Kelly Jean Rice likes

Ado- Agone. Anew- Re- do- Re- done., by Cloudsgrey

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http://www.artbreak.com/cloudsgrey/works

sculpture

deranged hell-raiser

oblong body

precise nature

damage control

dent's in for-head

tin head

tin body

molted metal pieces

scraps outer-layer

haunting messages

sun burst's out of sky

frozen morning

sit outside

with dog

and coffee

contemplate what he will say

at 10:30

don't want to lose

or be unhappy

breathe after exchange of messages

hauntingly unsatisfying

one will rest

quite unnecessary

on chip of shoulder

waited for 3 more hours

frozen feet now

shivering dog

go back home

wait for call

20 minutes now

descending up

In the day's

where I become

Human in release

When descending down

I go up

With helium

Up and up

Where city light's

Are a billion a sight

Indsie and out

I am human

With helium powers

Descending up

Kissing the sky

Like my lover

the fear

The fear

I have the fear, it is big, to put anything through it, would be exhausting, for there is a tiny opening. My job is to open the hole large enough to let light in, for the fear is so large it's black. It's like a solid mass with a pin size hole. Thread is too big. Step by step, my comfort zone will be mixed up, tantalized, a shock therapy- like dose. Suburban life did this to me. Seclusion did this to me. My job now is to take this black mass and stretch it open. Make the fear vanish. It will still be there if it is transparent, invisible too, it must be gone.

it's been 5 month's

wed jan,11,7:23am 2012

I use to wake up at 4 am in the morning, I would get out of the house before the sun shone. Today, I left the house, went to the coffee shop, just like I use to way back before, before dusk, those day's ago, in the freezing cold. I didn't have a dog back then. He keep's my lap warm.

This morning, after an insomniac nite, writing song's, I can't get myself out of my head. So I listen, here, at the coffee shop, outside, with my earbud's in, to my own song's and reminisce. Some are so horrible, some are so good, lyrically, sloppy guitar playing, but some good guitar part's, I would never be able to re create. They make me sad, and happy, as if I know that I haven't lost my self just yet. They don't want me to time travel or anything, only by mean's of re recording the fucker's. I have, I have weird spoken word stuff with weird music in the background, poem's. And even my novel. Being manic is weird sometimes. Listening to me talking about being crazy, and I remember how it felt, to write those very poem's, I remember. My egotistical self, my ego trip. Hasn't gotten too bad since the hospital. Iv'e been steady.

I don't usually put myself in a before and after scenario of the hospital, but twice I noticed I have. I think Iv'e was better. But I wasn't. It seem's like year's ago, but it's only been 5 month's. Recuperation hasn't even begun, I should be in major therapy activities, dealing with this, what is real, is really scary. I could be almost ready, but I suffocated the day I was released, thinking it was the best thing that had ever happened to me, when it was probably the worst thing they could have done. They released me on good behavior, when they should have known I was still suicidal. I suffocated the day I entered the place, I still haven't exhaled.

You may think this is sad, but it doesn't make me sad. I don't like to make people sad, or bummed out. This is just reality, it is nothing to pity, to worry, or to not read because it is too personal, and or just bumming you out. It is real, I am a normal human being. I know by now no one want's to read about bummer stuff, I wouldn't even call it bummer, I just assume it so, for people have had the opportunity to know me by this way, and they never did, because my shit is a bore, or just a bummer. I say fuck that shit, because if anyone want's to know me, they must read my thought's, because that's the only thing you will get. I don't let shit out. You can't feel a panic attack until you read it first person, know how it feel's to be in anguish about not knowing how to do normal human being thing's. I'm not just o.k. with myself, I'm not saying I am insecure, I am saying, I am not comfortable in my own skin, in my own body. And I am confident. I am a confident person, which make's it all the harder to be so uncomfortable, and in anguish. To hate your self, but have such a big ego.

