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Sep 2021 · 169
Addiction in the Modern Era
Tim Eichhorn Sep 2021
Man....

I’ve seen seven years
Of bruatality.
But In reality,
That’s not bad.

And that’s what
Makes it sad
When you’re asked
If you have a strut
In your step

Left...............
Them guessing
Control what you can control
Sep 2021 · 72
I Get Everything
Tim Eichhorn Sep 2021
That comes to me
Don’t you see?

I’m about to enter
A Decade
That starts with
Three

Oh gee, oh boy
I’ve realized that
My ones and twos
Was spent as a

Catalyst for
More noise.
But I never
Asked...
was I Poised?
Sep 2021 · 136
The only place
Tim Eichhorn Sep 2021
In the world
Where you
Can see
Bright lights
And big sky’s
Simultaneously.
Is this happy?
Sep 2021 · 49
Three Shades of Linoleum
Tim Eichhorn Sep 2021
Triumphs
When you lost
A few
Letters in
MMXX

Well..
Place your bets
On
I
Or else
Nigh might be closer
Than what we think
Tim Eichhorn Aug 2020
All snowflakes are the same
It may be a wonder while
You’re walking within a
wait... stop the alliteration

Literally you can see me
Plant the seed that
Won’t grow
Who knows?

Slippery substances
Have never been my
Forte as I foray
Through life

Like those snowflakes
That all stay the same
Weather you agree
Or not, they al-
Ways come this

Time
Of
The
Year
Aug 2020 · 74
Of Gods and Men
Tim Eichhorn Aug 2020
The fabric of gods and men
Blend so sweetly, so softly

Slowly, as I touch the next barricade
Made by those who were once hemmed

Stemmed from who knows now?
Cowardice? Probably not.

Thoughts on this matter?
Battered, bruised, and tattered
By legacy of blood once splattered
Can we please get comfortable with realization and actualization of our own psychology
Aug 2020 · 233
Insinuating Silhouettes
Tim Eichhorn Aug 2020
...Salivating....

...Waiting
For the next
Time

That “they” can sustain
Subtle nuances within
Preconceived notions
Of
Intelligence quotients.

Motions of grandeur,
Like a rambler
That still believes
In a pure
God.
Tim Eichhorn Jun 2016
The rusted belt is tight
in our hometown city.
Black smoke masks the lights
In one gaseous setting;
the permenant fitting
Of our hometown city

Trees exchange steel
In our hometown city.
You’ve never seen the wheels
churn and the deals burnt
In the factories that take pity
On the nitty-gritty of our
Own hometown city.

The last laughs with us
In our hometown city
We don’t’ ride the Cali bus,
But yea, I'd say we are witty,
cause al'the prettiest girls
Live in our hometown city.

The river’s been burnt
In our hometown city.
Yea we’ve learned a lot
From our own ad(e)missions;
And now, clinics fill prescriptions
in ourown hometown city

In my own hometown city
We’re slicker than you,
Even though our York’s isn’t new…
Why? Watch my city revive in
Front of your eyes- then ask me;
Why is this your hometown city?
CLEVELAND
Tim Eichhorn Apr 2015
Across the purple mountain majesties,
flowing fields, and amber waves of grain.
The eagle flaunts wings of liberty,
she is focused, gazing without refrain.
Even intrusive when one is snowed in,
the eagle watches and "protects" us all,
but the masses refuse to be smitten.
The once omnipresent eye exists galled.
Indecision, haunting the eagle's eye
whilst law favors liberty's wing - A moot
adjourns amongst her eye and our disguise.
Expanding wisdom laments her eye - left shrewd.
But now, why at all be concerned?
Now, the eye's chances fall under one-third.
Apr 2015 · 3.3k
The Labyrinth
Tim Eichhorn Apr 2015
I
Whispering winds whip the lake's eastern shore.
The towers above stand still,
gazing upon the infinite individuals below,
within the concrete maze; this city speaks to me.
It utters thousand of voices simultaneously.
Some unfamiliar to me,
all keep the labyrinth in mind.
Each voice different,
each voice similar in its journey
to conquer the labyrinth.
I too share the same goal,
but in the labyrinth, most don't know what I know.

II
The river twines around towers
creating the famous "loop."
The river's end irradiated for man,
until we flipped the flow in
labyrinth's past to avert windy shores.
The once river's end, now a beginning.

