#garbage
The war of words. Mine versus Yours … for sparkles NOW ?
Why do you even read if all you want to do is hear yourself?
You need someone else to tell you what to think and feel.
Try and find some deeper meaning
that someone else has figured out for you ?
, that you could staple onto your own meaningless unfulfilled excuse for a life.
Or worse yet,
quote me
as you
trying to pass yourself off as brilliant.
What, did you spend 15 minutes of one day thinking
that art was supposed to be or do
for you?
Are you one of those coddled little ***** sycophants?
Whose mommy never stopped providing a V chip safe space for?
Have you spent your whole life never being challenged?
Moping around, pilled up and complaining about being offended
from one participation trophy to another…
( no I’m not a Republican, Karen )
Did you think that life was all supposed to be roses are red violets are blue?
That I'm here to enlighten or entertain you ?
to feed you dopamine?
Another pat on the head.
This isn't tick tock
At least not yet ,
Elliot was a hero for years
but now
I have to swipe right
like and subscribe
for what ? Sparkles ? Am I 10 ?
Stars ?
Too bad you couldn’t make them tin foil and gold
right ?
Wow… reduce my art to a shallow popularity beg
SHAME.
Mar 24
Mar 24, 2026 at 12:09 AM UTC
didn't you notice the garbage can
filled with food I threw away?
Feb 4
Feb 4, 2026 at 12:40 PM UTC
Guatemala
I was young,
Military Police with clean new boots
And a chest full of hope and pride,
Still thinking service was about salutes,
Not shadows on the other side.
They said, “Guatemala—it won’t be bad.”
Jungle duty, heat and aid.
We packed like boys chasing purpose,
Not knowing what price would be paid.
The border near El Salvador—
Soldiers, hesitant tourists, turned.
A mission blurred into ambush light,
And suddenly, everything burned.
The first shot cracked like thunder,
Then chaos danced through every tree.
My tripod unfolded before I could think,
Like it already knew what I’d need to be.
And there he was.
Not a ghost. Not some faceless foe.
A man, breathing, crouched in the brush—
Too real, too human, too close.
No flak vest on me. Just sweat and breath.
And I saw him—thank God, I saw him—
His eyes locked with mine
In that final second between life and death.
His collar had red-threaded logos,
Symbols I’d never seen before.
But they’re seared in me now,
Just like the way he hit the jungle floor.
I don’t remember pulling the trigger—
Only the recoil and sound,
And how silence came after,
Like the jungle held its breath all around.
I stared at his body like it might move,
Like maybe I’d made some mistake.
But war doesn’t offer rewinds
Or give back the things it takes.
Later, the others spoke in code:
Rules of engagement, mission clear.
But all I could see were his eyes,
Still there in my mind, year after year.
They never teach you
How a single second can break a man—
How you carry a stranger’s final breath
Long after your tour ends and the years expand.
I went there thinking I’d find meaning,
Some noble fire in uniform thread.
But in Guatemala, I met a man—
And left with part of myself dead.
© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.
Apr 22, 2025
Apr 22, 2025 at 5:26 PM UTC
In the Eyes of God
She brought me here with love so wide,
To stand with her, to be my guide.
But first—these pews, this sacred place,
Where I must reckon, seek some grace.
RCIA on Thursday nights,
Learning saints and candle lights.
I followed faith I didn’t know,
Just to be hers, to let love grow.
One evening, quiet in his room,
I met the priest—no fire, no gloom.
Father Lybarger, calm and still,
He asked me gently, “What you will?”
I said, “There’s something I still bear—
A weight too deep for just a prayer.
I wore the flag, I did my part…
But I’ve killed a man. And it scars my heart.”
His silence wasn’t cold or long,
But measured, like a sacred song.
“You served,” he said. “You carried flame.
But war, my son, is not your shame.”
“It was duty,” I said. “Orders, battle—
But still I see his face, and more.
Can I stand before the Lord,
And vow a love I once ignored?”
He breathed, then nodded, soft and grave,
“God knows the burdens soldiers brave.
