Picturesque in their presence, we stand.  Sloping hills beckon us to an icon's call to succeed in life.  Remembering tangles assailing like addled brains.  Sheer pull pushing us on.

sloping hills
take us out of the humdrum
often

my life is a tiny pickle
green, tight, thin skin and minuscule
smiling to lift them higher
but here is how my storm begins
too many tumbles in the weeds

my limbs trailing on shaky ground
lost hold on my everyday path
strangers are first, my heritage
no x-ray vision in my sight
my strength, withered a little bit

to exert weathered eyes here
leaves tiny slivers to myself
all the heckling and nagging
cemented between two tycoons
like gaiety and slavery

you left me
drowning in a pool of beer
my core in utter debris
to recede my warmth and cheer

solely roads
waiting anger to recur
hidden from the speech has shone
the backbone of strength I've earned

often lies
fleeing from my hidden pain
from the rain you lean to drive
tired eyes to a big plane

the smell of metal hit the air
permeating eight flights of stairs
door opened just a smidgen
and on the fridge, hands of crimson

walls coated thicker than paint
hundred twenty red pounds minus eight
eight brick red pounds, gone from the room
my partner and I searched all afternoon

one skinned body, open legs lay
next to three others on display
just one missing maroon ball
not found, puzzling us all

burgundy knives strewn on the floor
no trace of other implements in store
no tape, or rope on the slain
tells our brain of one man's reign

maroon pools upon the floor
continuing our cringing even more
just then the call came in
one nut job found, wearing a second skin

if trees drank like men
holding the bottle secure
plunging deep
erasing obstacles
emptying all the liquid

through your eyes
lights of wanton and surprise
encircling my soft core
staging four lives of replies

your arms touch
leaves me begging for a crutch
music you keep teaching me
in my chi stands neatly tucked

rapid beats
spring from my chest to my seat
sounds of smiles allay my pain
even rain can't shake your heat

the many points on paper shed
a life's addled grey matter drawn
the substance he beckons to have read
a fore life's solid matter flown

the conjured ideas contests bring
all the schmaltzy addled chatter
many light bulbs are a dancing
to tongues of core and matter

I put captured ideas to paper
stirring alive with every stroke
to find the day I, the victor
the title of writer's note