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The bread you eat?
The clothes you wear?
The car you drive?
The vacation you take?
The house you own?
The money in your bank account?

Or is your worth:
The rainbow of people's dreams?
The catalyst of positive change?
The smiles on friendly faces?
The gratitude from an individual's lips?
The Mecca of someone inspirations?
The crown of human hearts?

Hussein Dekmak

How are you feeling?
When you can drive a car for whole your life.

Have a driving in the evening.
Along the beach side.
Go to the shopping mall.
Go to travel.
Go to anywhere we want to.

Nobody can deny me.
Because this car is mine.
disclaimer; my small happiness
Rox90 Oct 8
When the moon raises slowly in the sky
I drive pass the crowded streets

I look at the grass and feel the wind passing by
That cold yet soft breeze

Car lights spread across so fast and hazy
As I listen to the slow song on repeat

My heart flutters seeing the moon daisies
While my thoughts dig in so deep

I love this moment, when the world is slow
I just close my eyes and go with the flow
Though you were ambushed by trickery,
You spat on the face of apathy and
Stood daily by your roots, till
Thy labor blossomed with
Good tidings.

A subject you were of ill treatment,
Bouncing from one leech to another
Through channels of stress,
Greeted by streams of anxiety.

Fashioned in obsidian,
You shot your arrow
Wrapped with zeal,
Within the bowels of your target,
By thy hands, foreign to sleep
To claim your sweat,
Your first metal horse
With nostrils of fire.

Ridden she has by endless host
Before thee, filled with years of tales
Eager to rest on the dusty shelf of thy mind,
To keep thee entertained as you ride her body,
Whenever you see fit.

But one wish she requires of thee,
That you melt thy heart in her core;
Thy silver partner in crime.
Anais Vionet Sep 17
My father died when I was seven.

Like a girl in a museum
I'm drawn to his pictures.
Those inadequate reproductions,
hypnotize me.

Pictures, what do they have to give?
Coal-blue eyes, a knowing look.
They exist, for me, like Cassandra of troy,
full of endless secrets that can never be told.

A snowy, ice slickened, twilight-blue
rush hour parade - hundreds of grimy cars
rushing, rushing... somewhere.

Why do  the details I can't remember haunt me so?
A flash of light, the tearing of metal
like the screaming of dogs in a devouring
dance of energy.

The nuclear family detonating
with death inches away.

Everyone was asking, "What do you remember?"
"I don't know."  7 year old me said.

The family man leaving a gravestone like a calling card.

Sometimes, just before I fall asleep,
memories of him - which I hold dear -
come to me like the ghosts of departed friends.
Image after image in the embracing dark.

Why is it the further away you get, the more I need you?

Those images and that voice are strangely silent
in the morning as I'm, once again, awakened
to a world I'd rather reassemble.
it is what it is
CB Miller Sep 11
Detach from your feelings
Let the soul fly out of your
Dark heart
While the Lizard King takes the wheel

A joyless joy ride
Inside your head

Tires screech
Your soul flies back in
Just in time
My first poem here.
Norman Crane Sep 3
Gravity died,
Or so it seemed to us, who were to die,
All loose objects vortical,
Yet static,
                 car spinning,
side over side, the policeman said,
No one could've survived,
Radial blur
All in the rearview
Thud of impact, Thud of stillness
No screams till the spinning wheel ceased
and then only one,
                                 melting like snow upon asphalt.
Dante Rocío Sep 1
with, on, a truck’s van
speeding scrapping,
alas, vagabond voyage ceiling

Well, astral jumping from a car /cinnamonned sun/
isn’t hard then I see, creek

the cloak, the moment and me the contracting,
a book of flights spread open, we
a discarding,
as its wing from gold smothered in
most blue sky and a red sign towards
embarking to a new life/face encrusting

Joy, lazy, lounged,
like a banjo in its autumn on a porch jiggly slouch,
strings light freeze at wind, clasp, then step up and
as the hitchhiker dance.

Amèlie, I caught your sound!
your theme, lastly away,
the accordion’s as of now met,
adopted in a knee’s set,
one leg around the other a mess.
Hanging springs of it, at edge.

eyes currently in wood carved,
steampunk clogs, clads there

whole body a cello,
from boots with folly drunk
through wood prolonging curved
to the “f”s at the end of ideas and
caramel hair known as falling leaves’


Laid open!
Onward higher!

so off
Driven through cloudy bright like summer
Road onward and in my third eye sown,
Thanks to the vicissitudes of
Amèlie Poulain‘s old accordion searching,
The Tarnation soft story in radio swaying.
I just saw my image on others’ cars limits,
Riding more hitchhiking than wind,
Than Fiddle on the Roof,
That could swerve on and on
With those old music clogs
Without things to be due hold
Dante Rocío Aug 18
There must be a message
in the occurrence that whenever
in a closed-up space of time
I can never sit down
to any mind-occupying activity
yet resort no matter what
to observance,
passing as unrequited passion
of someone else’s (vocation),
shape-o-thoughts and sensing,
being the music the radio is listening to, and tender stupefying approaching
to hurt questions and structures
who hold onto philosophy
and one stance.
My depth darts me over
to finally look straight
into my own eyes
instead of straying,
diverting from the claim of my proper door.
I cannot die and will not,
will not leave my higher stake
for the trash bins’,
among which we live in,
The ever urging in order
to keep me liberated,
my Life sated
Silence tested
And keep me reminded
that I have a Soul and subtle meanings
To trespass.
Like on many, especially dark,
Car rides
On the children back seat.
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