He sees the soul beneath the fight,
And walks with you through every night.
You didn’t choose to k ill in hate—
You served the world, you bore its weight.
Confess not guilt, but give your pain,
Let mercy wash you clean again.”
I left with tears that didn’t fall,
But sat behind my every wall.
And when she looked at me that night,
She saw me whole, and not the fight.
She asked me why I stayed behind,
What I had needed there to find.
I gave a smile, I made it small—
Said, “Just a talk, that’s all, that’s all.”
She searched my face, but didn’t press,
Just held my silence, nothing less.
She knew that something lived inside,
But let it wait—she let me hide.
For love like hers and grace like this,
Are forged through pain, not only bliss.
And when I say “I do” that day,
I’ll know what sacrifice can weigh.
I gave a life I can’t reclaim,
But God still whispers through my shame:
“You are not broken—just made new,
And worthy of the love in view.”
© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.
Apr 24, 2025
Apr 24, 2025 at 1:46 PM UTC
ProWritingAid, Scribophile, Critique Circle, Inkitt, Wattpad, Medium, Reedsy, you name it If any of theses polite, toothless back-patting participation trophy
"circles" had anything but, people trying to make a profit off of your ideas or your willingness to share..
They aren't upfront or honest,
They should tell you how oversaturated the market is,
and they would tell you the truth about your work
being not only
unwanted
but un- needed. polite, toothless back-patting circles
Especially with the non-stop imflux of A.I. written slop
and **** disguised as Fan fiction.
Without tens and tens of thousands at least
its more than incredibly difficult to get a break or to make a break of any kind.
There are literally millions of well-written short stories,
books, and full novels
that nobody even looks at
EVER !
And to pretend that it's just a fantasy land of profit or joy is wrong.
'All you gotta do is throw some words together and you're gonna have success or popularity'—
that is not only misleading, but naive.
To encourage competition between unskilled amateurs and professionals with support, financial backing ??? … When the pros can’t even gain traction ?
I'll openly admit that I've been banned or blocked or chastised or whatever, put in time out by every single one of these, and repeatedly.....
They're just liars and they just want your money.
The only people they can actually help are literally like 4th grade level people who don't even know how to form a complete sentence. That's. ... the truth . I mean it's sad.
And the poor little teeny boppers that go there with their angst poetry and their sadness and their wah wah wah and
their wannabe build up to just kissing or
making out *** tales and it's pathetic.
Anyone with a developed voice or a brain will get flagged, censored, or shadow-banned for “tone.”
They don’t want real writers they want " content participants"
.
What’s wild is, they’ll still email you like some needy ex, pretending you’re “part of the family,” because every re-login helps their engagement metrics.
Yet, I still get their invites in my e-mail almost every single day email like some needy ex texting .
Play make-believe in a digital daycare full of fragile egos and corporate parasites pretending to be mentors..
I go on, and within hours I'm already in the moderator's office or the bad boy room, and they're telling me, oh, we gotta take this down. The most recent verbiage was archived. I've been archived. Yeah, like they're gonna save me, preserve me for later.
A rainy day. lol
..... ╭∩╮( ＾◡＾)╭∩╮
Oct 8, 2025
Oct 8, 2025 at 10:09 PM UTC
Oprah, Winfrey, pilled up bloated, grotesque, slathered in paint, eyes bulging so far out they’re almost leaving their unbearable bloated sockets, rises off her literally 24 Karat golden jet toilet to preach.
twitching in orgasmically sex-deprived, relished childhood trauma convulsions.
Her toneless limbs jiggling independently, marionette-style,
puppeteered by the corporate machine that let her birth Dr. Phil. Right there on the stage in all of its grotesque, ****** umbilical glory.
The doped up brainless sock puppet she is, shrieking again
into the mic, goes gobs of spittle
flying onto the front row like Shamu at Sea World , but with more dead eyed veins pulsing,
trying to warn America about
these supposedly pandemic-level
teenage *** acts.
Every day some new hallucinatory contrivance
based on underage ****** needs
(the needs of the audience, not the supposed perpetrators).
