#trainofthought
At any moment,
the mention of you
can hijack my train of thought
and bring me a million miles away.
Sometimes, I’ll fight it
leaving quickly.
Jumping out of that fleeting vessel.
It will hurt, but less than if I stay.
Then, I’ll take a moment
to feel the new wounds,
but not long enough to linger.
Mindful not to call another train.
Sometimes, I stay there though
racing down the track,
in the memories with you.
Dad’s there, too.
Those memories,
they’re the delicacies of the trip.
The wound is worth it.
But I cannot stay.
All in a matter of milliseconds
the train inevitably crashes home.
Where I pick up the pieces,
so no one will know.
Apr 12
Apr 12, 2026 at 9:43 PM UTC
Thoughts on dotted lines – this is my right to write; stepping
into deep conversations just to say I had a shoe in. Maybe in
a thousand days draped in gold & silver, I’ll praise God again –
but do it a third time even when life feels like bronze, because
hubris slips in easy. So humour me this: as humility’s hands
still smudged in ***** pictures, like the past we pretend was
never framed.
To picture life outside the struggles that have stained your
heart, aiming for the middle of it all like a game of darts;
darting away from the past but also seeing red sometimes,
taking each hit with the sight of a bull’s eye: just another
reminder of the battles I’ve already fought.
And for the worth I am – more grand than the grand I would
have earned – the days still erupted like volcanoes, molten
interruptions to the places I didn’t belong. I bottled myself up
until I popped like soda, spilling lava into empty sentiments,
too deep to throw away, and too raw to leave behind.
Some moments do feel like ******* but life isn’t a game
with extra cute lives in a litter – but only pieces of ourselves
we shed like skin, littering the ground we walk on. And maybe
that’s how we breathe to live – by moving forward even with
bruised feet, never quite ready to admit defeat.
Aug 11, 2025
Aug 11, 2025 at 11:53 AM UTC
so here I am, here I go.
here I put my bottom, base
on this shiny, gleamy surface.
my face gleaming with joy.
sitting, I can’t help but babble
about how every movement moves a bubble,
and how my wetness combines with
the wet and cold from underneath.
how about a nap, I ask?
how about some deserved rest?
it seems like an easy task,
I don’t mind a random pest.
laying down I feel the caress
of the cold and liquid hand.
hugging me down, I am flawless
in my sparkly pose to mend
my sleeping missed. all went
good so far, I’m thinking.
I’ll close my eyes for a wee bit.
after sundown I get up.
to sit some more, wet in my lap
enjoying my portion of sunshine knit
by those warm golden hands of her -
the almost-sleeping beauty curved.
caress me more while you can,
in the night I’ll entertain my man
the colder, bolder, plumpy gent
who’ll make wet more cold. I can
get ready to meet him, instead
more sitting there, rather than
unnecessary lifting the good-for-nothing clothes.
already having gone through these roads
I’ll lose my covers anyhow.
now ********** to wow
the silver moonlight. after all will be over
he hands me down a four-leafed clover,
laughing how good a joke that always is -
knowing where my ***** sat and sits.
I’ll smile politely and nod
understanding time to cover myself, not
anymore waiting to be in the spotlight.
reaching a new low in such height,
indecisive about what to do, I’ll choose
not to choose. sitting in wet, red,
I don’t lose.
Oct 12, 2020
Oct 12, 2020 at 11:12 AM UTC
From your perspective,
the water lays clear and blue,
sugar dissolves on the tongue like it was never even there
and Daddy gave you a car that you care for respectfully.
Letters get placed nicely into your hands
and that pink mouth of yours says lovely things,
born in spring,
it must be nature on your side.
From your perspective,
it's no wonder you walk uphill
and tremble when asked to stand still.
Who would **** you when you won't **** yourself?
But I can see
why you're still never lonely.
You insist on some insomnia
before you fall asleep
in your radiated room in Daddy's house.
Eyes that match the sky
on your side of the day,
you're that part of the valley
catching the sun.
