Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Beckie Davies Apr 21
Don't tell me your name
I don't need to know
I got what I wanted
Don't look so devastated

Don't ask me for my name
I'm never going to tell you
This was just a temporary fix
Don't make it more than what it is

Don't tell me your name
I don't want to know
Thank you for the distraction
Now take your things and go
don't tell me your name
Royce Apr 7
Bukowski, you were full of ****,
You can't drink that much
And write all of those books;
Poems, short stories, and novels.

I tried it once, or twice before,
And wound up with the DTs,
And a bad case of depression,
God only knows what else is wrong
With me.
I did write a lot though.
But lost all of my manuscripts.
I guess people were built differently
In your time.

I read all your books more than once,
And learned what to do,
And what not to do,
Find your own voice right?

A girlfriend once said, "stop reading."
"I'll just finish this one page," I said.
"Bukowski, Bukowski, Bukowski,
Is that what you think of women?"
"No, you don't get it," I said.
"What's there to get?
He can't write. None of it rhymes.
It's like a 10-year-old wrote it.
Plus he is very ugly. I saw his picture.
I hope he dies."
"Get out," I said.
"You're joking?"
"Get the hell outta here!"
She threw her cell phone at me,
It hit me on my right eyebrow,
And bounced onto the floor.
The blood began to trickle down,
Onto the pages of my open copy of Post Office.
She said nothing, picked up her phone,
And slammed the door
Behind her.

Bukowski, you were full of ****,
But I like what you wrote.

I'm older now and escaped from death's door.
You are in the grave,
My future is uncertain.
You wrote many books,
I wrote only one.

I listen to Mozart's symphony no. 40
Distracting myself from these symptoms,
Thinking, and laughing out loud
As I write this.
Taylor Mar 31
when i’m alone
smothered by thoughts
and the dead weight of
silence
i seek distraction

to clog my ears and nose
with too many sounds
and too many humans
feels so much better
than this *******
quiet place

fill me

with all the smells
sounds
and terrible news
you can find

sing to me

top 100 dreams
and symphonies of
*******

surround me

with friends like smog
and toxic love

feed me

candy conversation
and forgettable names

i want it all

because anything
and I mean anything
feels better
than this
god
******
quiet
place
stillhuman Mar 12
That's why I'm here
I'm here for you
to hide in fantasies
in your living room
We don't live in a perfect world, but I'll still be by your side when you come back to it
Denicel Mar 1
It's not a bad thing to make mistakes
But overdoing it can make aches.

Sin came from our desires
It is a force that tempts us to lit our fire.
Sin causes lives into distraction
And make people cry in unsatisfaction.

Naive people,sinning to earn self happiness.
Selfishness is the start of fights.
War, and more sin which is made by human kind.
When it's been pouring heavy all day
then this feeling comes and always befuddles.
A couple cuts to make demons obey
rather I should jump in some muddy puddles.
Or is the pain supposed to put me place?
But no longer will I be at their disgrace.
As hands twist, stumbling through doors locked made of
wood pulp and ink and the light underneath seems to
illuminate the sleep in our eyes, it reveals too the cracks in
the corners, the silver slithers and the rust.

To dart across country remains the aim but now many an
Inn will beckon with its burning hearth each more
welcoming than the last. The food more exotic, the crowd
merrier.

Crackling azure wraps and warps, and their eyes glow
with milken dullness. Bereft of colour this solemn matter
thirsts and hungers to consume, to gorge, to shine
postcards of brightly spotted watercolours.

No longer can we trace a finger down the side of a tree, to
remain locked in a single room melting wax and judging
hats.

The wood swung and thus the rope, born 200 years too
late, when was the last time we heard wanderlust not for
the road? The jailer has recaptured us not with wooden
sigils but copper rods and numbers. A primordial beast
slain not by magical tome but by black powder. The
renaissance is over.
That we seek distractions with our phones, the internet and TVs and before all of this was created we would study or be fulfilled with just books.
Graff1980 Nov 2020
The radio doesn’t work.
It no longer distracts me
when I am driving
or obscures the thoughts
that used to hurt a lot.

I got new devices to
help me get through
dealing with what
American dummies
love to do.

Cellphone, laptop,
PlayStation four,
fun apps that
let me read
comic books,
watch TV,
and really good
movies.

In the race to resist
having to deal with
all the pain
we are all feeling,
I am killing it.

Don’t need chemicals
to fog or blackout,
don’t need to party
to ignore that nagging doubt,

I just fill every second with
modern tech ****,

so I can take my feelings
and turn the volume
down on all of them.
Next page