The "rainbow parties" that never happened.
Alleged lipstick “epidemic” she’s describing is projected on the set like a grotesque, fluorescent slideshow.
Kids with rainbow-stained lipstick-smattered penises,
PTA moms wet and shrieking in jealousy,
moral panic levels off the charts.
Checking under their seats for free *** toy goodies.
The children!
Oh, the children!
Whoever shall save them? The poor innocent oversexualized children !
Wait, what? What are they doing now?
Cut to kids eating Tide pods, huffing ****** fluids, peeing in Jenkum bottles, Cutting freon lines, riding elevators on top,
dying of meningitis , satanic panic repacked church lies.
As if the Tiger mom world itself were actually collapsing under her hysterical, warped, unrealistic, and utterly sensationalized quasi-conservative lens.
After all, her opening act was straight out of The Dark Crystal.
The grand doilied skeksi decrepit animated skeleton queen ................................ (fanfare blares)
Judge Judy! ( Rises from the deep)
her crypt desecrated...
Unholy powers erupt. Gavel lightning apocalypse raging beside her. ( Notice how like a Skeksi she doesn't have any ears, but she obviously doesn't use them anyway. Her mind's already made up before the whole show begins.)
And now a word from our heartless corporate sponsors . Bass Pro Shops ads play , followed by catheter adds and gun show spots... The show fades back in and the living room darkens into abyssal sad lonely silence . The T,V, god flickers on brainwashing away all thought and individuality .
Fat greasy shameless Walrus mustache of projection now known as Oprah's baby...
Dr. Phil,
... well, he unctuously slides across the set in his stolen Scarecrow used car salesman polyester Frankenstein suit,
repeating the grotesque ritual lines.
Behind the scenes, Rush Limbaugh masturbates his mental pull string.
And of course, out spews his catchphrase:
"Yer fat!
You are ugly!
Yur stupid!
And yer gay!
And that's why NOBODY loves you !
Admit it!
Admit that yer gay and you hate yourself!!"
And in the moment of ****** IT transmorphs,
spinal ridges straining and cracking,
human form melts,
face elongates,
eyes bulge,
skin wrinkles into leathery, vulture-like textures.
His torso hunches,
ribs jutting grotesquely,
spine contorting like a broken marionette string.
Limbs wiggle independently
like he’s got a dozen "Grand Ole Party" puppeteers fighting for control,
except he’s still tethered to Karl Rove and Rush Limbaugh’s umbilical cord as it runs back into Oprah's unused, abandoned ******
Ghostly, corpulent waggling hands behind the curtain, twisting him into submission, laughing with their hollow, gassy whispers.
Suddenly, Dr. Phil melts completely and rears up as Judge Judy—but not the human one. This is the skeksi-Judge hybrid: hump-backed, beak-faced, leather-skin gleaming, clawed fingers gripping the gavel
like it’s the source of all earthly justice and bile.
Her eyes burn like a thousand angry American flags on the 4th of July, grease-fried hate dripping from her every twitch. Back it turns into doily-adorned, hairsprayed perfection, nightmare desiccation... that could only dominate as... *** *** ***
Judge Judy-skeksi!
The seemingly ageless, eternal, hate-filled windbag of injustice. Hump-backed, vulture-faced, robes fluttering, crackling with electric American ***** housewife wrath,
striking lightning into the pastel Sunday school conversation sky.
Praise her lord; he speaks to her directly, and, well, apparently
"W" Bush too... remember... it was God that told him, he said.
Behind the curtains, unseen yet omnipotent, the two-headed hate blob that is
Karl Rove and Rush Limbaugh, waggles a wet-slapping colonialist wet dream of capitalist greed.
A now corpulent wraith of power and self-righteous, uneducated spite,
it squelches, turning knobs,
ashing its cheap cigar, it continues to pull strings, gurneys creaking,
laughter a vacuous shitstorm across the stage.
America cheers, unaware of the puppeteer,
and the nation, hypnotized, bows still,
loving, worshipping, repeating her hysteria,
while the gavel strikes, the lightning arcs.
