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brookeofbabylon

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Keep Pacing

1 min read
The flowers bloomed
the birds sang
the water was rushing

my anger fumed
and my ears rang
my mouth was cussing

my heart is racing
you keep on pacing
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Full Moon Funk

2 min read
All the memories taken back into my mind from one song. Not just one particular song but several. Several that bring me back to a certain time. Certain phrases that take me back to sitting on steps watching trains go by. Analyzing the art work done by anonymous teens from only location knows where. Spraying out their feelings. Their symbols of remembrance. Symbols that say that they were here. They existed. They had something to say. One train passed by one day. Written on the side of it were the bold words in blue spray paint with a street style text "Full Moon Funk". Ever since then I've always used Full Moon Funk to describe a feeling. The same feeling I had while watching that train go by. The feeling that I was in a new world. Re-exposed to civilization. Like I'd never seen it before. Something different and unusual. Like I was one with what I've been living off of. And that's when I realized that I was living my life behind my surroundings. Not noticing. Not understanding. Feeling the wind on my skin. Like it was caressing me. Embracing me. Whispering in my ear. I fell out of reality for minutes that felt like hours. Eyes wide and brain pumping. Waiting for something, but I didn't know what it was or when it would arrive.
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New Orleans

1 min read
So here i sit. In the Ritz Carleton hotel on the corner of Canal and Bourbon. I feel right at home in New Orleans. I dread Sunday. When i return back home. Back to isolation. Back to boy drama. I want to stay here, and meet new people. Light my new incense in my third story apartment in the French Quarter. Gander at the city lights, and the drunk people. Dance to the jazz music and throw my change to the poor and begging. Watch tourist come and tourist go. Walk the streets like I've lived here my entire life. I just can't wait until i finally move here. And peruse my dream. I am tired of waiting. I want it all right now.
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Isolation.

1 min read
Another day for the past few months of solid isolation in my house. Sitting in my room, Eat, sleep. Repeat. What is new? I just don't have the energy to walk outside of my house. I guess i can say now that my parents are beginning to worry about me. Hm. I'll do anything to keep from the oh so wonderful interrogation. I haven't even been passing the hours in the house with art, or reading. Just, Myspace and music. That is all. What a waste of a life i have.
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Societys day

2 min read
Because the ice is turning to water over flooding civilization with destruction for cultivation and renovation with turpentine thats so divine to the viewers eye with advertisement and lights to the bridges of city to city life that hold grand situations of bills and voting and overwhelming fright. To be mugged or hugged or touched in unfamiliar places to set standards and images that the media has given to those with no faces. Its love me or hate me and go green with this and go black with that your judged by the shoes the shirts or the hats that are worn by those peers of the certain organization that post rules about questions and strange retaliations. Your highlighting, your underlining the cause of your sons behavior from the magazine from this book or this article in the paper the music hes listening to and his rehabilitation. The statement has worn out its welcome and thrown out some grief to the preacher that preached about having no belief. And the guy under the bridge with no money or home has been forced to sleep by the gas stations pay phone so no one can find him while he rest in peace to die in a slumber while you die in your sheets. The radios are playing what the kids want to hear so we sit and we wait for the new fads to appear.
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Featured

Keep Pacing by brookeofbabylon, journal

Full Moon Funk by brookeofbabylon, journal

New Orleans by brookeofbabylon, journal

Isolation. by brookeofbabylon, journal

Societys day by brookeofbabylon, journal