The labyrinth's bourgeois lie due north,
It's extravagance exemplified by magnificent miles
where whimsy wanderers flaunt status
and to the west and south,
an eternal siren's call resonates for all voices to listen;
urban decay haunts the once prosperous.

III
For only collectively can the labrinth be tamed
and imminent ends for those unworthy.
The lake, the river, its towers and people
shall never be neglected.
For only collectively can the labyrinth be tamed
and this labyrinth is all that I know;
this labyrinth is Chicago.
Apr 2015 · 602
Fine Lines
Tim Eichhorn Apr 2015
I walked lines and drew them
I wrote lines and snorted them.
I don't know, maybe my brain
was hemmed by a stem in my
gene pool. We reamed these fools,

for that one day we can say, hey
like Willie Mays' catch in 1952.
Unless you were finely dined by
these lines. I am nothing, but grit
and broke. Hopefully the smoke
will rise... through these lines.
poems, poetry, love, poems, about poetry
Apr 2015 · 1.2k
Lipsticks on a Wineglass
Tim Eichhorn Apr 2015
Red – the colors match underneath
the mashing of trashed feet. A bittersweet
scent swishes around our soft palates
until intoxication renders us useless.

The artificial artisan could’ve gone lighter,
but she knew it wouldn’t have been as
beautiful. I gasp and gaze, looking for the
fake signs that she had felt the same.
Apr 2015 · 1.0k
Of Black Pearls
Tim Eichhorn Apr 2015
Dames dimeless during durations of
duress, unless  uniform wardrobes
in cuneiform earlobes eloping in last
gasps of breath, breathed by an opposite
***  on a raft drafted and crafted by
bureaucrats that sat upon rat traps.

The fat cats gasp under last laughs.
They can yap about the fallen all day
and paid based on grades in a vicious
cycle of buy - sell - trade. They caved in
as Persians sigh at the fading world
hurled beneath convuluted swirls of black pearls.
No blood for oil
Tim Eichhorn Mar 2015
It’s funny how they say: “money
is the root of all evil.” But, you need
money to live in this society. Are
we truly living in the pits of hell?
Tim Eichhorn Mar 2015
A pest festers underneath the
gravel. Groups sequestered
From Two separate, yet identical
Lines. One was aborted for similar
Linear tendencies as the other
Was not treasonous, by our
Standards; but four fathers
May have thought otherwise.

Unless the sequestered reenter
This sector, the vacuumed vector
Of two lines will seamlessly fill
Our needs of technology. But, only
To hone drones in a land where
"Shalom" is only welcoming in
Specific zones. Only if the isolated
We're the ones creating mandates.
Mar 2015 · 3.8k
Mafia Murder
Tim Eichhorn Mar 2015
Millionaires in empty boxes
barricaded in bath robes.
Self-righteous sundries
sit still for that sunset they'll
never see, like "Layla" playing
with a gang of good fellas.

The trench took a bit, but
they're not worried. It will be
filled-in still-lifes well before
wives find out. Tough love
rises above the rest; especially
when you're pumping hot lead.
Sopranos came on today and got inspired
Feb 2015 · 575
Jazzmatazz
Tim Eichhorn Feb 2015
I've never met Guru(s)
but I have felt him in
part 2, I went "down
the back streets" like
A New Reality indeed.

Not many Starr's in the
Gang shine as bright as
Them. Thankfully that
They introduced Premier's,
If not, I would be stuck here
For years- call it whack- but
Don't forget... this poem's a
A swagger jack. But, hopefully,
I'll reach the "State of Clarity."
Fun with my favorite lyrical rapper guru
Tim Eichhorn Feb 2015
The drunk one's
always sunken
they say; undone
by ether. Either
crashed by
primordial
Phonographs;

         OR

passed by my
own next doors
Smack addict
acting like a
CIA Agent. Yes,
an impatient
poisoned partner
under here; for sure.
Meta-4s, poetry, wordplay, expression
Feb 2015 · 1.5k
Groundhog Day (Unveiled)
Tim Eichhorn Feb 2015
New scenes seen
between three
beams. Streams
of white light
write plights by
rye bread farms.