Remember, it's all
"for the children!"
"Oh, the poor children!"
Whom all they want is to be left the fu@# alone by these twisted, sadistic, effed-up garbage human beings that simultaneously claim to cherish and love them, yet blame them for unreal atrocities they never even committed.
Idiot home ec drunken hollow moms pilled up useless abandoned and brainwashed into her slaves. Blathering Rush Limbaugh hate . Same message repackaged as grotesque, capitalist soap opera formula Oprah perfected — it’s a ritual of emotional vampirism:
Step one: coax the gruesome confession — “Tell me your sad story, your deepest hurt, your shame your *** crimes.”
Step two: perform feigned empathy — she leans in, nods, tilts her head, makes you and Tom Cruise think she cares, while the cameras roll and the audience licks its lips and looks under its seat.
Presents, ? ! black mommy ?
Step three: unleash the moralistic or panic-inducing lash — “How could you let this happen? You failed! You’re broken!” Enter Dr. Phil for the final suicide inducing push.
Step four: monetize more misery — ratings spike, sponsors grin, Dr. Phil slithers across the set, and somewhere, Rush Limbaugh-esque whispering strings pull the emotional cord. While Judge Judy cackles in high road delight
It’s emotional cannibalism wrapped in velvet and toothpaste smiles. You’re not just sharing their story; it's lives as raw meat for the machine, and the more shame, fear, or outrage they squeeze out of you, the fatter the profits get. The greater the grip of unfounded panic, fear and shame.
And the kicker: American drop out jobless clown car vaginas thinks it’s entertainment, not exploitation. They love to gasp at the horror while secretly watching themselves in the mirror of shame. That’s why the Skeksi-Judge Judy apocalypse scene fits perfectly — it’s the cartoon grotesque version of the real-world emotional slaughterhouse. Now court sanctioned and final !
Oct 4, 2025
Oct 4, 2025 at 12:42 PM UTC
Haiku ?
What you want ISN’T POETRY
Nor, is what you are making . Its a crossword puzzle!
Restricted,
confined
not necessarily useless, but unwanted by the rest of us.
What I want is
not poetry .
ITS A
SOAPBOX ,
not respected
Obeyed !
(Don’t expect us to revel in your artificial cleverness. I can’t candy coat my sledgehammer for the smug little puzzle palace where people confuse compression with clarity and restraint with relevance or innovation. )
It’s not the form that’s brilliant . Neither is a form that hinders it. It’s the purported slickness of mediocrity pretending to be insight.
Like rain-slick **** shiny on top, but still just ****** over processed garbage.
No real expression had syllable count as its impetus !
Yor lame brevity without weight is really just laziness and incompetence . What should have been a paragraph hacked to death isn’t automatically profound. It’s like handing someone a bag of bread crumbs and saying, “Enjoy your gourmet sandwich.”
Most real writers can and do enjoy words and or at least a complete thought with actual depth..
We don't write epic poetry in dactylic hexameter anymore. We don't compose courtly love sonnets to unattainable noblewomen. Some forms had their time, served their purpose in a specific cultural moment, and then ended. That's not a tragedy that's just how art evolves.
But haiku won't die because it's lazy and easy and fools every IDIOT into thinking they are an actual poet.. Read Plath, or Bukowski or Nabokov or anyone that actually has something to say. You may find that it's actually more satisfying than reading "frog farts in the wind."
Why do you Want to mimic Basho, any way ? Are you a scared feckless samurai boy toy trapped in a ***** house that serves tea ? Are you socially stunted and rambling through a whispering ********** zen garden ?
Are you being forced to pretend enjoyment in polite torture or can you not tell poetry from sudoku?
Emasculated wannabe samurai-boy’s at tea-party about to turn ****
crybaby
daddy issues
art act,
much ?
It's not deep and it's really not relevant. It's a cheap, lazy path of least resistance for people who want to pretend to be artistic or deep don't wanna do the actual work.
