Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
amabel Feb 2016
Time flies by.
What happened to my mom's lullaby?

What will happen next?
This is just a jumble of text,

about the future that is to come,
when I will worry about my income.

Money gets us everything these days,
the amount dependent on these essays,

that we write in school.
They mold and shape us a certain way into a little tool.

I just want to live a happy life.
Maybe even become a happy wife.

I'm trying to rhyme,
but I'm running out of time.

So here I will stop.
Stop thinking and just stare at my desktop.
I've been really thinking about the future. About college, a career, a significant other, and settling down somewhere. It's stressful to know that your job, how you get money to live, depends on how well you do in school now.

Just what's on my mind right now.
Katlyn Orthman Jan 2015
It's as if I closed my eyes and time passed me by
I wish that I could rewind

I miss the feeling of being careless and free
But now I have responsibility shackling me

I miss the days that I could play without stress
But now my life is just a mess

I miss the world inside my imagination
But now it's become my damnation

Every thought is centered around what I need to get done
There is no vocabulary in my life to define "Fun"

And I am not alone, but I feel deserted
I keep calling out, but fear no one heard it

I feel like I am lost inside my mind
And I am searching but I can not find

The way out of this Hell I've been sentenced to
Life was easier before I grew

Martin Narrod Apr 2014
angry men who do not know I do not have a dollar or a cig to spare. Ugly irrefutable contagion-handed howlers. Angry mischievous heathens that pantomime on 6:00a.m. sidewalk, Wicker Park gallow stop-sign, choreographed gutter-punk drunk walk. And of all he wants and could ever want splits down his gooey membrane brain in the outline of a noun shaped fragment of a clause, "Couldja spare 80ยข for the train," but of course I don't spare on the ellipsis or the period. Semi-colons I won't! My rubber-bottomed leather boots lash out, heavy scraping sounds trail this mirrored shadow half an angle behind me.

*****!! Blonde framed sunglasses from American Apparel, a gift from my sister in a folded Ray-Ban case is scattered on last nights bedroom floor, my girlfriend has certainly not noticed, the gloom-coated morning sun spray has not noticed; but I have unzipped a fissure in the ocular lens. My heart skips a beat. Her bedroom might as well have swallowed them whole. Now the house can halt and have the shade, swaying in Spring air in 10:22a.m. shadows. The aviator himself Howard Hughes would strike me with his 488 aircraft. Edwin Starr in his invincible sinister calypso of War would turn me round. I was sturdy as a rock until I began to forget my forgottens. These unknown unknowns I knew I needed. I'm over a quarter-century on to noon going nowhere- and quite blindly.

But then, still she could stand upright and find me. Her neck crooked, looking onward through the East, the gristly roots of rhubarb buried in her searching fingernails. She's threaded worse, and of course if I could just tell her- this is the kind of nursing which requires acute temperament and flexibility. I am thus on a journey to strike nonsense and fear from the idiotic vocabulary that put this nonsense in my head. Split through me like a butter knife into my apotropaic. Perhaps tar water could cure my ails. If not, certainly a sliver of vanilla would set me straight. Or if could just rain rain rain all day, then I'd make do without, but she is at school. My pistons are racked and nervous, and I'm not going anywhere but my rucksack stoop. I am camped in midwestern Spring soup. Fog, rain, and shade. The nightmare of day.
Inspired by William Butler Yeats 'Beautiful Lofty Things'

— The End —