Alarmed, were the
workers; surely
hurling any hay
bail unveiled from
summer's uprising-
-spring. Even though
I fling arrows like I'm
In a gladiator ring.
Meaning is abstractly political. I am finally starting my own party. A 22 yr old idiot
Jan 2015 · 903
Chicago Side Streets
Tim Eichhorn Jan 2015
walk side streets
   alone - headphones.
zones of melody
   channeling canals
deeper than all
   the billboards basted
by bad barters.
  
   must’ve been mistaken.
although their dressed
  up, they’re simmering
thin - acetaminophen.
  finished, drugged bugs
cling strings holding
   last lines of defense.
Tim Eichhorn Jan 2015
I never whittled wicker fiddles
while riddles belittle the middle
class of ***** and elephants.
Irrelevant asides alike another
mother smothered by her brother’s
last lover and uncovered this summer’s
eve. ****** – the reason seasons start
aren’t propelled by a spell in my heart.

the spell in my heart you ask?
its a dry spell for sure,
it crackles with the flames of fire
that whip out like the whips
of elephant trainers,
the way they scare me in place,
and i shake with terror.
but terror arises and smothers
the way mothers have been smothered
by a brother's last lover,
and summer eve will still come.
Special thanks to co-collaborator The Creep That Loves You. Two poetic minds indefinitely greater than one
Jan 2015 · 723
Ohio Mini Malls
Tim Eichhorn Jan 2015
Strips glazed over my kids wish list,
airline emergency runways razed
upon the rivers of Indian burial sites.
Cursed pavements of evermore, how
could we have forgotten the sacred
sanctum’s of Columbia’s yesteryear.
Jan 2015 · 778
Writer's Block Part Deux
Tim Eichhorn Jan 2015
If only, if only I could think of one line.
I would write anything. Carroll-ing,
in Wonderland, ring, bing, ting, ting,
but in actuality, that is the sands of time
“Passing Me By” – like the Pharcyde, far side.

Anything, I would write. Insects, parasites,
diseases. God forbid if I wrote about Jesus.
I need something to quill that I cannot resist,
I will, believe this. I take the keyboard swiftly...
but the key is, I’m bored; mind keeps shifting.

Write anything – I would. True Yoda –isms,
Star wars, chores, ignorance galore; I’m bored
Of uncovering the ills of NSA’s PRISM.
******, I want to travel! A world to explore
And unravel; out there are words to score.

Would I Write Anything? I’ll just sit here
Like the man on the marble slab. Blank screens,
White walls, smoke green and sip all the beer.
It’s weird, I’ll sit here and it hits me sometime.
If only, if only I could think of one line.
read pt 1 first, don't cheat.
One true solution, Write about you're writer's block
Jan 2015 · 336
Writer's Block
Tim Eichhorn Jan 2015
If only, if only I could think of one line.
Part II coming soon...
Tim Eichhorn Jan 2015
On the lonely road to Chicago,
I reach towards my passenger seat,
Open my pack of squares, when suddenly
I realize that I may have misplaced something;
I can’t believe that I lost my lighter!

Minutes pass and I set the sedan to cruise,
Scavenging the car seat’s abyss with one
Eye on the road, the other with peregrine’s
Vision, gazing for the sight of the red flint.
Where in the hell is my lighter!?

Cig in hand, waiting patiently for puff one;
A sign appears: “next stop in forty-six miles”
The road, more desolate without my sly,
Pyrotechnic, sidekick; How could I lose it?
I would do anything to have my lighter!

Time perception; out of mind’s reach,
Twelve miles away, eight miles to withdraw,
The car’s engine at full go, the road dragging
Further than the Lake Michigan shoreline.
I can’t make it without my lighter!

I pull the car aside, open the convenience
Store door and walk to the clerk with
A hyena’s grin and ask for the red bic;
On the road again, and once again smoking.
Ecstasy! I glance in jubilation at the sight of my new lighter.
The five stages of coping... with smoking.
Jan 2015 · 875
Feelin' It
Tim Eichhorn Jan 2015
The Sky is the Limit*

When you “feel” a beat,
not one that is felt with your hands,
but a delicate crescendo that resonates in the streets.
It’s a whole sound, like DNA strands
vivid and teeming of livelihood or even timing;
yes, a beat to forget all of your problems and stress.
One that seemingly strips strife, increasing syntax and rhyming;
a beat that somehow serenades smoother than the rest.