If it doesn't deserve at least a paragraph, it shouldn't deserve your time or attention.
Sep 25, 2025
Sep 25, 2025 at 9:17 PM UTC
Haiku ?
What you want ISN’T POETRY
Nor, is what you are making . Its a crossword puzzle!
Restricted,
confined
not necessarily useless, but unwanted by the rest of us.
What I want is
not poetry .
ITS A
SOAPBOX ,
not respected
Obeyed !
(Don’t expect us to revel in your artificial cleverness. I can’t candy coat my sledgehammer for the smug little puzzle palace where people confuse compression with clarity and restraint with relevance or innovation. )
It’s not the form that’s brilliant . Neither is a form that hinders it. It’s the purported slickness of mediocrity pretending to be insight.
Like rain-slick **** shiny on top, but still just ****** over processed garbage.
No real expression had syllable count as its impetus !
Yor lame brevity without weight is really just laziness and incompetence . What should have been a paragraph hacked to death isn’t automatically profound. It’s like handing someone a bag of bread crumbs and saying, “Enjoy your gourmet sandwich.”
Most real writers can and do enjoy words and or at least a complete thought with actual depth..
Why do you Want to mimic Basho, any way ? Are you a scared feckless samurai boy toy trapped in a ***** house that serves tea ? Are you socially stunted and rambling through a whispering ********** zen garden ?
Are you being forced to pretend enjoyment in polite torture or can you not tell poetry from sudoku?
Emasculated wannabe samurai-boy’s at tea-party about to turn ****
crybaby
daddy issues
art act,
much ?
Jun 21, 2025
Jun 21, 2025 at 12:39 PM UTC
The dog's paw is broken.
The dog's in unbearable pain.
The dog's not whimpering.
It's as if happy. It's not on a chain.
The dog's satisfied with the sunshine.
And yesterday it was raining. That's bad...
Somebody threw a bone in the garbage.
It'll probable get it to eat beforehand.
Both dog's eyes are squinty.
It's warm and free now in whole
Yesterday's gone. Tomorrow'll be later.
Today the dog's calm at all
Mar 5, 2025
Mar 5, 2025 at 10:08 AM UTC
I've got a pair.
I keep 'em in my underwear:
Two eggs in a nest of hair.
Sep 25, 2024
Sep 25, 2024 at 7:01 PM UTC
Love ties bows
around garbage bins.
Turns losses into wins.
Brightens a sky,
shortens a queue.
Changes one into two.
Feb 27, 2025
Feb 27, 2025 at 11:16 PM UTC
The air feels thick
Like a wall of brick
A platform 9 3/4's trick
Can't KoolAid man this sh!t
Afraid to sit,
But I do,
I'm forced to,
So I stew on it
Desperate
I try the old Wile E Coyote bit
That classic ACME shtick
But what quality "tunnel black" paint kit did I get?
Some off brand garbage,
Now it's twice as thick
©2024
Sep 14, 2024
Sep 14, 2024 at 12:40 PM UTC
a sentry guard laments the day his mother went out for milk
a cool mist slowly approaches him and begins licking his boots unaware that his pinky toe is peeking out of his sock begging for a taste of the blistering wind
he stands at attention
a noice emanates from the woods at his fifteen hundred
he totes his gun on his right shoulder and begins the approach
the noise somewhere between shriek and shrill leads him to a clearing in the woods where he sees a man of not more than forty years of age speckled stubble upon his face
walking around in circles with stick in the ground
he's got that look in his eye
a mutter a conversation a yell
a symphony
of sound
peonies for the poor folk a bushel of roses for the dead dandelions for the prayers speckled as dust crackled as wood he who seeks fortune shall make do with crumbs fire overhead a love overheard this time there's no way out we litter the past we litter the waters we litter whatever is left of our hallowed grounds
if only mother knew
if only mother knew
the sentry stands at attention
he brings his rifle down from his shoulder and raises it to his face
ah yes
the garble
Aug 14, 2024
Aug 14, 2024 at 2:44 PM UTC
These poems are generally spat out within a matter of minutes.
