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Tucker Freeman Mar 2018
So when I had my old number, I would text myself funny ideas and stuff cuz it was easier than opening a notepad app. Well, I changed numbers, but the process was so ingrained, I'd text that old number and for some reason it really ****** the person off. So I've been texting them like once every two months for the past four or so years the craziest **** I think of when I'm high or drunk and they are like WHO the **** is this!?
diary, confession, poetry, art, edgy
Tucker Freeman Jul 2013
aint a job in this world
so i do this
i choose it.
lyrics with no music
slowly comin down
from the roof its
spewing from my heart

words to an ancient lullaby
that only i can hear (and i don't know why)
flushes upon
my cheeky cheeks
it feels so queer
when i speak my speak.
hipsters and goblins
spokes from their mouths
i wanna rob them
mob them
sob them
sounds from the ether
i wanna shock them

sell my soul for a dime full of emotions
peddle my heart for a little bit of potions
twist my tongue
and dab my eyes
room full of tears
but i got no cries
land full of ears
but i got no lies
body full of flesh
but i got no tries

beating my head
for the hell of it
another beer
sleep thru the night
wake to the same fear

i don't know you
and you don't know me
there is no us
so there aint no we
just let me live
i'll let you be
i'll stay clear
but there is no free

toes toes
into the sand
wish upon a star
that i conquer this land
hoes hoes
i cannot stand
to nowhere i lead
place out your hand
Tucker Freeman Jan 2013
To say the least, I am lost and confused. Lost and confused in a city that is changing. A city that is growing. And I know it is, because I can feel it is.

Some days, sometimes even several times within the same day, I want to be at the center of the action. I want to be plugged into the social pipeline. A pipeline that leads straight from and directly to the gutter.

I think I just want fun. I know I want meaning. I think I know I want camaraderie. Friendship. Love?

At some points, I feel like all of this is pointless. It drags me down and creates a groove in which I neither fight to get out of, nor have to fight to continue on in. It's resistless and easy. It's not warm or cozy, but it becomes familiar and what's to be expected.

The lines between reality and imagination are ever-increasingly blurred to me. I do not know whether these people are pretending, or trying to hide, or pretending to try and hide who they are appearing to be. Are these walls really rotting and peeling or was it painted like this to look grunge?

I can no longer determine, cliche as it may be, if art imitates reality or vice versa. Is the music these people play directly resulting from and representative of them and their lives, or are they pursuing a highly regarded, in the hep world, a less fortunate and haggard lifestyle or "scene"?

Is the music and its energy a force, a presence, a power, an entity of its own? Inhabiting the body, possessing the mind, and flowing forth from the mouth of those without an identity of their own?

I don't know who I am. I know who I am to myself, as when I'm alone. But I do not know who I am to be or who I am to others. I have always found myself being drawn to mystics, magic, and power. But this is dangerous, weird, odd, foreign stuff. This is not stuff to be dealt with lightly nor to be done out in the light. It is shameful and secret and dark.

I am afraid. I am afraid of myself. I am afraid of the power I may possess, and I am afraid of the power that may possess me.
Tucker Freeman Oct 2012
possessed with the intangible art form known as
free flowing
  mind blowing
expanding into all
but collapsing into itself.
breathing one's breath
and skipping one's step
at the thought that you can
and are
  and shall be
forever more and eternally so.
we go and go
but step back to show
what we've found along the way.
i learn tomorrow and write today.
visions of the past are useless.
we must scope our way into the new beginning.
rush into the black mist of possibility.
of danger.
  of death.
   of life.
    of breath.
of love and tragedy alike.
we are bold as mold
creep and crawl along side the creepy crawlies
until there is no more meat to pull along with us.
but we keep going.
we take,
we consume as this world instructs us to.
only way to pass along the lines without them
  knowing why we're really there.
without them finding out
  we've been here before.
new names and faces
both them and i.
but they are blind.
we seek.
  we seek.
Tucker Freeman Oct 2012
Hey you reading this.
Yeah you.
No one else.
Are you aware of your own thoughts?
Of others?
Of yourself?
Do you ever enter a room
And feel a swell of pressure?
Minds buzzing in and out of harmony.
Perhaps a psychic thrasher?
Yes, in company, it is a struggle.
For your mind and thoughts indeed.
How do you know
That who you think you are is you
And simply put not just me?
Tucker Freeman Oct 2012
You see my lovely poem here,
But decide to not comment.
Is it because I tried to rhyme
The above line with *****?
Ok so I'm not a Poe I admit
Neither a Whitman, nor a Suess.
But I appreciate the ol' college try.
And I think you should too!
Edited 8/4/13
Tucker Freeman Oct 2012
I can't get my mind off of you.
Cuz you're so far and not near.
Oh how I miss our dog days of summer.
Back before you went queer.
You like catching for another team.
And I understand down deep in my heart.
There's not much you can say to one.
Who prefers *** in their ****.
The Olsen twins are without their Bob Saget.
My full house is no longer you see.
I wish you'd stop being such a ******
And please come back to me.
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