Four cycles I neither nourished nor idled As I pondered the sameness of it all. Heard Solomon’s voice. Shrewd as ever, but varnished with sorrow Like mine. Could it be? That once that filmy overlay, So seemingly inane, Has been pulled back — the vacuum seal breached. No longer sustenance in enterprise? But in repetition one must sate? No! The story of man is not a tragedy! Of shackled ankles and nine to fives. But a dialogue with God! Where the audience jests and heckles. But is moved again And again to silence By a mere visceral soliloquy.
Today, From our cells of subjectivity We shout and dance for progress. But is there a better way To breach the barriers between spirits Than by rediscovery of the known, But ignored, Forgotten, The pathway to our wholes? Are we then just fools Wandering eternally through a mist? Have we once again shed What’s most precious? To reveal what? But our shameful nakedness. For what Solomon knew is lost today When I interact with the world. All is vain but the path. Till full circle our story begins anew.
You'll be fighting your monsters til you're six feet in your grave. I know you, you're strong still it's hard not to cave.
Sometimes in summer it's easy to forget that the war is still going when the battle resets.
Inside, in the dark, where the flowers can't reach They see it's their time to attach and leech.
Lay low, wait til morning and remember you're loved when fuzzy little monsters Return with boxing gloves.
After a few beautiful months of successful depression management, I found myself in a hole one night with no triggers. I felt lonely, helpless, and impatient to get better. I felt disappointed by how suddenly I got back to a bad spot after years of nonstop work. I knew I was going to be okay, but I needed a distraction to get through the night. I decided to visualize my depression as a physical being that was separate from me. I started cheering up as I was writing, so the being became less and less threatening. By the end I had myself laughing by picturing this tiny sesame street looking monster wearing boxing gloves. I'm proud of my little pep talk. I hope someone else finds joy or humor in it as well.
Why can't women have *** Why are you praised for the same act that demonizes me Why can't I be proud of my body Why must it be hidden away Why can't I experiment Why can't I even experience Why does *** mean I'm so ****** Why does *** have to destroy me
*** is an act for he modern man He stands tall while we bow down He receives all the praise All for an act that he only gives halfway Because it's all "On your knees" "**** my ****" "Don't be a tease"
*** is a privilege for those with a Y chromosome So that they can stare while we cover up So they can **** while we remain chaste So they can stand over our broken bodies Whilst we crumble from within
And I'm so tried Tried of the ***** looks Tired of the names Tired of being a salve to this society Tired of the image of man dictation how I feel Tired of everything that's wrong with ***
We deserve to **** just as much as you And **** we will Because we don't need you permission to love our bodies And someday we will learn that And on that day you will have to learn to share Share your precious *** with the new modern woman
Gotta love a double standard, I suppose I'm just tired of having to cover up because I'm not supposed to have a body, nor do I dare enjoy it. And it's not that everyone a misogynistic *******, so much that I am tired of having to be ashamed for everything I do and I know I'm not the only one.
this cautious man (bobby jean) born in the u.s.a. grownin’ up in the badlands of atlantic city bonded with blood brothers felt born to run along backstreets in brilliant disguise that did cover me frequently blinded by the light of the full moon
casting silhouettes against darkness on the edge of town which lunar shafts pierced candy’s room while immersed in book of dreams describing better days on a Cadillac ranch
where devils & dust - visible dancing in the dark celebrating like calendar showered 4th of july or other glory days in darlington county even though I ain’t got you.
livin’ in the future mine hungry heart hankered and felt like I’m on fire for you, this fire in me craved human touch desire - roaring into the ole factory fire because I wanna marry you because the night populated with girls in their summer clothes
each dazzling like 57 channels (and nothin’ on) in imagination of my american skin descended from when adam raised a cain before last to die forecasting kingdom of days now dwelling in celestial mansion on the hill.
now rightfully claim status of I’m a rocker/ local hero and I’m goin’ down meeting across the river if I should fall behind on the downbound train as living proof within light of day magic jungleland
policed by highway patrolman i.e. johnny 99 alias johnny bye bye – held up without a gun defending this lucky town established on Matamoras banks from an incident on 57th street
thus celebrated as local hero every independence day when with ****** incorporated firing point blank out in the street that staccato new york city serenade from no surrender outlaw pete originally from nebraska.
it’s hard to be a saint in the city open all night within my hometown once my father’s house, now my city of ruins where tis moot to ask does this bus stop at 82nd street?
one step up into the pink Cadillac hops the ramrod queen of the supermarket teasing audio dials sans radio nowhere a red headed woman
racing in the street toward secret garden to save my love – with thee angel rosalita (come out tonight) offering reason to believe roll of the dice real world and to prove it all night
from spare parts – shards of roulette wheel housing souls of the departed please save my love and stolen car for sherry darling – that spirit in the night
she’s the one among souls of the departed no longer stopped by state trooper precinct based along streets of philadelphia some crackling like streets of fire straight time mandate for those armed to the teeth along tenth avenue freeze-out.
requiem per terry’s song – what love can do accompanied by e street shuffle performed in somber tones rumbling down thunder road for souls of used cars two hearts crushed
along this hard land for: the ghost of tom joad the last carnival homage to wild billy’s circus story the price you pay when you’re alone working on a dream now wreck on the highway.
we take care of our own from youngstown when heading of to the promised land the rising distant mystical eden where you can look (but you’d better not touch) espying the river of salvation
joining eternally the ties that bind a tunnel of love or like the wrestler pinning opponent tougher than the rest like laborers working on the highway chiseled like this hard land!
You’ve labeled us rightly: Real news. It’s no libel. Forget about Putin; we’re just having fun as we cling to tradition, and guns, and the Bible. The pipe-dream is ending. Your war has begun.
We are glad you’re progressive—your future awaits. Take your baggage, and go. We won’t hinder your flight. You could choose one of many dull globalist states or else stay, and prepare for the cultural night.
We are ****** and mean. You appreciate art. We’re black velvet painting. You’re classical strings. We are rigidly Right. You are left feeling smart but appalled by the changes democracy brings.
We’re the garbagemen next to your uptown Picasso. Our news is pure falsity. Why ? Cause you say so ! We are selfish, aggressive, misogynist too . . . (you can ask our sweet wives if the latter is true).
We’re oppressive to immigrants, harsh on our kids. While you signal your virtue, we have none to show. Such deplorable ways have you flipping your lids. So please go out in style. Or else don’t—but just GO.
We’re immune to the slurs you’ve been slinging for years. Please progress to the North without further delay and make good on your promises. Spare us the tears. And buzz off—take a hike. Break a leg. Fade away.
Though you may hate him he’s really not that right wing, your president, Trump.
i have always found myself in the middle actually born in the middle of the day, month, year, decade (6.12.94) very well-versed in what it's like to be simultaneously rich and incredibly poor living in other states sleeping on the floor sure
i walk a generational fine line this gemini primetime, of insoluble crises the holy oil floats to the top we learn that feigned warmth cannot dissolve the calcified ego of a leader or their god you proclaim the name of jesus but still cry out for someone to lead us from gray gay awareness today
it's taken time and distance for this to be easy to say.
this is for the ones who have always found themselves in the middle,