The rhyme schemes, unfortunately,
Symptomatic of how my thoughts flow.
Some kind of horrible harmony
That stalls and slows the more focus I show.
Jun 1, 2024
Jun 1, 2024 at 3:20 PM UTC
(too long version)
Life indeed pushed me to the edge of the cliffs end but the jump was my decision, no one there could ever be bothered to care enough to even explore the simplest question much less begin thinkin' about askin' what I was thinkin' when I settled on the option I ultimately, on more than one occasion, failed at miserably while attemptin', like the byproduct of rabbits fuckin' my faults are multiplyin' as my spark goes dark at the same time my shine went dim, not worth restorin' this vessel that sits as decoration in a white trash front lawn deterioratin', startin' from the back end then devourin' the engine
One step forward, two giant leaps back pedalin', that was the general motion of regression, lookin' like I'm plagiarizin' Michael Jackson when he's on stage performin', masterin' that classic moon walkin' he's known for doin', never as smooth as him but you get the picture I'm paintin', losing track of my destination as it began droppin' out of sight behind the horizon, followin' the trail the sun was blazin'
Can't see the forest for the trees and vegetation, could have heard the pre-lumber fallin' if you would only humor me and at least pretend to listen, but that there is somethin' you have zero interest in which is interestin' cause if the past has taught me anythin' about what you find pleasure in it's that you're lovin', above everythin', the chance to keep pointin' out and highlightin' how I'm a terrible human bein', a garbage person but not a man and no CDL license, I'm not pickin' up the trash I'm metaphorically dwellin' in only then to have it pile back up again times ten, ultimately creatin' my own land fill location within, wilfully lettin' recycled misfortune to continue hittin' me on the chin, it's due to inadequate trainin', not for the lack of tryin' to defend
No direction just a lie practiced to perfection too keep 'em from noticin' my state of depression, leave 'em guessin'. But to keep the honesty rollin' in I have a confession, I'd loan you the money to pay attention but you'd never take that good for nothin' offerin' and I ain't even placin' blame, just sayin', I know my position, I'm fully aware I'm on the losin' end of this game of tug-a-war life and I are playin', though I think it's cheatin', countin' cards to ensure a win, gamblin' that I'll give in and fold before noticin' I'm the mark bein' taken, the journey of life is a rigged expedition
What am I doin' besides losin'? Why am I here became the daily question, how do I get out this mess of confusion that's drownin' me to the point of extinction? It's an impossible equation even for a mathematician with years of education, so you know for certain I'm lyin' when, for no good reason, I have a go at answerin'. The slipknot is workin' just as I was expectin', slippin', goin' taunt, slidin' into its final position
I should mention, if you're thinkin' this has taken place solely for attention you're sorely mistaken, you never come to that realization, dodgin' conversation in an attempt to avoid confrontation, leavin' me noticin' there's no one standin' by and extendin' a hand to help and lookin' back there's never been. No one attendin' my lonely execution by decapitation in an effort to stop the spreadin' of harmful misfortune I feed myself, bad for my mental health, a deadly addiction that's become somewhat of a tradition through repetition, turnin' a weapon on myself, worsenin' my condition, that's a fact based observation not an opinion
No resolution in the hard hitting revelation that there's no salvation for someone who's gone and done what I've done and gone on livin' in a web of fear that I first spun for protection but couldn't stop the infestation from gainin' the traction it was needin' for the completion of my complete elimination
Cravin' anythin' real to place my faith in, I'm bein' told the hate and pain I'm bathin' in is of my own creation, I can see the connection as I sit broken down in the intersection of real life and fiction, I've lost control again and once again there's no mulligan. Am I seein' the glass half full or half empty or maybe it's all an illusion regardless of perception? Lost my vision, can't see through the pollution and corruption runnin' rampant with no solution comin', I'm a simpleton so this ***** gettin' confusin', a complete brain malfunction
I've awoken the beast within and just as I was predictin' we instantly began battlin' to the death, fightin' for position and a quicker end to the situation I'm always findin' myself in then findin' out for myself that it's always been my own reflection startin' back in my direction, the ugly inside is finally outwardly projectin', can't even pretend to be my own friend, enough is enough, I'm saying when
