You have entered the realm of a writer.

Welcome to A Writer's Landscape!

You have entered the realm of my mind where words play with the fabric of our existence. This is the map of my imagination: the very foundations of inspiration, musing, and thought splayed for your wandering eyes. Dive deep into the tides of these forces and experience my reality, my fantasy, my world; and if you should be so inclined, share your words with this land.

Peace and Love!

J Hart F

Sunday, February 19, 2012

An Ex Ex'ed Out

I cry
     A death perhaps succumbs to joy
but never has it been
     without teaming
unlight stolen from here,
     a now unto
what seems so distant -- near
     a heart whose beat
          of a broken excerpt
worded justly to bring the unwelcome.

He walks there, seen not heard nor known
     of course
what care gave him
     he took in soothe, seething
in some semblance of arrogant smirkings.
I cry for a loss untinteded
a construct of balance
     between the here
                    [and now]
and what was back then: veiled untruth.

I walk a line he won't touch. I spoke... write.
When deafening drums kill his doldrum -- love.

It Is, In Its Not.

It's not a condition we readily accept or acknowledge, but it creeps, it crawls, it draws the hairs upward as we restlessly find ourselves waiting for that nothingness to occur with frivolous exaggeration.

It's not a disease, though we are often put out of ease once the realization infringes the reality that it has suffused itself upon; blankets would be comfortable had they not been worn thin from the tossing, turning, ticking moments as they travel through the oppressive void entrapping time.

It's not death, even with the stiffness of catalyst-like lackings looming without the threats of circumstances venting of the inexactitude of existing in the pure absence of action: dust settling at increasingly slow speeds, ribbons dance in the subtle breeze falling from air vents in cold wafts like the fingers of the crow, heat ensared by the candle's jar won't emanate into the room as the flame dances no more than two centimeters in all directions from its perfectly statuesque spear-like body; eternal slumber would be but little different to its truth, save the general death of not living.

It is, in its not.

Tuesday, February 14, 2012

Valentines Day and Anniversary Sonnet

The Selfish ways of love have brought us here,
In Three we find ourselves anew and feel
a truth none could explain: intrinsic fear
wrapped in the depths of fallen heart's appeal.

Great distance proves how much we've grown as one;
Such lacking touch, as days go by, did bring
foundations 'pon which grow forests we've won
what hands, roughed by our searching, are planting.

In love, a day in red, remembering
how soon and deep our selfish ways supplant
red shifts away from flames with blue bird's wings;
We fly -- leaves on the wind of true love's rant.

Even as we fly I feel myself fall.
Solidity lost. I love you, my all.