JustABunchOfWords
"My story isn't pleasant, it's not sweet and harmonious like the invented stories; it tastes of folly and bewilderment, of madness and dreams, like the life of all people who no longer want to lie to themselves.” -Herman Hesse / / Feel free to send me messages. I may even reply.
Love is a verb.
An action so intense that it scalds the tongue and makes those 3 words difficult to say.
And with each broken heart, scar tissue builds up along the pallet and makes it even more difficult to say.
And the taste buds start to singe and the words taste bitter.
And then a new love comes along.
And her kisses are the aloe that opens up the vowels and consonants of the heart, and allow me to speak softly and concisely, until I am able to sing.
Feb 20, 2018
Feb 20, 2018 at 3:25 PM UTC
SHe saves her kisses for when her heart jumps.
She straddles my lap when she needs to be heard.
She has 13 different smiles that range from “that was a terrible joke” to “I love this freaking dog” to “I love you”
She covers her eye like a pirate to nail a bullseye.
She loves Fleetwood and blues brothers and wonderland avenue.
Her kisses can be apologies or declarations of love. They can be quick pecks or longed for desires.
I can read the words tattooed on her tongue without her ever having to speak them.
This seems to work out well for both of us.
Feb 19, 2018
Feb 19, 2018 at 3:25 AM UTC
A Friday night in silence.
My mind races a hundred miles an hour.
Solitary confinement is the most dangerous thing to me.
I will either use it to destroy my world, or yours.
I'm not good at sitting still.
I die with stagnation.
On these nights, I drink til I can sleep,
or stay amped until I collapse.
I don't know how to shut down.
That's the same thing that keeps me going on the good days.
Nov 5, 2017
Nov 5, 2017 at 3:50 PM UTC
You came to me 12 years ago as I was laying in a gutter.
You stuck out your hand and said your name was Joe.
Your hand was neither cold nor clammy, like they say.
It welcomed me, without a second glance.
You've been with me throughout the years, in many forms.
You come to me in my dreams, and conquer my nightmares.
You came to me outside a bar, and took my finger off the trigger.
You came to me in Louisiana and whispered that "Everything Will Be Okay".
Then you told me to "run".
And run I did.
I haven't been back since, yet you remain beside me.
You are the calm in my rage.
You are the glint in my blank stare.
You temper my anger and chart a course for my wrath.
You came to me in my sleep once, and told me its okay to cut a man's finger off, as long as its not his trigger finger.
You do not take away another mans right for vengeance.
This is a form of respect, for as long as he has his rights, and I have mine, then we can both talk civilly.
Thieves however, are never afforded respect.
I've asked you for what I wanted, but you only give me what I need.
We both understand that if I want anything more, I have to take it.
And when I make a plan, and that smile creases my face, I know that's your smile.
I can feel you looking out from behind my eyes when the ******* hits.
I can taste you in my kisses when I bite.
we are one and the same being, but you know so much more than I ever can.
I learned patience when you locked me up.
I learned temperance when you released me.
You taught how to to hit someone with a claw hammer.
And you taught me how to stop.
You taught me that you don't need safe words when you understand each other.
You are always with me.
Your cloak kept me warm when I lived on the street.
Your hands give me strength, when they guide my own.
And yet, I can offer you nothing.
I can't offer you my life, because it's yours any day you want it.
I can't offer you my soul, because its been yours for over a decade.
I can't offer you fear, because I find comfort in knowing you will be there at the end.
I can only offer you loyalty.
And return it to my family in kind.
Nov 5, 2017
Nov 5, 2017 at 3:46 PM UTC
She opened the lost journal,
and it was blank inside except
for the cover inscription.
It said that somebody loved her, who no longer did.
She scribbled it out like a lost opportunity,
and began writing a new chapter.
Nov 4, 2017
Nov 4, 2017 at 6:52 PM UTC
Writers block isn't always writers block.
Sometimes you just have nothing to say.
Or no one worth saying things too.
Sometimes it's a plan that no one can see the forest for the trees and you just need to zip up your mouth and let it all come together at the end for them like some brilliant film they're seeing for the first time.
The kind that requires a second viewing.
Some of them have called me a psychopath.
Some have called me a genius.