Jan 11, 2012 8:08:51 AM

cold

It is bitter sweet

In the dark cold morning

Camouflaged by the dusk

In my navy blue overcoat

Purple underneath

Instrumental

http://cloudsgrey.bandcamp.com/album/life-gets-stranger-every-day

Monica + Kelly

Two set's of people

Working to fight

Our inside mind's

Counteracting turmoil's

Re arranging people's

Inactivity

Filler- filling time obscurity

Across the table scribbling

Interaction necessary

Until- be gone

Until next time

Over coffee

In our live's we breath in dust

From our torn up lives

A million disaster's

Galore on the floor

Smear across the walls

When you enter

You past's history's greyist stories

You manage to cope

Walk on through it

Striding, chin up high

And polite, ever go lasting

Troubles through

But not thick enough to kill you

Stronger than anyone I've seen out here

The being of us

Stratosphere linked to our bodies

Sun streak's to our skin

Unrealized time

On our bed

Where we lay our head's

And kiss the fear

No where out there

Does another pair exist

Like us together,

Don't we wish

Of us everlasting

Beyond time,

Beyond anybody else

Or reason

Linked our bodies

Sun keep's us alive

No matter how dark

No matter which where

Or declaring war

While we are not out there

Sitting in peace which

We grant to each other

Freckle's and hiccup's

Drinking from our bin's

There is enough here

To make us live

A proper life

Just you and I

We can procrastinate

We can persist

We can dive all into this

Or step by step

Which we take

Carefully, fragile

Like a little bird's egg

And so many different way's

This can go

And so many different way's

This can move

And so many different way's

This can transform

We chose the outer layer

Where thing's are seen

An opening to heaven

Where we must be

Because I can see

The all that must be

The forever out going

gilded

Start's out where you don't realize

When you hit the floor with giddy

And time past, wasn't time at all

It was all a hit and miss

With a hit, shrouded out

Growing now

Going out now

With hand's tied together

Listless, yet gilded

god is a metephor

God is a metaphor,
for a burning fire star,
perched, distinctly miles perfect,
to make us all human,
to make everything exist.
even thing's in pitch black live,

For history and the future are fact's,
and when and the sun burn's out,
trillions, billion's of year's from now,
we will all be dead,
but from science,
not the apocalypse.
And still people pray and their knee's,
on the non existent man,
read the "book",
for example's of why we live.
and why?

God is a metaphor
for a burning star

While all the while we reproduce,
going far back to our ancestors,
and mother's, and father's,
who are real,
'the one's'
who creating us alive.

Not a non existent man
they say,
died for our sin's.
You know,
we go no where after we're dead.
And it's funny to think,
people in-take stories
of jesus christ,
and why?
What a waste of time
and mess of war it has given,
praying with moments,
learning what is wrong
while we could be moving on,
for we will get no where,
if we keep it moving on like this.

God is a metaphor.

Move on from false hope,
look at history,
the real fact's
are there to prove
that a meteor crash
is why we are here,
and that big burning star,
way up there,
is holding us together,
and is which and why
we are able to breathe,
and feel gravity.
think, love, bring back memories,
create, and drink coffee,
we owe it to ourselves.

Artbreak: blue by cloudsgrey

http://www.artbreak.com/cloudsgrey

Why I write songs; Bio

I am just a girl and a guitar and a bass, writing songs about life and death and experience, after playing bass in a band for five year's, I picked up the guitar and have been writing song's ever since. I have a mellow tone and tranquility with in my heart. my song's are inspired by my written poetry, and influenced by vernacular existentialism, satire, dry bleak humor. And all though I would not say I am the best guitarist, I do take pride in my lyric's, which is why I play guitar, for poetry is music, and deserve's color. I just enjoy it. And thank you for listening

