We are inviting anyone who enjoys putting words on a page, on a screen, in someone's mind for some purpose (we hope it is helpful, not harmful). But there
is no censorship by the keeper of this page. Write what you want. Write what you feel.
Just write. Here.
If you have the courage to face both the dreams and nightmares of your own mind...if you want to share the fantasies and realities, the repulsive and erotic, beauty or horror of the human psyche you have experienced...send to the address below (following the links).
Really folks...intention is to start "quasi ezine," but based on architecture of human soul...in joy or pain...the frail mortar holding our species together at the moment, is our ability to use language -- to attempt reaching some common place to meet without bashing heads (metaphorically, or otherwise).
-- This page...this text here, is subject to change...depending on you. And I would like to begin by stating...rjwing...Wingwrite...Isaeri...te amo mi corazon... mi flora...que bonita...que bien...
The following are new additions to the skydax page -- most recent are listed first. Thanks for sharing! ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Forgotten Chant It was a chant I would say so softly and dear to myself each passing hour, It sent feelings through my soul that exploded the world’s outer limits, and were discarded as child’s play to the passing bodies that were never capable of feeling such a miraculous thing. It allowed me to feel content with myself and made me beautiful in a land of shriveled minds. As a ship at sea, it paid no heed to the gulls overhead, for their foreign tongue spoke nothing of truth. It was a thimble upon my own finger, that guarded me against the inharmonious objects that pierced through the night. Holding me tight, as to not let me go, it restrained me from running paralyzed with fear from the formidable waves that came crashing down onto my cold, shivering body each and every moment, and stood beside myself with no empty breath between us, only one cold flesh pressed soundly against a warm soul, so as to stand firmly against the rushing, speeding liquid, and be capable of lifting our heads above the rush and roar, and place our eyes upon the sunlit sky that brightens the mind, and clears our thoughts. Growing old, it becomes lost among all the things gathered upon the shore. Now left to face fear alone, I recall sweet words that once touched my lips so often gather again, and whisper them softly, so that one day they may travel to the forgotten lying upon the shore, and bring life once again. -- Valerie Beasley -- copyright May, 1996 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Icon of Msism... Hell's still living in my being. Can't get all those lost girls out of my mind. Or the fact that I can't get out my other problems either. Why doesn't God just take me now? I feel terrible now. How come no one else has to go through with this? I can barely breath right. After this class I'm going to go home and be treated bad and feel empty once again. Only to escape my coordinates and not my position. Only to face another day with its back turned toward me. Only to ruin the hope of having an imblated future. Who has me? What is it? Only to stand in the rain while everyone is in the sunshine. A victory that hasn't existed. Like tommorrow, always coming but never arriving. What is something of yours that everyone uses more than you do? I'm standing in dark while everyone is suffering from delusions of grandeur. I am invisible, my words ring on deaf ears, you can not touch me, I have no scent, no taste, I am a dream. A figment of one's imagination. A plastic man. A tomorrow that will never come. The best, but seen through because of lack of realization. Lack of physical necessities. No hope. No glory. No victory. No first place. No loved one. No family. No friends. No physical matter. No trust. No fame. No memory. No existence. No word in the say. No importance. No help. No worrience. No realness. No future. No past. No present. No anything. But nothing. What hits? Try this melon. The word to describe me: Yes nothing. The imblated, the icon of Msism. For what? Nothing! Imaginary, a fairy tale, a myth, a legend, a lost thought on everyone's brain cells. Nothing just nothing -- copyright -- November 18, 1997 -- Msism