because I'm in waiting
waiting for dinner
waiting for the movie
waiting for the flu to go away
waiting for that parking space
waiting for the rain to stop
waiting for sunrise
waiting for sunset
I'm still waiting
waiting for the checkout cashier
waiting for the, the, the ,the
I'm not waiting for you
the you that represents the end
the end that is permanently in my mind
Brian Hill - 2020 # 61
What are you waiting for?
I drove a Lincoln into the park
So I could bleed it out
Filling six chambers, this isn't roulette
Every shot is firing, I don't need the doubt.
You wouldn't like to see my perspective
Manipulating minds without even incepting
Repeating just for repetition,
Check the mission log, we were made to burn out.
Etching average into our blood since day one
Fighting for the chance to pick a different route.
This isn't social poetry, we don't socialize.
To see in my head, I need to perform a procedure
Then jeepers creepers, have new peepers.
Stopped following a preacher in every church
Each one had sins that outweighed my worth
Only to hold onto few, it's true, but for those I do
It's womb to tomb and birth to earth.
Who would take a shot for your being?
A nearly empty room fills the head
Of everyone who thought they had everyone
Still disillusioned, Courtney, get my gun!
Dead house felt like the realest thing I wrote
Only to still feel like I'm blowing smoke.
I judge myself harder than any critic
So if you want a pound of my flesh,
You're welcome to come and get it.
A glass half empty
Trying to fall into a larger cup
I am the one looking for innocence
It'd be easier to be empty
Than to toss it all in poor judgment
Possessed by this desire
A fire rises, and I'm just a fly on the wall
An anthem of indoctrinated philosophy
Wondering where is the merit in being avenged
Hold me, before I slip across the edge
Into a glass half empty
Engulfed by saltation into my darkest dreams
Relics of the empty soul cannot appear on the face
Yet, when I imagine the human condition
Evanescence of these memories are merely a relic
Jaded and pure are these deep ties to my reality
So are crowded people unaware of the emptiness of my soul?
A lone plastic bag
Of unknown, mysterious origin,
Now floats, heaven-bound.
© Ethan M. Pfahning 2019
Still Stars are bright
Clouds are in queue
disturbing my view
Dogs are barking
My pen is in parking
But my words can't wait
Compelling me to create
To close my eyes,
a sweet lullaby.
the concrete beneath our feet
turned to **** rugs peeking between
headlights from a passing car
illuminate what is already clear
as you pull my waist in closer.
music drifts in the background
as words unspoken
spark creation under the soft
sounds of our eyes meeting.
have you ever wanted someone to stay so badly that simple goodbyes make you ache?
When I saw you walking around,
I really wanted to say something,
Something that would make you turn around
So I can see your intruded red face
Jack frost seemed to be only thing
Touching your lips tonight
As I say something
So I can hear you say something
Yet you wanted to hear nothing
So now I feel like Nothing
As you turn around
Kick up the dust
Inviting the hounds
Of this parking lot
To swallow me whole
Yet I wont think of anyone else
I just wanted to let you all know about the release of my self-published book of poems, "Parking Lot Poems"! Thank you all for your support; this website has been instrumental in shaping me into the poet I am today. If you have ever read a single word or line from one of my works, thank you. If you are interested in purchasing a copy, you can do so here:
the shore washed up and fell right into your rose filled bones and all that your said was that you're changing your heart again, i dont understand why your favourite flowers are daisies but your hair smells like lemons and i guess yellow burns in your eyes, every time the sun sets to golden tones you pack your bags to run again but nighttime will come faster than that 9:07 train and you'll remember your date with the moon's craters and spray paint cans that hurt your back with the weight, except that graffiti doesn't have much weight to you anymore, paint over the scars, under the bruises, and lick your lips in the light of a streetlamp; there's a ripped up parking ticket in your back pocket & 19 ways out of that burning silver feeling that you can solve in this city by noon tomorrow