new passions and mysteries write themselves in the book of your life.. new moments spill upon its pages..

im a book reader but let my fingers do the walking..

Author's Notes/Comments: 

each heart is its own universe its own history and myths and secrets.. read each story well before reviewing it..

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book

what is me?
what's my importance?
everyone knows
I'm just a collection of papers
written by some writer
or printed by somebody
but inside those papers
you get so much
as much you want
i know I'm not much affected
as practically everything affected
i know what computers can give you
storage memory, easy way in everything
gives as many information
but I'm not far from it
people addicted to me(books) too
at least they are free to write in pages
at least they are free to read whenever they want
at least there's no bad effect in their eyes
I'm not saying everything, other than me is harmful, useless
I'm just saying I'm not useless at all

Author's Notes/Comments: 

book want to say something

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tags:

Coffee Shop from Behind a Book

 

 

I stole a glance from behind my book

 

as she entered through coffee shop doors

 

I retreated back to my words and read

 

in between the lines

 

as she returned with a look of curiosity -

 

and I thought to myself...

 

how I would never forget those eyes.

 

 

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ThoughtShock: A Manifesto Chapter 3

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ThoughtShock

ThoughtShock

Chapter Three
'The Age of Decay'

This is my life, and every time I write
it becomes a confession then festers into an obsession
and somewhere within the cryptic syntax
of the incomplete masterpiece, the insanity creeps back
fears expelled into incoherent rhymes,
insane often engaged chaotic scribbled lines.

Swallow another pill.
It's not just a braincell I try and kill
Where strange voices occupy my mind tonight
they all whisper for me to walk towards the light.

I want to look back, to turn away.
That in this universe, the illusion of reality
wants become obsessions to the sins of vanity
where everyone walks the tightrope of sanity
and invisible shackles, cage my dreams.

“We will all eventually die,
as we often test ourselves
to see if we are even alive”

Where has the beauty faded? Where has the love gone?
In the age of decay, where do I even belong?
Let these words bleed from me, an open sore
now only if I could sacrifice my mind, the whore.

There is no justice when the innocent suffer. Where are the heroes once idolized, admired and sought? Becoming surrounded by the chaos of all the insanity and no hope shall exists when failure leads them to quitting. There will be no refuge, no safe quarter for the timid.
The world has changed. Guilty until proven innocent, given if you are even lucky enough to face your accuser, or stand before your peers. Mock trials to sway the simple minded. Like magic the trick becomes the illusion of freedom, Free to chose their options, the triage in war is the lies in which we are fighting for.

A man cried,
Before his vary eyes, he watched the one he loved die. Blood stained his hands as he tried to apply pressure to the gaping wound. Years of casual observation and this was all he knew what to do to try and save her life. Tears flooded his eyes as deep down in the back of his mind the deepest recess of all his skeletons he knew it was too late, a mockingly ironic twist that only in a fairytale would they survive. As he looked down into the eyes of the woman who captured his heart many times over, he could feel the weak beating of her heart through the blood soaked fabric he pressed with his hands. Watching in horror as the vary essence of her life faded from her eyes until they seemed hallow and empty. He could no longer feel the beating of her heart. His mind spun, with doubt, disbelief, fear, all spiraling within his head colliding with speeds unimaginable.
Screaming in rage, as anger now floods his brain. Cursing the god or gods for this punishment. Then he pleads and begs for a miracle. That possibly he is just dreaming and that this hour, this moment is all just a nightmare conjured by his own mind. Willing to sacrifice anything even his own life for just a chance to see her lungs fill with air once more. His entire world, in just a matter of moments came crashing down around him and within those seconds everything faded from his focus but the woman laying in his lap and the voices that now haunt him.

"Feed your addiction with a lethal prescription
walking the halls of the dead with a reservation."

Pinned to the wall of despair
struck in the heart with disappointment
a sacrifice to your own demons
as you collapse and give up

'Desire'

A want, I too have tasted many times,
growing tired of the constant struggle
All those demented thoughts, tormented images.
The grotesque visions of sick perversions,
Shame and guilt always on guard,
Where monsters patrol the ward.

We all face our demons, dance with horrors
you relinquish control over those fears
give power to the mob who suffers an epidemic
of mass hysteria, as they welcome you to
'The Age of Decay'

“Am I crazy, among the sane?
Has logic failed me all the same?”

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Chapter three.... I am thinking after a few more chapters I'll stop posting them, and find a way to offer a way to download an updated PDF file of some sorts, or maybe Jason will get "pages" added to the publishable proses or poems...

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ThoughtShock: A Manifesto Chapter 2

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ThoughtShock

ThoughtShock
'A manifesto'
By: Matthew Wayne

Chapter Two
'Manifesting Reality'

Reality; The most profound experience we all share. Everything makes up this illusion that surrounds us, relative to us. How come a particle can be at two places at the same time? Or for that matter mimic what the other does?

First let me put to rest, I am no scientist with a PHD or even been to collage (yet). I do not pretend I know the secret inner workings of the cosmos, or understand the key to the universe. I am an author, I pull together my thoughts and theories on an array of knowledge, I observe and as an author I create pulling forth from a vast library of wealth.
So what is my theory on this subject? It has changed over the years and probably will continue to change but the fundamental principal has and will always be there. I believe there is a heaven and hell, only it's just one place on any substantial existence anyway. From a strictly scientific observation; everything is made up of energy. So spiritually speaking our consciousness is energy. The empty spaces where our eyes fail us, there lies another world a web of vibrations.

