it's 11:20 pm
it's a moon-risen domain
rusty truck of Ford 1978
unlatch the faded tailgate of white and pale turquoise
off a Denton N. Elm highway
sitting in the heat of the ocean air.
The trees but a silhouette
and the moon a rustic orange
feeling heavy sentiments of cascading hair ending in curls
sickly eyes with blue shadow and glazed look that pierced.
2 minutes of absence growing fonder
and I wanted it to last for much longer.
Aug 17, 2014
Aug 17, 2014 at 12:28 AM UTC
Recall when you feel
of course you don't
don't mean to interrupt
it sometimes makes me forget
when the nights have been so numb
you don't even remember routine
a vicious cycle of not remembering
when even vicious is not visceral.
Person per person
Have told me their ruts
It takes time to get out
For me, fruitless yells of 'get out.'
Instead of ruminating, you stew
Instead of contemplation, you fester
Instead of crescendo, you ******
Through hoops of negative feedback loops.
You sink until beyond your point of bearing
Every cell in your body becomes saturated
with pale thoughts that make the water dry
so dry, you become breathless of a different kind.
Except it is known well, and only you know
you hide it, because these thoughts crave isolation
don't show among people so they won't be affected
but its because these thoughts know you're far worse
You can't function during nights
yet it still knows how to engineer
the perfect circumstance to keep descending
to that nadir which has no bottom.
People make you sick
Things once enjoyed, tire and bore you
Ideologies are far away on a plane
You could never catch
Because the fever you caught
Makes you see the ends
Don't justify the means
It all seems so pointless.
bombardment, attrition, unrelenting.
And for once, you are granted a small reprieve.
The morning hungover from intense thoughts
Happy that for once
I don't despair to just be.
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 6:43 PM UTC
An old fellow has written about death and receives in so-called welcome;
A magnum opus that details all the way from the beginning.
Tales of misery and woe with strewn optimism when he came to,
the man’s mortality caused fear-come-lethargy and it was so sudden.
Now light years apart from loved ones, as his demise untimely.
His life lay concluded while the memoir has no "End."
What about the quiet girl who thought her suffering would never end?
All she needed was to conjure a bit of courage; give herself gentle welcome.
Were there other factors that made her story untimely?
She recited a lackluster mind and limitation from the beginning.
All the time, trepidation for her fears of getting hurt, when all of a sudden,
Demure and diffident, made life unlived; she asks now: Where to?
How about the green soldier; where has he gone to?
Weathered, tenacious, and kind yet in the end,
His resolve broken, his judgments were sudden.
Supporting poor kin, a toxic home for an unpleasant welcome,
added salt to the wounded soldier, something was beginning.
He fled from them, even on the cusp of new discovery, M.I.A untimely.
Not unlike the jaded woman, whose escape was untimely.
Caught up in business where she need not to.
Had she known, without brash and haste, from the beginning,
she could’ve continued her story, but bankrupt on an abrupt end.
Drowned in debts, from markets of all black welcome,
If she just held on a little longer, a small window would prove sudden.
The musical boy’s name was not known, gone from the world so sudden.
Born of a syncopated heart; daunting in fear; so untimely.
The doctor’s unsure of cure; any and all answers welcome.
Wonders, he could keep, in tempo, rhythm hither to;
yet, weak-willed, having no bass to keep from his end.
If passion truly fervent, he would be alive, a last minute beginning.
Don’t ask the sharp young lady if she had a beginning.
She was well on her career when came the tragedy so sudden.
Loss of ability to speak, and was at her wit’s end.
Please don’t be sad, it would have seemed too untimely,
there are other ways to express if she proved creative and came to
realize the ***** of writing but ultimately death was at her welcome.
There are beginnings that have causal scars of the untimely,
making for sudden despair and untold tales never hearkened back to,
do not fear for the end, embrace what’s before , now and on forth. To them I can say, “You're welcome.”
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 6:13 PM UTC
A rouse of ruckus split the air like her hair.
She always seems to slay them many a time
A bit embarrassed to admit; my crime,
my pants are tight, her face enflames the flair.
Because I drink at length, she’s memory loss,
her frazzled, freckled countenance lacking bruise.
Her body outlines nascent, lucent, chartreuse,
under the lights, to her, no albatross.
I haven’t had a great guffaw, so long,
I keel on the ground; I gasp to flinching art.
Her wits portray a certain sadness in heart,
it may be just me lacking tune from liquor’s song.
A smile with a tinge of wry reveals to me
Conundrum that isn’t there, she hides no pain.
Routine is not routine, smiles through the pain
she bears the wounds but also wound up free.
By showing levity through degrees of laugh,
serene-like visage; comedy never wanes,
she somehow brings to mind my window panes;
escapist reminders, days in past on graph.
Those special times were hurtful and grand, it’s strange.
Reflect from anecdotes, silly, happy, glad.
It’s clear she meant the other way a tad:
to venture, warts and all, the laughter exchange.
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 10:13 PM UTC
I’m a construct; piece-wise and bilateral
Anointed by half pieces parted from wise souls
Who sojourned to two-states America in uncertainty
Bore fruit, and I’m part of the four.
As fourth, I am the neoteny of the family
I’m this fleshy symmetry
Can barely keep track
Must remind, crafted in his Immortal Geometry.
So I must grin and bear it
It goes so fast, I remember bits and pieces
Far from wise, before neo-belief
I match left and right but inwardly, I’m not so wisely pieced.
It didn’t take long, my journey, though certainly short, by peaceable ambulation
From where I’ve been, people I’ve met with this inner asymmetry
I want to fix them; with my black hammer and white nail
With my grey, pulpy, heart.
Yet I don’t have the means.
Now I just don’t have it, I need to amble over with mine
My beloved two wise figures of geometry, please understand this
There’s more than the framer of hand or eye, our hearts form imperfect amalgam.
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 6:43 PM UTC