The traveling loner

Blury static fog

Bended hexagontal zig-zagging sharp edged finger's bare branch's

Barely lit over there across the way

Bended

Never seen it before

Sereal nostalgia

A-new de'ja'vue

Hiccup state

With every drag intake

Smoke is breath

Cold is inbetween breath's

Static thicken's

Sharp edge's vanish

Moon light only there to offer

Traveling loner

How to be in motion

One day at a time

Take the moment

Stride by stride

Traveling loner

You are real

And walking

Straight on through

This city of mine

Peeling art

Peeling at art

Pieces of texture

That's what I am doing

Day after day

While not painting

I go along with it

unintentionally saddened

by my madness

Unholy whole to the progression

Empowered by heart-wrenching stigmata's

Tearing layer after layer

Shedding tear's of anger

Tossed, swiveled by liquor

Knife slashing canvas art

With lust, and passion

For I haven't gone anywhere forward

The past shed's light of wanting so much more

Time lean's against time

Toward some kind of future

Bleeding knuckles

Texture after texture

Peeling off the layer's

I am un-in control

Painter's block

No patient's

No thought's

Writing

I can't stop writing

I can't stop notating,

Archiving

Word's are so pleasurable

Right now in these hour's

Walk away I cannot do

For I will not get along

With anybody, not even you

Stop me, I dare you

Thing's should be more important

But stuck here , stuck

To a piece of paper

Dotting this. dotting that

All for play, all for pleasure

Stuck in my world,

So far from others'

Painful to see a woman crying

Being pulled away ink pen and note pad

So let me be, let me be

Or something , someone else will become of me

And i will lose my soul

Be introverted, un-fun,

Crying in panic

Give me writing for the gushing of word's

The only thing that keeps me mentally stable

But fuck, there is a time,

And shit, I've got to get going

So I must start learning

To walk away

From my writing's

The present is the future

The present is the future

By Kelly Jean Rice ·

The past is getting old

The future stand's

and show's with the step

one taken before the other

At each second forward

Flourish

Particular moments

are at time still

Stop's

as you enjoy yourself

There is no such thing as time travel

Step by step

Closer as you get

Away from a non existent

present

Manic depression

Fractal images,

edges,

broken bit by bit,

in the dark,

black deep atmospher of the mind.

With white line's so thin.

Turning tricks,

again, and again,

in square circles.

And triangles,

mathematical form's.

In neon,

primary color's.

Static,

fast pace movement.

That's how I feel,

when in state of mood,

short tempered,

anxious,

reverberated,

refliecting in square circles,

bending,

and braking,

sticking back together,

un ending,

or so it feel's.

Like no release.

But when there is,

I am stagnet,

an empty shell

of a person,

wiped out from terror,

a traumatic event.

The release was not satisfactory,

because I had no control,

I didn't do it,

I can not say,

THat I did that.

There is no prize at the end.

And it is lonely,

and confusing.

a new aspect the song;listen here

http://www.myspace.com/cloudsgrey1/music/songs/dont-let-go-a-new-aspect-85868482

Don't let go/Anew aspect, lyrics

A new aspect given,

An effect, a result carried out

Equal outcome's, winter re-asure's

Everything is affectionate

Let me put my arm's around you

Let's make up our own word's no one know's

And talk in our own tongue

And gather up the thing's up to come

Nothing is better than us,

In this given moment,

While we dare to reach for something sweet

we've been missing our entire live's

A perfect touch,

Don't let go,

I will hold on,

Forever

BUll frog's

I plunge out into an open wide depth of dry

where an ocean came and went

no heat, no cold, no feeling

stagnate

cracks and bullfrog's

no mirage tricking me thirsty

for no sun up

and no moon

it is that time of month

it is awful weather

with no atmosphere

fallen trees abroad

like homes suburban

in rows perfect inch's apart

hollow to bare a body in

where the dry creatures squat

and do their drugs

getting drunk

without a care in the world

I am an outcast

tall and monster

far away abroad my city

punched out a hole puncher

from the last poem i added

into my three ring binder

archived

what to come

or become

of this now

i'm that

an empty shell of no cardboard

lined with no canvas

this time around

crinkle me up

in two hands

put me in the trash can

the only hope out of here

because i have no ink pen

just memories

of non existent places

i once dreamt of

chasing bullfrog's

through the dry empty ocean land

childhood ongoing

ongoing forever alway's

in crack's and seam's

in old mud

of evolution

Departure

Darling,

Fact,

Of departure,

One will die before the other,

And so on it goes,

On until the end,

One will lye,

One will live,

When ever,

Eventually,

Inevitable,

So why go on?

To embrace for now,

And Right Now,

And every day until.