It's all turning to fluid, It's all washing down. The gutters that clutter the street Are sloshing everything south, The pipes unseen are having a feast. Feeding off the emotions of a cowardly beast.
Nobody noticed, nobody tended to care Just go to work, don't come home, Just stay there. You're a **** up. You need to get a bit more mature, You need to earn so much more Then you might have a place to exist. Then you might have a place to live.
I bet they see this smile, I bet they see the dark circles on my face. Who should I be kidding, it's all fake. Slaving life, am I even awake?
The icicle slowly melted It slowly melted in the afternoon sun Melting while hanging off the rain gutter Letting go of a small portion of its essence Essence, that in the end, would be gone Gone to create another form of its previous self.....
Brian Hill - 2019 # 178
You just never where your writing brain will take you...
Rope There's no point in splitting hairs No point in pointing a finger It's done The pages are all torn Trashed and scattered And dragged through the gutter Like yesterdays garbage And all that rope I supposedly gave A phantom There never was a rope, A leash, nor a chain Those things are not for sale At the well No there never was a rope Except perhaps For the one attached To the water bucket From which We still Quietly sip Through The miles Of sea And storm And time As long as we stay This way This well Will never dry up
2016-2017 for the attempt to make unconditional, the conditional.
From my collection Bits And Pieces/Slamming on the Hollywood Freeway 2017 amazonbooks