Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Have you seen me?
I'm missing.

In a little town,
that I've been around,
I've found the one
and only hole in hundreds
leading to a separate world
below.

Asphalt and all,
cold hearts,
nearly bare feet travel lengthy
streets, small in complaint.

Asphalt and all,
dead brains,
nearly there, but wrapped in
politic, fighting over what's real.

Have you seen me?
Apparently, I'm gone with no reason.

I've been around.
Everything is strange lines coming
out of nowhere, taking root as patterns,
meaning what you make it.

Asphalt and all,
**** brains,
nowhere near, but covered
in politic, fighting over what's real.
-- but I'm alive.

They can fight me.
-- but I'm alive.
All your brains can fight me,
fight their eyes.
They can fight me.
All they want to fight.
They can fight me.
-- but I'm alive.
                 I'm alive.
                       I'm alive.
                             I'm alive.

Fight me.
I'm smoking ****,
diving into dreams,
barely leaving my house.
Come on, *****, fight me.
If your heart does so explode,
when your eyes cast sight on what you know
is abominable, then come and arson these
paper walls with me inside.
Fight me. Take the life.

-- but I existed.
                 I existed.
                       I existed.
I take solace knowing that by living at all,
I've angered people.
That's, hilarious.
KM Hanslik Jan 5
We break from these dreams without thought
"we can do anything," we cry
kicked in the back of the knees.
The bruises never show, but
we might hold out just a little bit more
might take things a little more slowly this time.

If all is well and calculated,
then aren't our errors just an altered path?
You see me as a stick figure,
another character that wanders by
familiar in my distance
safe in my unchanging rhythms.
But to each their own, I suppose;
we find meaning in whatever comfort we choose;
security blankets our minds and our homes
but I've run my fair number of red lights,
I've done things I'm not proud of.

You set straight lines around the things that I do and say;
when walls break down, you always ask why they failed,
never how to build them stronger.

And I am tired of this empty playdate
with the idea of "goodness" and "virtue"
I pick up the phone but your line is dead;
I continue to be a stick figure.
Q Jul 2014
Outliers, nomads, vagabonds of sorts
We have many names, us unsettled at heart
One city, one place will never be enough
We travel, not to find ourselves, but to discover higher truths
We travel to meet people like you

Without said journeys, blank pages fill your soul
You whither and dry and just plain crumble
Colors haven't touched your eyes,
Wonders, your mind
Read all the pages you can possibly come by

I, for one, can say this is truly true
I've found wonder and intrigue,
But I'll always be most interested in traveling with you

                                    *s.q.

— The End —