Works by Ben Balazs

Light peered modestly through the blinds. It dazzled and brightened her face with a uniquely calm radiance. Each stroke of the brush in her hands took one less flaw away from her. Some of the hairs that fell to her feet shimmered for an instant or so, barely catching the light-beams crossing the room. She never really applied much force in grooming her hair. The strands were always so straight, so linear that they seemed geometric - artificial.  Facing her, in its all-encompassing size, was a mirror equally as effervescent as she. It imitated her bronze skin with nearly impeccable detail. She stood so still that the mirror acted almost as a photograph, frozen in the moment of her gentle preparation for the day. The blinds tugged at the image, sheepishly traipsing behind it. Perhaps the woman’s beauty intimidated them. The glass of the mirror was thick enough to stifle any noise coming from outside. Regardless, there were only several inches of it that separated her from the re...

He dreaded the sensation of the harshly cold granite beneath his bare feet. Each step sent waves of goosebumps up his legs and over his arms. Of course, to his dismay, this rabid cold was caused by a nearby ajar window. The wind out there must have bellowed with enough attitude to shove it's way past what was an arguably useless guard from the night air. The frame of the sill was rickety, and made small tapping noises whenever the wind came to wave hello. It buckled under any simple tease of the weather. It should have been replaced years ago, but it was as old as the house it came with, bearing the wrinkles of time and maltreatment. The many owners of this house who have come and gone did not show much compassion to this brooding pile of wood he called home. The windows locking mechanism was pockmarked from numerous aggressive shuttings and openings. That might explain why the damn thing won't stay shut. He toppled over it, still drunk from the sleep he was enjoying only momen...

Nothing felt quite as satisfying to him as emptying his pockets after a long evening. From his lint-filled pants appeared a bulky wallet, fuller of change than cash, a set of car keys, some chap-stick, and a receipt he didn’t even remember having at any point that day. It seemed strange to him that only hours ago he was having the time of his life, laughing and cheering his friends on as they improv’d their way through a maniacal scene. He could feel the alcohol drifting out of his system, his vision focusing ever so slightly upon the suddenly very comfortable bed that awaited him. He smirked at the fact that pillows looked deceivingly plusher, and blankets more welcoming when the day prior was particularly shitty. He played the image of him sinking into his bed frame over and over again in his head, but in reality was just staring at it longingly. It looked to him like a woman out of his league.  His bed-side fan whirred uncomfortably, chucking more dust than air around him. ...

  Speak to me not in breaths, Not words made of cogs and wired sonnets, Wrapped in freshly printed bonnets. Do not finger my emotions like a pick on a guitar, That's made of dried up tears and scars, That don't mean much. Look me in the eye and say, that you simply can't deny, My being here. Hold back every bitter urging, With the truth of our undoing, And swallow down the massive pill that puts your every fear to rest. Tread the mill whose track is spent, That winds in lines that have no end. And sweat your mind upon your shirt, and work off all the inner hurt. But while you're washing your sins away, And while you drag on through the day, I'll be in my porcelain boat, Catching any life that floats. Fishing for a cause or two, In the easing night of the simple blues, And bubbles rising from the sea. In the real world I'll always be. 

Bound into scholastic pages with linings drawn in number two pencils. Seated never comfortably inside the cage that is this studious desk. So below me it would be to stick my gum underneath that which holds up my future. So below them it would look if even for a second they took into consideration the feelings of the ones they teach. But whiteboards and marker go dry without use, and offices need workers, and streets need lights to guide the people through the darkest nights.  So little does it matter to have this note or that, to have gotten a letter in the alphabet that isn’t tacked with bitter connotations and sour expressions. How often we do crawl under uniform bathroom stalls to reach a door that only opens one way. Of course, to my dismay, the shortest road to hotels of gold is by way of selling the soul. The sword which we must draw to slay the beast, behold, is held within the clasp of a system dead and old. Its grimy hands can somehow stick with great strength and av...

Knit me high over the kiln of your chest. With trims of gold and splayed in blue, I vest myself as just a veil over the fiery heart you store inside. As storms do pass and winters tarnish, I will sit within my post and hold to you my warmest smile. For as dawn breaks in the sky, or dusk rolls through the bitter hills, you will find me there, sewn and shorn with complacence and personality. I will dress you in prisms of colors galore, and decorate you with the badges of my want for your affection. Perhaps there will come a time when you feel I am too warm, where you feel I am too thick of fabric and such, that you may decide where rises a sunny day, “It is time to undress and wash the dirt beneath me.” But I say you, my friend and my soul in part, to see me not as worn but rather as flesh, and maybe even as sibling to the sweat you so wish to displace from your body. I am not such that I could say no to you, of course, but understand that the warmth I breathe is that which seeps ...

The view of blue does quite protrude. My vision shakes at pristine lake. My eyes, maybe blind, do sense. That what I see does steer from me. --- Wading and shaping the way that I'm gazing. To see is to believe but is green with grief. As it's far, no car could reach that star. As its clean serene scene looks back at me. --- Deadpan face, the same place, giving chase. But it's my own, my ears, my nose, my clone. Far from near, not here, unclear. Falling to the sky, my my, where am I? Did I land, can I stand, am I stranded? Am I lost, was I found, still abandoned? --- Far from shore, perhaps the core, there's so much more. Swim deeper, body sleeker, water shimmer. There to look, a candid crook, within that nook. Watching close for one more dose of comatose. Lost in waves, a darker cave, to whom I gave, The view of blue that quite protrudes, That shakes and makes my pristine lake.