That one, “The Sky is the Limit,” by Biggie or even Wayne
is the one I felt today, unhinging the helix
while simultaneously simmering the pain;
any hindrances had that could not be fixed.
But we all feel ‘em differently in a multitude of mixtures,
oh, it’s a human breed indeed
Especially because it is far from the perfect fixture.
But, sometimes, it is all that I need.
meta-4s
Tim Eichhorn Jan 2015
A good fastball
is not achieved
without a good
changeup. That
is to say that one
must feel the circle
within his stretched
hands and gently
unravel her laces
with your fingertips;
before you simply
jam it up inside of
the zone as fast as
you can.
Meta-4s, A lil something I learned from baseball days.
Jan 2015 · 403
To The Readers
Tim Eichhorn Jan 2015
I guess you can consider this free verse, but I am sorry this is not necessarily a "poem." But, I'd like to make a special thank you to all of the readers and followers out there that get this message and make sites like this possible. Even though I am no richer in pocket, status or winning any fancy writing awards (hopefully this will change); the mere fact that my work has been viewed ten thousand times is incredible to me! Out of all the job applications, rejection letters, and editors that say otherwise (hopefully this will also change) the sole fact has kept me writing and optimistic about the future. Thank you to all the readers out there who have kept me inspired.
Jan 2015 · 588
Playground Games
Tim Eichhorn Jan 2015
The ground has become lava.
In utter panic, I grab hold,
swaying my arms preventing
my limbs from falling into the
fiery pit below. I successfully
infiltrate the castle guarded by
the opposition, avoiding any sign
of imperial forces. My rebel forces
have taken control of the aerial strikes,
and once they get enough momentum,
they will bombard any of the imperials that dare
destroy my sacred mission. The objective is in sight, so
I take hold of the target, secure my arms nice and tight…
...and...
...slide.
Sep 2014 · 1.0k
The Apocalypse Paradox
Tim Eichhorn Sep 2014
Craters cradle the eastern horizon.
Asteroids are smashed, passing backwards and
comets rocket passed like a rubber band
whizzing across my face. Our sun brightens
the new gruesome sky that our world lies in.
The smoldering rocks much like contraband,
are invasive, not controlled where they land.
We now know that we were not enlightened.

In darkness, our souls wither away one
by one at the sight of the destruction.
Suddenly, a strange theme occurred among
us. Trust without rules. Now, we can all run
a world not petty, void of corruption.
As one, we will become heroes unsung.
My take on a post-apocalyptic world (in sonnet). Through the destruction, we will find a way to perservere collectively. My apologies for not following iambic pentameter
Tim Eichhorn Sep 2014
All
       We
               Ever
Needed
               Was
        To
Get
Together… and revolt!
A small tidbit from the political advocacy collection. To conspiracy theorists: note the "pyramid" form in the one-word stanzas
Aug 2014 · 823
Evolution of the Wordsmith
Tim Eichhorn Aug 2014
No brain,
  Brainstorm.
Storm door,
  Door opens,
Opens mind,
  Mindset.

Set tone
  Set mood,
Set themes
  Setting,
Set words
  Set stanzas.
Set backs?
  Set match.

Match Mix
  Patch fix
Large risks
  Lines brisk
Heart ticks
  Beats quick.
Darwinist
  Poetry is.
Aug 2014 · 5.1k
Deadbeat Dan DiNero
Tim Eichhorn Aug 2014
My seed, my seed, why do I despise thee?
Never, have I been respected for my
Generous gifts given in between thighs.
One mischievous night that I could not flee
And now I’m bound to you through my money.
I did not want you; now you’re always nigh
You somehow stimulate every sigh
Laud’num doesn’t dull your presence, my seed.

Sometimes, I think – but no – my mind’s tangled.
Red *** riddles reveal… nothing. I find
These psychotropic fantasies have slid
Beyond me and you, I could not wrangle.
Years will pass ‘til we meet, but the check’s signed
Because *******, my seed, you’re my kid.
Tim Eichhorn Aug 2014
With regards to Thomas Sayers Ellis*

Look at the
    Lucent lava lamps,
Dark craters
    Hiring hands.
We walked,
    Mimicking magma.
Hot, why is
    This heat?
Forget Vulcan
    And his illusion
Of kaleidoscopes,
    A rip tide
On the shore
    Of our conscious minds.
We held fire,
    Pretending to swim
Underground,
    But only out
Of pure respect.
    Some had boots
Made with
    The clippings
Of funky tripwire,
    Others wore suits
With goggles
    Clamped to their faces,
Gripping like
    Bay Area earthquakes.
One-by-one,
    Jang-strangs were
Attached to us and
    Hurled into the Pit
With rhythmic rituals,
    Waves of S and P
Flailed away
    Like flags.
One nation
    Under a new.
No one looked away
    From the fiery daze.
No one wept.
Tim Eichhorn Jun 2014
Near, near are my lucid dreams.
Sultry sleep, augmenting realty
Today, nothing will be as it seems.

