Johnny Gerbrandt
Bio
Love lifting, love writing, love designing. My journey is a strange one but I love it. learning constantly.
Stories (28/0)
Intrepid
In time you came to see me but all was lost, my eyes were hollow my heart was black, for I traded it all .my heart for stone my mind for plastic and my soul for a concept, I have faded into oblivion distorted by the view of others to distract from one’s own corruption,distant cries echo in the caverns of eternity, why did we lose ourselves in this how did it become our burden to bear, the weakest amongst all creation is the pinnacle of it all. The weight is immense. who are we but wanderers in this vast empty trying to find a shred of something that can free us, let us open up our wings to their fullest and fly na soar, in an unsurpassed freedom that can only be felt in the deepest recesses of our essence our being what we are.
By Johnny Gerbrandt3 years ago in Poets
The Balance Askew
As you stand on the edge of the precipice, thoughts of grandeur pass by as do thoughts of a solitude martyr amongst the air of kings, screaming in the silence at such great heights. Wonder escapes into fear, then to revel in defiance against the very same emotion that grips the spirit and bids it to leave. Reflection has welled to the deepest pools of the mind. Dancing on heads of pins is easier than this. This realization of insignificance bleeding through into individual unique flavors of its own, for without it all would be less. However the balance inside weighs heavy for insignificance, yet to know distinct separation of all things is to understand its value, its uniqueness, its flavor. Then why are we standing in solitude on the edge of this precipice believing to be solitary but knowing that it is us that meets the cliff to the sky, causing a symbiotic relationship that knits all things together. We are special, we are significant, However overwhelmed by the vastness, we still believe that we are not.
By Johnny Gerbrandt3 years ago in Poets
The toll
Sporadic spores of indignation creep across the lush life of eons gone by, Hurled into the next, to the evaporated contrite spirit of once kings, that now crawl like scurvish men, fiending feverishly for morsels of sanity. A gasht are the voices which scale the heights of eternity. Treading mountains of souls trampled by the minds of the masses, flooded by bile and honey. To stand is to fall and to fall is to stand, the circle of correction, the lessens burnt, slashed, beaten, sweet essence is derived from flowers such as these, for they cannot break, it cannot be stolen. Time brings forgetfulness, comfort and weakness, where is the road of the outcast, for as if they are. no, it is the sheep believed to be goats that have been found wanting. They bear the mirror without reflection. The devourer of time opens wide, time torn asunder leaking minuscule fragments twisted into bursts of energy fulfilling the toll that is due.
By Johnny Gerbrandt3 years ago in Poets
The Shape of Red
Distinct possibilities endeavoring to bury self-taught manipulations carried away by the wings of eagles, torn in two by vultures filled to bursting with rust and steel, sustaining dead eyes, maneuvering starlight skies into coal, correcting thee angle, fixing the edge, establishing the door of entry, who can stand at it without opening, the allure is beyond measure. No parameters may be found, astounded by the cosmic architecture, shapes bleed into colors, then to sound, the vibrations morph into matter then fall back to shapes, the cycle ensues, red glorifies herself above all and melts into sound everlasting, her own distinct echo, vibrating faster erupting at the time the others returned to colors, she paints them with her glow, now all colors are red and her song as she evolves from color to sound is a new song, a song that will last but a fraction of time, to now burst into the form of red, beautiful and comely, then within a wink she has dissipated into color once more, never to be caught or seen within these transformations, for who is patient enough to wait, to watch, to be still and quiet, to see without sight, if you do these you will witness this fantastic design, some would believe it torture, some believe it to be love, in symphony, however, it is as the eb and flow of particles of whos behaviour we know nothing, unless we dare look into depths we seek not naturally, it is here we watch the magical orchestra of transformation and growth. Close your eyes, it always starts with a shape and a color.
By Johnny Gerbrandt3 years ago in Poets
