The grit under a shoe on a tile
floor, is heard, an ugly sound,
under duress, of a hardened sole,
                Or is it the soul that has no give,
     No mercy, with which to live,
Scapes of wrath, scratches on the superficial,
Eke and etch an existence, where None, stood a chance,
For None was luckier than most, and a Host of Others it
appears, in relief. None, Other can I trust, None Other do
I have.


©DWE022014

as much as i try
i cannot plan euphoric moments

things that went unplanned:

light trails and dance dresses
uniqueness found in a flood of people
hope that goodbyes will linger on
palm trees in the palm of your hand
lake eyes and tan laughter
discovering we were running for no purpose
and reminiscing barefoot nights in the trees
coughing up regretful truth
waking up on the ashy grey carpet
yet still hunting for bears
smoke and animals and faint music
letting the boiler burn and not feeling any pain
adopting gourds and playing pretend
because that's everything we can do in this life
and now i hope to never plan again

Bill from No Man's Land:

No change, nothing to report.

Could use more blankets.

It seems as if
everyone strives to be inhuman
terrified of their own thoughts
and emotions
So much that we would rather
feign perfection
than accept our faults

Gods ******* children
seeking the affections
of a father figure
that is indifferent
to their wants and needs