From your perspective,
sunflowers only need to face one another
and they grow like fools in your garden.
You're insured for those faulty organs
and I bet it's nice to lie over a safety net at night.
Aug 17, 2020
Aug 17, 2020 at 7:44 PM UTC
The Arctic Monkeys rattle my brain
nearly into a trance
while the lyrics cut
into my subconscious,
leaving me just a hint of sober
while she's sleeping, I slave
bleed my brain into this blank screen,
into this ******* machine,
so my feelings can be made public,
yet for the most part, unseen
it's odd, you know, I feel
further isolated, yet somehow,
part of something bigger, something,
I don't know, eternal,
when I feed this dysfunctional family
Feb 1, 2019
Feb 1, 2019 at 7:39 PM UTC
Meticulously making milestones,
Don’t chase me,
Dripping dropping side roads of thoughts,
My train is racing,
Until it's up ended by life,
Hum’or’catastrophe
The beat and time I’ve worked for entirely,
Dies
Oct 20, 2018
Oct 20, 2018 at 3:47 PM UTC
I often contemplate
I weigh out the pros and cons
is it worth it?
The anguish,the pain
restless nights , Heavy thoughts
then again if it works
The tenderness,the joy
The peaceful nights ,the bliss
all up to me really
But I can't seem to understand what I have to do
Serenity seems like an impossible task and stability just seems like a myth
But I know I'm the captain it's my ship I'll go down with a smile and realize it was all worthwhile
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 12:28 AM UTC
They say artists
are tortured
Conceptually
Figuratively
Also literally
Some create through chaos
Out of seeds of destruction comes
a harsh beauty born of the artisans
experience of the world
Some express through their tears
their captivity, and from this
brutality again comes beauty
Joy
Ecstasy
emotive threads bind us
Loss
Sorrow
it's soft ether numbing us
Driving us to tears
To apathy or
to death
Or to Art
As a means to fight for
something beautiful
A means to resist the cut of the knife
As a means to make
Something that would make her smile
Capture that glow
Make him bite his lip
to hold back tears
Make us see beyond our limited realities
And fears
Make me whole again
With stanzas, Indian ink staining our fingers
With stitches, tapestries of lives long past
With music, that can transport us to the depths of depression
As elevate us to the strata above in one refrain
With paint stained brushes
With spray on trains
Art as protest
Artists are amongst the first in those
waves of repression
cultural victims, with science
following at its heels
Persecution ******* their steps
The possibility of losing your life
for the creative output
.. and many have
let's not forget
So art is born of pain, perhaps
and some from joy as quickly
as from fear
Regardless of its origin
You know when you find that spark
You understand intrinsically
That light as brain and heart ignite
And you breathe catches, ragged, rhythmically
In your mind, alive
Exist in perfect time with appreciation
In this space for here lives Art
Be touched by the pain or joy
Sorrow or longing
Be embraced by flow
of words and style
My chest tightens
and eyes mist
This is the artists tortured soul on display
They placed it there
for me
So all could see
what was laid bare
May 24, 2017
May 24, 2017 at 6:05 PM UTC
words
are something
we learn
at a young age
what those around us say
becomes what we say
but words
are so much more
than our bodies
vibrating air
words tell the world
what our brain is thinking
the words we hear
become parts of our thoughts
the words that we use
show the world who we are
where we're from
and what we want to show others
words written down
carry our thoughts across and through
space and time
a pen and ink
can and have
saved lives
started wars
broken hearts
and blown minds
A word of encouragement
Can nourish a man more
Than any supplement
A word of abuse
Can wound a man
To where medicine is of no use
A word of simple compliance
Blinds the mind
And a few of fierce rebellion
Become a battle cry
Maybe a few bad poems
Are less than art
But a brain releasing a cyclone into paper
Had to be a start
Maybe one day
I can find my part (s)
Until then, my mind
Wanders alongside my heart (s)
But these words
Though so little
Are only my start
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 9:32 PM UTC