Manifesting reality, to seize control of your day. To make it what you will, shaping it to your wants and desires. You manifest your reality every day by simply being, even your thoughts. You are constantly creating your future by the memories you make today, after all it is your reality. The beautiful paradox of reality, it is relative to you. You feel your pain, nobody else does. You feel your love, nobody else does. Then the moral question comes into play, you have the power to shape your reality but you also posses the power to shape another's. We are powerful creatures, with an unlimited capacity to love and to hate, as violence next to negativity becomes second nature in the game of survival.

Morality dictates to us that we should do no harm to others, yet out of greed or necessity it happens, and far too often. Enter the next great paradox, the same great gift becomes our often most crippling handicap. Our ability to learn, to adapt to acquire knowledge. For our surroundings affect our growth, our childhood affects our adulthood. If we were all instilled with a sense of decent morality at birth our world would be a utopia and we would be traveling the stars but since we learn, we have to develop our skills and harness the knowledge of what is right, and what is wrong. Many find themselves down the wrong path, some more destructive than others. Our species thirst for knowledge and I would go as far as to say the truth itself. Many do find comfort in ignorance, deep down I hold out faith that the majority do not want to be puppets, just lack the voice to carry themselves to find their own truth in this strange, paradox riddled reality.

“To witness humans destroy this earth,
that they had already abandoned
Idolize and worship superstars,
to be lead on a leash by political Czars.
I observe as this world turns,
understanding time and space I smile
as this Illusion slowly begins to take shape”

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This is chapter 2 to my upcoming shortbook, of course its all still in a very hardcore rough draft and will most likely get re edited before going to the publishers.

ThoughtShock: A Manifesto "Preview"

Folder: 
ThoughtShock

ThoughtShock
'A manifesto'
By: Matthew Wayne

Chapter One
'Death Note'

Our minds can be such a beautiful thing, or perhaps our own worst nightmare. Where no thought can truly be original spawned within the far reaches of the human psyche. Exceptions given to the creators who can string such powerful words or emotions into a tangible way. A thought is more powerful than a simple word, it becomes a color, a smell, a taste and even an entire symphony of energy. Generally our brains are all wired the same, The trigger to it all?
Enter the paradox of thought. Science has proven that indeed we are all connected, physically our molecules are identical, chemically we share the same laws. So naturally one must call into question the possibility that with this connection as does our spirituality right?

One God or many, worship of one or of none? Where there are differences there should be at least of one common understanding is that should we accept that one great mystery within us all, and that is our Consciousness. The voice in our heads, the thoughts to an empty cavity of tissue. The brain, and the energy that powers such imagination and relativity.
We are the creators to our reality, the transfer of thoughts and actions. The energy into the spoken or written word, yet when no thought is ever original spawned from the limitless resources of the human mind can we question our own nature and simply observe the reality that surrounds us?

“I search for a meaning to the unknown
to study the reasons of the great mystery
and I bid my time till I learn the truth
for in the end I have but one question, Is this all?”

“Time can be the enemy, it can be a blessing
escaping us all once or twice, where years become just days
paths traveled, roads crossed, and the chances we took.
Where history is made with every step paved
memories slowly forgotten, becoming the treasure we retain
always moving forward, another second, another hour
then a day, next a month before long its another year
death always stalking you from around the corner, he waits.
For in time you shall follow and cross into his territory.
Chaos, disorder, perfection within insanity. The unknown
wilderness lit by energy and thought a living entity.
Everywhere, anywhere for all eternity.
Where there is one, there is another, an opposite,
for where there is nothing there will be something.”

Death can be felt an expression of thought, the feeling a man could wake every single day and feel death breathing on the back of his neck. Decay flows through his veins is a man born with the realization his days are numbered and the abyss beckons. This is about a man who embraced his own mortality that had affected his entire life. 'When there is nothing worth living for, death itself becomes a true temptation' When we live just to die. To complete the circle of life, creation and destruction, chaos in the grand illusion of reality based on the beautiful paradox which is the laws of attraction working in harmony with complete oppositions. A reality based on opposites. The abstract beauty of the whole complexity of our creation. Divine and elegant, the birth of thought a miracle in it's own.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This is a little preview of an upcoming shortbook I'm going to be working on here and there when I find the time and motivation. ThoughtShock has been a project in the making for a bit now the goal is to make people think and to open their minds to make them ask questions, that will be the aim of this book "A Manifesto"

Kilagin "Kiljoy" Gullivus Frack

Kilagin "Kiljoy" Gullivus Frack -
not lacking humor but absent of tact -
twirled all his gears on route between posts,
doting on debts while sharing new jokes.
Man made of boulders with head settled small:
Kilagin Frack, with big Eastern drawl;
seen both as a portent and beloved delight,
affirming the change while pleading their plights.

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White Man's Burden

Bring fourth ye white man’s burden
Bear arms to darkened slaves
On roads and paths and echoed laughs a new world we shall pave.

Don’t doubt the white man’s burden
It comes hither with good will.
Foot souls are sold for dark black gold beneath thee sandy hill.
Yet still when powered screens a play the devil's work is led astray
Enticing all who tread his path inviting men to walk the dark reminding
Them the eagles’ claws are sharper than an Arabs bark.

Please bear the white man’s burden
White men are shouting still
Your freedom is an inch away upon the grassy hill.
The burden is but yours to bear
The screen is fixed a gloomy stare
Ignore the red cloaked man a left
And bear the badge upon your chest
Do not for self and personal gain
Do this for land and country name
The flag will melt to black and white
If you don't fill your given right.
To slaughter all for expanding visions
To slice free will with a clean incision
Exercise plans with pristine precision

Fill ears with lies in a hope they'll listen…

You bear the White man’s burden.
Upon atrocity you pull the curtain
They know you are the serpent
And a prophecy fulfilled for certain.

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