Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
kyle-kulsethPoems
The nuts and the bolts of your automatic habits programmed scowls and slowing reflexes                keep you      matching wits with no one                every night.              And you keep slipping      back into your 6-month rut      with your cold sneer,       hands in pockets,       your shrinking bank account            and swelling gut... The Mountain Lines meander, you're just killing time and brain cells. Ashy days are tasting bland. Bus routes circle back on themselves           like your footsteps every ******* night,           this town will raise its hand,           you'll retreat into familiar flight.                                                       Cringe                                        'cuz it's so easy.                                                        Cringe                      at what you have become.      Come back on your loop repeating.                                  Potential's mocked.        You're numb and deaf and dumb. And you've never surrendered. But that's not the same as winning. Pinning hopes on snapping out of it and sleeping hearts on sleeves.           Heavy footsteps every ******* night,           a walking metronome           passing cross-streets just to pass the time. Your dull, aching eyes that you peer through every sunset-- programmed scowls squinting through preset acts--                keep your        dulling wits all silent               every night.            And you'll keep walking through days like turnstile gates and send each night on down the line. Send each night on down the line.
0
Aug 30, 2016
Aug 30, 2016 at 2:32 PM UTC
Turnstile Gates
The nuts and the bolts of your automatic habits programmed scowls and slowing reflexes                keep you      matching wits with no one                every night.              And you keep slipping      back into your 6-month rut      with your cold sneer,       hands in pockets,       your shrinking bank account            and swelling gut... The Mountain Lines meander, you're just killing time and brain cells. Ashy days are tasting bland. Bus routes circle back on themselves           like your footsteps every ******* night,           this town will raise its hand,           you'll retreat into familiar flight.                                                       Cringe                                        'cuz it's so easy.                                                        Cringe                      at what you have become.      Come back on your loop repeating.                                  Potential's mocked.        You're numb and deaf and dumb. And you've never surrendered. But that's not the same as winning. Pinning hopes on snapping out of it and sleeping hearts on sleeves.           Heavy footsteps every ******* night,           a walking metronome           passing cross-streets just to pass the time. Your dull, aching eyes that you peer through every sunset-- programmed scowls squinting through preset acts--                keep your        dulling wits all silent               every night.            And you'll keep walking through days like turnstile gates and send each night on down the line. Send each night on down the line.
#metaphor#time#people#connection#experience#machine#place#monotony#rut#disconnect
kyle-kulseth
Written by
kyle-kulseth
M/American
Aug 30, 2016
Aug 30, 2016 at 2:32 PM UTC
Request permission to use this poem