Its lurkin' just under the skin, waitin' for the moment to strike and beat me down to nothin'. When will it end? Never I'm guessin'. I'm gonna have to try to put an end to it all myself again, tirin' of the repetition to the point I usually take no action, sometimes due to exhaustion but still just lettin' it all happen like that's what I was plannin' from the beginnin' but that makes about as much sense as quittin' ****** right after the needles insertion or waitin' till after overdosin'
Frustration givin' way to aggravation and aggression leavin' little satisfaction even if I could squeak out a win, but I'm no longer wastin' time waitin' for that to happen so I'll probably most likely be caught sleepin', dreamin' about what could've been had I listened to my gut feelin' and put in the same amount of stock I place in what my treasonous mind and heart are always sayin'
and not let doubt creep in and claim top billin' as it's permanent position, knocking out compassion and reason, replacin' both with the hate and weight of a nation
It's a fools mission, I WILL be beaten' into submission, the last thing I'll hear as my energy gives up on existin' is the mortician statin' then time stampin' my expiration, that and the body bag zippin', family left pickin' out a coffin from the bargain bin, not worth payin' a fortune, only payin' little respect to the fallen then quickly forgotten at the drop of a pin
You're sayin' I have a purpose but I'm witnessin' me wastin' every minute of the earths rotation and never reachin' the conclusion that I was slackin', far to laxed in the preparation for a home invasion of this mental prison I'm caged in where I'm servin' a life sentence and I'm mentally and emotionally starvin' while my vision of any kind of future begins to darken
No open invitation, but that's not stoppin' my personal demon from just walkin' right in and startin' the killin' spree up once again, focusin' first on positive motivation just for existin', of course that's just my imagination, but could you imagine? A horrible vision to the average pedestrian, I know, but I still crack a grin at the thought of it happenin', the devil on my shoulder is at it again
My light fractured through a prism and some went missin' and I never got around to lookin' so no chance of gettin' it back into my possession, there's no raignin' it in, goin' from a fools errand to a search and rescue mission seemingly overnight but for what reason, just to teach me a lesson? I don't test well, I won't make it to graduation
Choices made out of desperation got me lookin' and feelin' like a felon, to survive I had to become the villain of the biography I'm narratin', this isn't livin', at best it's just barely holdin' on for dear life and weakenin', a measly attempt at survivin', forced into an intimate relation with the unforgivable, each of the sinful deadly seven
The line not to cross was paper thin, walked it like a drunk person in front of a couple corrupt police men, heathens but feelin' better than, lost control long ago, before I fell off the wagon, I ain't talkin' about drinkin', it started way back when with prescription medication, ones that were suppose to be helpin' but then used for wreckreation and that's when it began draggin' me down to an underground parkin' garage elevation
I didn't have a break down, like I said, it was a break in home invasion with the assumption there was somethin' worth takin' to begin with but everythin' inside is broken and you can see the corrosion of the foundation built on sand, makin' this temple worth nothin', even self worth is fadin'
Graspin' at the air and yet again findin' nothin', grapplin' with the notion I'm nothin', prayin' my emergency flotation device will suffice cause the water is ragin', feelin' the undertow currant strengthen in it's concentration, I think it's attackin' and there's no escapin' so I began blinkin' SOS in old fashion morse code hopin' you don't need help with the translation, if that's the case then I'm done for, why bother debatin', I'll take myself out of the equation, preparin' my soul for the comin' evacuation
You begin lyin' just to raise my spirits but I ain't buyin' into what you're sellin', counterfeit concern bein' spoken with no emotion or conviction, after the extensive evaluation I see it's no garden of Eden I'm livin' in, again, someone's been lyin', I'd be wakin' right into the den of a rabid lion shrouded in original sin, I ate the fruit knowin' full well it was forbidden, straight up poison but zero ***** were given, so this was bound to happen, the writin' was on the wall, who am I kiddin'?
