Works by Ben Balazs

Watching over the people, the birds, the flowers, the trees. All dancing in the breathe of his lungs. He watches with eagerness and a desire to learn. A desire to see how they react to him. He watches their laughter, their tears, their footsteps, and yet he is unsure of how to approach. Perhaps he finds peace in keeping his distance, wondering and listening and hopeful of new events. Only when there are those who struggle does he come to intervene, but such a rare moment that is. And even then, once they are lifted off the hard ground, he recedes back into the shadows to resume his tenure as a ghost. Maybe he is indeed shy, afraid of what his presence might do, or perhaps believes himself incapable of facing his own machinations. He feels the wind and sun just as they do, but he feels such different ways - Unable to comprehend, to grasp their limits. He watches them grow old and die, and he seems sad because they are all so unique. They are all so beautiful, and yet he cannot a...

Thousands of red stars flood the path. White lights take their seats above the flow, watching over the sea of blood and cheering us on through our pilgrimage. We turn the belt and swarm into a massive mob. Bright crimson is mesmerizing from here. They are an endless wave of fire- a mirror facing a mirror- a trail of burning gasoline. My glass-frame seems to be breathing heavily at the sight. The bulbs are so beautiful at night. Music is playing, washing over the drums of my ears, and peeling away at its gentle core. The bass is harmonizing with my heart, and the world is wading over the irises of my pupils. I can almost feel the two senses combining into something indescribable. Like a sensation felt in a dream that, when realized, becomes distant. Great green boards with more bulbs lead the vast number of us. Everyone is rushing past, trying to capture and hold as much light as possible. If we keep going we might reach the moon. There are white stripes on the lanes by our toes, and ...

Come forth you beasts! Bring forward your violence, your passion, and your taste for glorious death! You wage me salvation? I wage you my blood! I wage you the sacrifice of living. I wage you the cost of happiness. I wage you the burden of children! Dare not seduce me with those pearlescent gates! Dare not terrorize me with those ashen flames! Have you no respect for my beaten hands? Have you no comprehension of the value of human life? For shame! Your great names are golden plaques on a tombstone! Concealed behind the guarantee of eternal life, infinite happiness, and perfect physique, you smile greedily, awaiting the next victim to come under your spell. You soothe us with your venomous spatter,numbing us with a gratitude that we're better off without. What of those who fight? What of those who bathe in their tears, drowned by the pains and horrors of daily life? Where are they in the multitudes of webbing that you sow? They have been eaten, broken down, and digested in the aci...

Let not the air you breathe be your guide, for fairest breathes are taken in suspended exasperation. Let not your eyes deceive you with fateful findings and such visual expressions of dull color that would render ones soul reaped. Let not your nose steal even a wisp of the scent of death, for the tendons of the fell creatures that envelope such corpses are full of hasty hunger. Let only your hands be your brace against the brisk winds of labor. Let only your hands hold steadfast the weight of your genius in its gloriously hefty stature. Lest you grow old and wither, your hands cannot unleash an imagination lesser than god. For god is a man with pencil in hand and a heart in his palm. For our deepest concupiscence lies wrapped in our tongues, begging with all remorseful greed to be unraveled and splayed upon the very grandeur of crafted sheet. To smell the scent of printed elixir, to beseech upon thee the vision of fattened ink, to breathe in the thickened vapor of insp...

He awoke with a cold sweat and a hot face. He'd been rattled by dreams of fireworks in the midnight sky. He took it upon himself to firmly grasp this vision, so as to squeeze its contents onto a thin sheet of paper. He rested himself at his desk and began. His pen burned furiously across the pages, soaking through them with sweaty passion and heavy breathing. He gorged his supply of lead, as limited as it was, with the intent of leaving a stock that seldom remain. Yes, the view was awe-inspiring, a fiery heaven clashing against the blue cheek of the sky. One would think the world were blushing down upon them. The screams of battle were crystal clear, but such crystals shattered sharply as the crack of arms interrupted their shrill voices. Framing the base of the horizon were blood-drenched trenches, seemingly seeping the toxic waste onto the heavens above. What a sin it was, to bathe that innocent face of God with the succor of mankind! What tears it drew from the chorus of angel...

She let it all out. She was a flame gasping for oxygen, licking at the blank sky. I had never seen someone cry out as she did. She wailed and fell into harsh whispers. I held her with an embrace so tight I could feel her pulse. The tears had washed over her reddened cheeks, leaving them raw and salty. She seemed to naturally curl up between my arms, shriveling like a prune as she did. It looked as if she tried her hardest to be as small as possible - small enough to disappear. Her roaring was tempered by the fabric of my clothing. It absorbed all her strife, grief, and regret. My shirt, before a pale yellow, had turned gray from the dampening fluid that trickled out of her eyes. It was a tragically beautiful sight. She was purging herself of her struggle, her tumultuous burden. It leaked out of her like helium from a balloon. She continued to deflate, to compress and squeeze out the sour taste of sorrow. Her eyes swelled and became glassy mirrors. Even so I didn't see myself in the...

It's the same echo we all love and adore. It's always there, sounding matte through the floorboards and walls. You can hear the spatter of the words, the vibrations in the plaster. It echoes. Sometimes it's loud enough for those outside of the house to hear. It dissipates like mist in the air, but before it can completely disappear it licks at someone else's ears. Sometimes when they hear it they cringe, or they whisper like snakes, but we all know that cry. I'm never really sure whether it's a cry for battle or for mercy. It seems to alternate from time to time. It happens all the same. It almost sounds like Beethoven. The two start out by pointing the blame, or saying something they shouldn't have. It turns into bitter speech, seasoned with slight jumps and over-pronunciations. Eventually someone crescendos into a roar, and the other follows, turning what sounded like running water into a hot tea kettle. At some point somebody says something too sour, to...