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Taylor Rothanzl Aug 2015
Pressure builds upon my temple,
Like constant rain on rooftops scattered.
The lamps of life draw conversations out of Windows,
Which pierce the night in constant motion.

A hum from the street builds in lonely hours,
illuminates from the pressing weather in decadence.
Perusing it's subtle cry for more in each step,
Breaking off branches too far up to reach.

I watch the light peer from the evergreen,
With rolling smoke from Windows.
The warmth of it sends heavy breathing,
A lapse in function when all else doesn't work.

One day the view of tracks and country winds,
Will see a broken man with fault in trying.
But the less known way brings the only comfort,
The rack to dry this urge to leave.
Taylor Rothanzl Oct 2014
To minds that shore upon the resting waves:

Buried by passageways we named.
Circumstance that never had a face,
To better hide the weighted frame.

To bodies that scream at bitter ironies:

That spit out words in hopes that someones listening.
The pity of life's embrace with your decadence.
Breathing in vain is all the same.

To souls that learn the cold will let you in:

A night for bliss forbids the pain.
This summer heat will never settle in,
Reluctant pressure never letting go.

My body might as well be escaping me,
A book on a shelf for nobody else to read.
Taylor Rothanzl Sep 2014
Amongst head spin circumstance,
meets the line of whim-less romantic turmoil.
Plentiful expansion of miraculous nothing.

Like peeled back sickness,
inside the droopy eyed valiance,
travels in seizes to engulf the second chance of prudence.

Life fleeting from metal to vein,
tick tocking time till pressure releases.
Sustained by little on course in hopes of none to come,
the captain with no route homeward.

Vacant luminous street corners
bustle of the land that never ends.
An isolating attempt to repel the frost away from bone.
To fall amongst the boundless sea of filth.
Taylor Rothanzl Sep 2014
The streets are ever entranced by the vacant that lives in this world, awakening mischief of mind and liver to crawl where once stood out such people hoping for a tragic paradox of simple lives.

The pain felt isn't enough to feel your interior, and the unbalanced sidewalk paths will eat away at every step forward. Until limb after limb takes its turn on leaving you behind.

The time tick shutters soft, yet whispers in trance a prayer for souls that do not carry a beat. Hollowed bodies seeking to live a life before us in the houses we stay in.

Walls sink in steady drip onto the floor we stood, where stable minds tackle through the early hours. A non motive transcendence of a broken watch now turned forward in time.
Taylor Rothanzl Jul 2014
You are the diligently allined space between then and now,
To which I am unlucky to know you exist.

Like time I tend to not know the true way, to see the path as the decedent rivers, placing me boundless advancements in location.

You, an endless train of thought, place me in the constant battle of here and now. As the city we raised blooms of mistrust and attention to self identity.

The time spent knowing only makes it really disappear. The cradle of life steps forward to let you feel insignificance, just as all who truly don't know what day it is. A sheet to start clean.
Taylor Rothanzl Jul 2014
The tattered laid bricks we young reluctantly call home, in gaze to feast to live again as once new lovers tip toe fluttery footsteps toward the desolate vanishing point.

But beginning forward I won't find myself locked between a memory.

Like battered homes of old we do so to find the leaks and breaks. Within withered structures of bone and ice we collect fragments off the pavement to restore.

But as a whole we never were. Like lovers fail to see in bloom.
Taylor Rothanzl Jul 2014
In my time,
Collections of disastrous minds,
Try and fit in thinner lines.
Of life and lust and simple *****,
Of life in trend and backward thought.

In my time,
Pushed toward the numbing senses,
Are constellations of fallen men.
Shown before us as the dinner waits,
To show the march of meat of morrow.

In my time,
The children scale the streets of dawn,
To find the simple that all men lost.
With angst in blood and tightened tounges,
For space not made for them nor I.

In my time,
We are the generation returned for store credit,
In line for an endless whirling boredom.
Too bright to see the path been made,
In distance trance a world at bay.

In my time,
We are flawed pawns in disenchanted identity,
A chess game known by little.
We are a valiant effort in loss souls,
A life in turn like all the same.

In my time,
I have seen the stench of want,
In true form of loathing.
Common speak with stacks in smoke,
The toxic billows and blows away.

In my time,
The land rejects us back to void,
A void of fix and ****.
In desperate trance of ***** and bliss,
With suttle missed as time digressed.
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