Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
The aerodynamic
spiraling of
cappuccino colors
and butterfly words,
churches divide
and coffee-shops
offer something
that equally
scolds impatient tongues.  
liquidize in
the charcoal fog
and the girl in
the leather jacket
comes to life
beside the freeway.
Her shoes
are the ships
and her eyes
are the telescope,
but the streets become
the cement river
where the gasoline
creatures never stop.
This is where
they left her
to die,
this is where
they took
everything away.
She is nothing,
a mistake along
this highway,
but she was lucky
to be given
a name
that sounds good
on a tombstone.
Knowing this,
her pepper eyes
water and her body
collapses upon
brittle grass,
the Earth welcomes
her return.
What are we now?
Every sentence is a forced commitment
and every word forgets its place.
Your breath is held above ground
and I gasp from underwater.
A stare, a sloppy whisper,
I am ****** from my mistakes.
"Strained" is too pretty of a word
to describe this.
I don't want to listen
to what you believe is right,
so I'm wrong and I'm
willing to live with this,
even if it means losing you
in my own self-discovery.
Blue rings of smoke and
Ending further
Mechanical drones but
Thought process abruptly
Nothing has
For my
. . .
You may now begin.
The millions of
personal malfuctions
scrape and sing with a  
hideous tune, but none
could be better to
soothe filthy thoughts.
They begin as tiny
blue rings of smoke and
are soon ****** in through
unsightly painted vents.
A waft of sickly sweet
confusion crosses the
outer borderline,
ending further along
private hallways.
An unnoticable
tinker of raspy tools
buzz with
mechanical drones, but
it becomes easier
with children's time
and deaf ears.
It satisfies every
thought process, abruptly
ending in tasteful rainbows
and inspirational copper print.  
Nothing has
to make sense here,
and only I would know better.
This was strictly
for my
own entertainment.
Blatant stabs of jitters
and caffeinated desperation
know just how and where to
Is it a they, am I a we?
Statements and rambling
forward in line but
they're out of order.
A speaker of hope
and frequent lover of
bold microphone stands,
the hopeless
for the stage.
Bombs and baby cradles
are not important
during this time, the
money-hungry take advantage
stretch the truth and
the innocent.
Helpless creatures are doomed
by their own kind,
but there are the few who
dare to
for something worth fighting for.
Oh poor nature’s lost my attention
the crickets bang against the wall
The weeds grow in through the pavement
and I don't care at all

Nothing seems to matter
I'll give the world my final leave
I got my bag thrown over my shoulder
and I brewed my cup of tea

Then I heard some bells a’jinglin’
and a voice not far behind
A clumsy street performer
that was everything else but mine

I see the rainbow in your glasses
and hear the whistle in your teeth
I feel the laughter from the window
through the shuffle of your feet
Oh, I know you darling
They don’t mean a thing to me
‘cause I see the rainbow in your glasses
and hear the whistle in your teeth
I know this is over-written,
a rerun of too many lines drawn
between yourself and what is
considered harsh reality.
Something is out to get you.
(how can you run from something that doesn't exist?)
Don't turn back, kid.
Can't you tell what is done?
It's tied between every set of eyes ,
but only becomes deadly when drawn from lips.
It resembles a softer mock
of tiny forget-me-knots,
but how long until they can catch fire?
It's different when tasted,  
like specks of ash upon rough tongues.
Hide the breath of the innocent
and pretend it never was.
*(you didn't hear this from me)
Remember to forget everything here.
Disregard these lines as something you've already been told before.
I don't expect this to make a difference, and it doesn't matter if it did.
You are not important.
It's not "one in a million".
You're officially "one of a million".
Does this bother you?
Every single thought you've ever had
has already been thought of before,
and every word has been previously spoken.
Of course there are the select few who choose to break away,
and very seldom do they make it.
Those who do end up making it are not special.
They're simply lucky.
Yes, this is pointless.
No, I'm not saying I'm any better than you.
In fact, most of the people who begin reading this
haven't even gotten to this very sentence.
Anyway, just remember this:
You are and I am.
(Who are you to say this makes sense?)
Now, you may forget.
Written when I was 14.
Next page