I think it's too early to add up the score.
Oct 17, 2017
Oct 17, 2017 at 4:15 PM UTC
"Carpe Diem *******
It's the Latin battle cry version of the YOLO generation.
The Abbreviation Generation.
The "I don't have time to explain **** to you because I'm trying to just focus on my art right now mom" generation.
Carpe. ******* Diem.
And you have no clue.
Carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero
"Seize the day! Trusting as little as possible in the future."
It means doing everything you need to do to achieve everything you want to get done.
Not jumping your bike off a roof into a pool ya *******
Or how about...
Blood is thicker than water.
What kind of guilt trip are you riding along on? And who taught you that?
That family is more important than....than....than what? The bunch of water sandwiches you hang out with and call friends?
The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb.
Means the family you choose is greater than the one you are born into.
As in blood brothers.
In war.
In the streets.
In love.
Love....like a gentleman.
A gentleman with a top coat and a hat.
The kind of gentleman who holds the doors and walks on the street side when accompanying a lady.
Why does he do this?
What makes this gentlemanly??
Because back in the days of olde, before indoor plumbing and sanitation services, we woke in the mornings and threw our buckets of **** out the window.
Into the street.
And before the automobile those heavy footed horses carried the wealthiest of them in carriages and where would they slop around???
In the street.
And they would splash literal puddles of **** on whoever was street side.
And when the gentleman arrived at his destination with his buxom lady in tow...he would hand his **** stained coat to the coat check and don his finest finery and proceed with his evening.
All the while, providing the woman he is escorting with his left arm, so that his sword hand (his right) may be free to defend her honor.
So if you take one thing away from my set young pupils, let it be this.
Dress your best, eat like kings, fight for honor, and for ***** sake, check your **** stained coat before you go in the restaurant!!
Carole Diem *******
Aug 18, 2017
Aug 18, 2017 at 9:47 PM UTC
"Will you write a poem about me?"
She actually asked me... "will you write a poem about me?"
I told her that this conversation had entered very dangerous territory.
How many nice poems have I really written about people?
"I know of three" she said.
(Staring). Yep. Three. In fifteen years of writing!
And yet...this poem is about her.
Not just about her.
It's about asking for something about you.
it's about asking for yourself.
It's about asking for hugs and attention and monogamy and a bunch of other things that you know I don't give.
You have to take them.
If you want anything more than a gesunsheit from me after you sneeze you have to rip it out of my ******* talons.
I want predators around me.
I want poets around me.
I want wolves around me.
I want beautiful women and caskets full of money.
I want fast cars, large scars, illegal substances and dancers of the pole.
I want truth, and honesty, and confidence.
I don't want someone who "achieves their goals".
I want someone who rips a hole in the space time continuum with their teeth and spits it back out to create new dimensions for those ******* sliders to show up in.
I want a relationship of promises that were never made and words that didn't need to be spoken.
No half truths or small talk.
It's better to ask forgiveness than permission. This has always been my motto.
And I love you.
I do.
But you should never ask me to write about you.
Jul 31, 2017
Jul 31, 2017 at 10:26 PM UTC
"That's outrageous!" He said.
"You're a ******* fool" I muttered.
That's pennies on the dream.
If you think that the four dollars
And 29 cents is for a piece of plastic with some ink and a ballpoint then you're probably just making a grocery list.
A pen is not for scribbling to do lists.
There is an app for that.
A pen is for unlocking dreams and opening windows.
It's for recording the nightmares and victories of a life worth living.
If you don't have PTSD from one thing or another by 28, then you aren't living right.
"You're a madman" he chuckled.
Maybe so.
But I think the price is worth it.
Jun 7, 2017
Jun 7, 2017 at 12:33 PM UTC
I've been off the road about 8 years now, but I still find a need to sit by rivers.
Maybe it's a hobo thing.
Rivers provide water for drinking and washing.
They provide fish for eating and white noise for sleeping.
They take care of all those who take the time to stop and acknowledge them.
And yet, a river never stops for you.
She doesn't even slow down.
Trains and people and love affairs all slow down.
Rivers just keep moving downstream, and they don't look back.
Jun 1, 2017
Jun 1, 2017 at 3:30 PM UTC