You have my permission to begin the process so let's just go ahead then and get this over with so I can silence the voices within, I've eliminated every complication, layin' on the tracks at the crazy train boarding station, awaitin' the unavoidable, provin' I was correct in the assumption that this is the right time to initiate my endin', a personal Armageddon...oh, well hello, you must be that Satan guy I've been hearin' so much about from everyone preachin' directly in my ear then going out the other, it's still hard not to listen, I'm just tyin' up a loose end or two then I'm yours for the takin'
...alright, thanks for waitin', now then, let the journey to my endin' begin shall we? I'm takin' the lead on this one cause I know where we're goin' and I'm no good at followin' direction...obviously, it goes without sayin'
©2022
May 3, 2022
May 3, 2022 at 4:12 PM UTC
I’m not so thoughtful
When it comes to plastic bags
Wrapping around lampposts,
Sneering through the leaves
Thoughtless as a buckled leaflet;
Advertised for kin
I kick it in a circus of payouts,
Reflecting all my dues
One day it will return,
Latent and breaking.
Mar 8, 2022
Mar 8, 2022 at 6:40 PM UTC
Of all the things we humans despise,
It's garbage that disgusts our eyes.
The stinky, smelly, piece of trash,
The lowest, grossest, worn-down sash.
What humans consider trash, some like,
Including rusted chairs and bikes.
Some throw out things, and call them old,
But some are smart and some are bold.
Those groups that join to clean the heap,
Are taking a big, giant leap.
Clearing all that trash is hard, I know,
But hey, we all reap what we sow.
If all goes good, and all goes well,
A great, clean world we have, I'd tell.
For now, the world isn't all that clean,
But, eventually, let's hope it will be seen,
Jan 10, 2022
Jan 10, 2022 at 11:35 AM UTC
Start now knowing joy,
that’s an order,
overcome a deepening solitude.
Like a bee at a bugle
or me at the deli
on Third Avenue.
I said to Joe when do you think this weather will break?
He jokes, April.
That’s no joke. Weak creatures die and the strong barely survive.
Half a year goes by
another cancer checkup.
Cheer up. Any weather’s
better than no weather at all.
There’s always governance
even when there is no government.
My candidate drops out
after Iowa. Why do I always lose
at politics and poker?
Peace at last!
No lawnmowers, no leafblowers.
Big comfy couch.
Meditate on this: Do what has to be done.
Find your lover gazing at the moon
and take your garbage to the dump.
Your web site evaporates
and your possessions are thrown in the dumpster
except your trumpet which finds its way to a future trumpeter.
Jun 8, 2021
Jun 8, 2021 at 6:38 AM UTC
In which ditch should I waste this flesh
For you to feel superior?
On which street to make a fool of myself?
Why not Satisfy all your 'highness's evil wishes
And be the lousiest there is?
Saint garbage, saint crap, saint ****
Saint all the ****** and ****** people making of you
The greatest and most loved.
Garbage, garbage,
Trashing lives,
All recycled, changed, undermined
A demon' s wishes...
To keep all this garbage
In real life.
Garbage, saint garbage
Producer of honey in your lives.
Apr 14, 2021
Apr 14, 2021 at 12:54 AM UTC
nothing worth something is easy
but is this learned or a lie
because past my pupils
exists myself
exposed and cold
i just want to be pure and gold
longing for warmth
seeking purity through garbage
Dec 4, 2020
Dec 4, 2020 at 12:45 PM UTC
Pull yourself up
never surrender
no pain no gain
get some
collapse
give up
stop the pain
leave it
crush it
win at all costs
may the best man win
no quit
loosen your grip
enjoy the journey
lose with grace
stop
destroy the day
seize the day
capture the victory
nothing is too much to give
relax
today
might be the last
day
Nov 16, 2020
Nov 16, 2020 at 2:43 PM UTC
With every move of my mop I am dying. People are stepping on me as they step on the garbage lying on the floor.
Oct 12, 2020
Oct 12, 2020 at 1:05 PM UTC