In the passenger seat of my car You on top in a black dress Your skirt hiked up above your waist It was cramped You struggled to maneuver But it's always like this Or so it seems Things go right in my life More often than my dreams
Between 9 to 5 political **** And mortgages and schools Saturday's filled with vacuuming Sunday's stuck in halls A "quick" traverse in peak traffic An aversion to a new letter A coffee catch up full of black words 1 million complaints of the weather
Grey suits, black dresses, white sneakers Global warming, terrorism, grim reapers
Who's hotter and richer than you More likes, more shares How many countries and bunjees Neck tattoos Who the **** cares
Straw hut villages with broadband Switch off your mind, switch on the box And watch how ******* control our land
Tell me, at what point do we really live? When do we notice our breath, the air Do you know you have the universe in you? Are you blind to the light you wear?
~ I am a cynic and a romantic at heart. My skin hardened by experience My heart fearful of pain and trust. Many have tried to peel away my doubts and fears and try to add colour to my truth.
My truth is my reality. And with that, no one can hurt me. So stop. Please stop.
Don't look at me with eyes fascinated, eyes with pity, eyes of doubt. My heart's afraid and my mind's so convicted.
You taste sweetness from my sourness and still... you think you can heal me...? ~
This is an old poem I found in a very very old journal. Wrote it back 2014-5, wow. Looking at it now, I think I've gotten a little better, but yet, this still hits so close to home. Training the mind to be different is a lot harder than people would think. Lyn ***
That makes the world go mad That brings the crowds to their feet That spreads like wildfire Through a dry winter forest
Is it those excessively long words? The loquacious ramblings Of an insecure mind aspiring To authentic intellect?
Is it perhaps... the "creativity" of varied spacing or... could it be..... the lack of capitalization the loathsome little letters screaming out hey, look at us! ... or maybe it's the punctuation marks, littered, haphazardly through the text (whether used correctly) or, theyre not?! despite worrds mispeled and a grammar might is broken can these tricks increase interest though miswritten or misspoken?
Is the trick alliteration Whose bite brightly bids us To center on the snappy sounds? Although all along unvoiced underneath Ideas idle in the isles (or perhaps the aisles) Of the mind To meld and craft and bind Our thorough thoughts And worthy words Into lines Which Heard by herds Raise the Praise for which we Privately, desperately Pray
Maybe it's a magical mix Of splendid in-your-head rhythm Marvelous meter that perfectly clicks Flowing smoothly without schism
Well-spaced stanzas Well-used time Well-crafted phrases Well-thought-out rhymes
Well, maybe not... those gems are often ignored cast-aside, unclicked, abhorred
Because the modern world doesn't need your rules your restrictions your regulations your misguided boundaries your oppression your antiquated ideas of "the right way" to write to speak to act to live to (fill in the blank)
No, what the modern world needs is Negation! Contradiction! Resistance! Revolt!
And poetry whose words Say the same thing Repeat the same meaning Echo the same lyrics Rephrase the same thoughts But in an ever-so-slightly Different Varied Changed up way Line After line Of synonyms over and over again
I don’t matter But that’s alright Just another speck On this pale blue dot Filled with infinite content And I laugh and laugh and be entertained Christ, is this all there really is? Does any of this matter? I don’t matter
I feel drained Another day Can’t even focus on the coffee cup The only thing keeping me going Is the falseness of this American Dream Oh man I’m already a debt ***** But I’ll get through it When I’m 50 I feel drained
But there’s no cause for concern We wouldn’t wanna upset the status quo Get a good job pay those debts Can you breathe yet? Probably not No alarms and no surprises The true American Dream As you drown in the poison But there’s no cause for concern
One last time for the people in the back I’m having a heart attack but I made it to 50 I ate like **** and it’s my time to die But I got my quiet suburban home And a wife that I love And 2 beautiful children And a job I hate One last time for the people in the back
Maybe I’m being too cynical It’s not that bad There’s tragic flaws surrounding the great US of A But I’ve gotta be me, I’ve gotta function Even if I don’t matter I can breathe and that’s a relief Maybe I’m just being too cynical...
Toss myself out of bed Peel myself off the floor Drag myself out of the house Push myself to the job I hate Force myself to face the world Command myself to not melt into a puddle that oozes through the pores of the couch cushions to become a useless incompetent waste of my own **** self
The sconce on the wall for crackling torches left burning for a returning resents the assumption of infinite patience. She's attached to an old brick wall; not by affection, but by habit and tools of the trade of attachment. Occasionally-replaced simple screws worked into the bracket. The wall is as dusty to touch, as divisive as a tome of records, of laws of old. The sconce respects history-- wishes more would become antiquity. Knowing every flame left ardently lit, eventually burns out. While here she stays.