Brent Horling
Bio
I'm a free spirit, who is usually lost in free thought. As life goes on and I age closer to my death, I've come to realize that these free thoughts seem to be all I truly have. And that's okay.
Stories (10/0)
A Life Without Purpose
There was no need for sympathy; she always did it to herself and then played a victim's role. The level of wasted empathy only grew as her friends and family could do nothing to change her mind. When it got to the point of a collective apathy, she lost focus and her grasp on hope, replacing it with a white-static distorted sense of self while she'd abuse her "medicine."
By Brent Horling5 years ago in Poets
Stranger to My Skin (Pt. 3)
Locked up without a cause or reason for, I found myself staring out a window. It was a desolate tree and I love that tree. The walls were as white as eggshells and the floor was tiled. Day one I was confused, I believed I was in the right place at the right time but I was wrong. I'm surrounded by strangers both On My Level and above me. The blue scrub wearing strangers held keys to understandings that were beyond my own. I was put in place yet, I was out of place.
By Brent Horling5 years ago in Poets
Stranger to My Skin (Pt. 2)
Steadfast in pace while moving. Picking up speed quickly as to blur when seen; her body sings songs sorrow as her soul was forced to this burning in a flesh like hell. Knowing she could be a closer version to what's reflected within if money wasn't an option and she had the desire for the surgery. She had been born into a body of opposite settings; she doesn't have any plans of getting her faulty body changed for she believes this is a lesson to gain from, rather than a curse of suffering. The growth in the depths of her patience is one of the many things that has been earned from this torture bestowed upon her.
By Brent Horling5 years ago in Poets
Coming to Fruition
The mesmerizing view of a sky that resembles the bleeding of an open wound, starts flooding into the skyline, as it just as quickly infects our dying atmosphere. Birthing new life into an unfathomable spectrum of multi-colored lights, which effortlessly blend together, creating eye-dazzling hues that had never before been witnessed by mortal eyes. Visually being a breathtaking sight that embodies a heart like that of an artist’s paintbrush; possessing an energy that freely dances across the never-ending horizon. Drawing many different shapes and figures, as it swiftly glides by, graciously tantalizing us with a want to see more of its lucrative dance, which leaves those watching baffled in a state of amazed awe.
By Brent Horling5 years ago in Poets
Dead Like Me/Before the Phoenix Fire Breathes
I could be a stranger like I was yesterday. I've often found myself zoning out into the corner. The window is a perfect picture of what's out there. The glass of the window pane is a comfort we take for granted. A sour taste in the air is a good indication that the poison is sweet. If you give yourself too much credit, you lose a valuable lesson. Who would ever want to be dead like me?
By Brent Horling5 years ago in Poets