Flashes of translucent, magnified beams,
Lighting lingers in treacherous tonality
Near, near are my lucid dreams.

The water flows in upside-down streams,
Rivers rage in confused commonalities
Today, nothing will be as it seems.

The mechanic roar of howling screams,
Shrapnel shrieking in utter infinities.
Near, near are my lucid dreams.

Pulleys construct convoluted schemes
While pollution parades in notorious normality
Today, nothing will be as it seems.

Awake. I go forth, my mind again seamed.
Awake. I go back, into a world of formality.
Near, near are my lucid dreams
Today, nothing will be as it seems.
Jun 2014 · 1.1k
A Reed So Sweet
Tim Eichhorn Jun 2014
Once passed
Always alive
You Lou
Have me hypnotized.
Not a word
I have heard
Sounds more real
Than the ones
you've told

I too,
Have been
"Waiting
For the man."
Head up Lexington
And start lookin'
For a dear
Dear friend
Of mine;
But mostly
For that one,
Quick, fix.

Soon after
"******" hits
And I too
Am dosed,
I - don't - know.
My only
Wonder now is
If a smack
Syringe can be
As good as
It sounds at
This moment
Commemorating the sounds of Lou Reed and the Velvet Underground. Rest in Peace Lou
Jun 2014 · 832
Politics Are War
Tim Eichhorn Jun 2014
The eternal trench has been dug,
Each side gazes upon a day's destruction.
A battle where neither side shrugs
A battle built upon corruption.
The fight - for North Vespucci
The land that prospers from war
Each side sets skillful schemes too cheat
And they surely settle the score.

A voice, a rifle
Like bullets - piercing a party's heart
Accountants launder loot - leaving us stifled
Like the master tactician - Commanding an army smart.
Ideas recycled;
Luring unsuspecting souls in reach
Only to promise the unobtainable
Through their leader's speech.

Cowering in fear, neutrals despised,
Don't believe the mystic mirages of which they speak
Leaving us disenfranchised,
We are who they consider "weak."
For "weak" I may be,
But disenfranchised - I will not!
With a sincere soul I speak,
We must move to stop the blood clot.

For Weak I am,
But strong I will become.
Nobody gives a ****,
But my voice will be a victorious one!
Jun 2014 · 2.9k
The Ballad of My Best Buds
Tim Eichhorn Jun 2014
I have met Masters and OGs
within joint commissions.
While my dear, Granddaddy Purple’s
spending my tuition.

But, it was merely a Blue Dream
at blunt ceremonies.
While Hindus and Afghans breed in
holy matrimonies.

Look at all of Mary Jane's strains,
I want to be like them;
stuck pondering my bud's embrace
and all’the broken stems.

Reuniting the Skywalker's
was quite like the Death Star
far out, in space and burns fast like
Sour Diesel’s quick car.

I rode the Pineapple Express,
then I hit the Train Wreck.
Lights out! The conductor demands
that we have our pipes checked.

Look at all of Mary Jane's strains,
I have plenty of them,
still pondering my bud's embrace
and all’the broken stems.

My bud's came less often and I
became less credible.
I told my bud Bubba that we
should switch to edibles.

“But, you can't eat these sweets unless
the treat's gradual high
stops your bud’s from disappearing.
You need me to get by!”

Where are all of Mary Jane's strains?
I need some more like them;
losing the embrace of my bud’s
and all’the broken stems.

All my buds have vacated me.
All that's left is Reggie
and Mid, who aren't like my kind buds;
they’re leaving me edgy.

I’m hanging with Mid and Reggie
hoping they'll come around
But now, even they’re gone, and I
have lost what was once found.

The strains of Mary Jane are gone.
I can't live without them!
I dream to see my bud's once more
and all’the broken stems.
A comedic view of a "pothead" thought process.

— The End —