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Upon that bench he gently sit
A cigarette in hand, Two-Liter in fist.
A local legend he is, to all around,
All know his name, in and out of town

Billy wears clothes from a Goodwill basket
Stone washed jeans, a torn flannel jacket
His face, red from the biting cold
And hair matted, grey, and old

His journeys, repetitive and often short  
From his bench to the local corner store
Where he finds crisp Marlboro cartons
And a two liter with the Coke label on it

Accomplished, he ventures back to the bench
His walk, fixated and shuffling on the cement
Hugging his soda as if a newborn
Many snicker with scorn

“his deeds are worthless and few,
Sitting, watching, waiting...nothing new”
“Lazy,” they say, “he nary lift a finger all day!”
“Why should we have to work hard and pay?”

Billy knows what everyone thinks
But continues to sit, smoke, and drink
He does what he pleases, regardless of “cost”
Knowing that he is a legend, merely in his own thoughts
I scream to drown the noise, fight to hold my poise
Against this sonic wave that dismantles and destroys
This place that I called home… It’s all that’s left of what I own.
I fear I’m destined to the desert, or somewhere desolate to roam.
Tried to convince my brain this wasn’t real – that lies are all I feel.
I’m not sure why I fear this noise;
There’s nothing left for it to steal.
Yet I plug my ears and scream; tear the stitching from my seams
I find it difficult to sleep, and near impossible to dream.
I scream so hard it makes me sweat, and my skin begins to gleam
This heat turns smiles into tears, like water into steam.

My head begins to ache; my hands begin to shake
If I chose the wrong path, I made one **** of a mistake.
While my lungs still permit, I’ll keep their volume set on high,
Lift my head to the clouds, and scream at the sky.
I have yet to hear an answer, and while I’m not much of dancer
I learned some steps from Lady Luck in hopes to cure me of this cancer.

Now, I don’t believe in luck – but she still left me with something.
While we danced I took notice; the noise dulled slightly to a humming.
I looked back to Lady Luck – and I’m sure this wasn’t just a dream –
But she had vanished to the air, like water into steam.
I said “I don’t believe in luck.” She still left me something, though.
She said “You can’t predict the world – I assume this much you know…”
“But if a farmer plants a seed, in that spot a plant will grow.”

One day, my throat gave out.  For no longer could I shout.
And I don’t believe in luck, so I was simply left with doubt.
I cursed that lady’s words; told myself that she was crazy.
When something caught my eye…
There - at my feet - grew a daisy.
A daisy… In the desert…
And despite how bad my head hurt, I thanked God for Lady Luck.
I thanked God that I had met her.
For the noise I heard was her opposite. It was the presence of chance.
I learned the farmer can’t predict the world, but his seeds grow into plants.
So since my only choices are my actions... I think I’ll take today to dance.
Daniel 5d
Your delusions aren't twisted
Nor are they messy and dark
They are linear and have purpose

Those people won't understand
But it doesn't matter
Since we are not all that different
We all have our own delusions
Some of us just don't care to admit

There is no need to pretend you are normal
Because nobody is
Or maybe thats what makes us normal :l
My reality bends, but doesn't break . . .
            Oh! how I love to watch her shake.
I love to watch her struggle,
              as she fights not to crumble
                      Into the void that she creates.

All the while, she's subtracting,
                   Extending, then retracting . . .
She functions as a prism,
         But it's not light that she's refracting.
Mind warned me that flames play games––
Flames master them;
Learn from the broken and dead,
And move faster to the weak spots of their present-day victims:

Eyes watched perception of orange transform to gold;
Red was ambre, depending on the day, maybe ruby.
The colour palette of the fire was a chest of gems, jewels, pricelessness.
Dance, bend, sway––flames wrapped their fiery hands around my waist;
Together, the ice of me against the blistering flames, told stories never told:
Sentimentality, love (now, how could I name it so?), exposure.

From a far, the fire shouts,
But when it is at the final steps of the gasoline pathway, it fiercely whispers through clenched fangs.
Flames do play games:
They enjoy poker as you never know if you are in the lead or if they are ten steps ahead;
They snicker at your pain as you dispute with inner-self, confused, whether or not to believe that there is more to you than destiny shows:

Hellish flames spoke temptingly, beautifully.
I was convinced to tell myself that all they said was true...
Though, yet, but
Until I melted, and flushed them away, I never grew.
Flames numbed my palms, I picked them up, formed a ball,
And I threw flames, fire, **** far down:
Through the marble,
Through the mirror ground.
I mentally wrote this in the shower; it is soooooo bad.
This was planned to go in another direction, one less harsh and more romantic, but somehow it ended up like this with a wierd, violent theme (if that makes sense).
Also, I had more of a prose mindset when I added on to this so if this does not sound poetic then welppppp.
Yeah... okay bye.

(Maybe leave some comments, and a like?)
Harley Hucof Feb 7
I can never respect people who take decisions for others,
Omni present child wearing adolecence .

People must never assume they have all the answers
When you play the role of the actors
Idealising philosophies and mystic factors
You judge, aware of your sorrow bearers
And with each sin, a silent look, and a feather
Torn apart to make it clearer
That he whom survives is repressed
While the new trend is depressed
Yet somehow i still picture you in your white dress,
And the voice i talk to you with
Is mine,
but you are not me
So how can i define
The slips and fissures of your subconcsious mind
And thirst to be free.

To each his field and angles
And if **** is heaven
i am still the devil

Words Of Harfouchism
People judge people who judge people who judge who etc..
Neo Feb 7
I must've picked them up one day
Insipid in their grandeur ways
And I looked through shaded lenses that washed the colors away.

So I lit a flame
and sparked a wick
to the ticky time bomb
of my final judgement

And there I sat
facing the facts
of who I've become
and where I'm at

Now, Embers crawl before flames dance
Just as madness is an avalanche

Becoming closer with the phone in my hand
All the platforms of make-believe lands
wearing my heart on my face
More disheveled everyday

What more to say than we're moving in place

either that or back

The circles we're caught in are the purest of black
Weaving voids where lights are trapped
And there's nothing left but grey

all I need

Is someone to take the lenses away.
Jade Bartlett Jan 31
No matter how
you sugarcoat it,
there is never
a nice way
of calling someone


“You would have been beautiful
in the Renaissance era
[because in the Renaissance era
they painted portraits
of chubby girls like you—
back then,
fat was artistry.]

I still don’t know what
I was more upset about:
The backhanded compliment--
"would have"
being synonymous for
"no longer"--
or the fact that
I was conditioned
to believe the
Mona Lisa
was anything short of  
Don't be a stranger--check out my blog!

(P.S. Use a computer to ensure an optimal reading experience.)
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