Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
Wilkes Arnold May 10
I saw a man on the bus
With a shaggy beard
And a shaggy dog
His eyes twinkled before they closed
Then he burped
Wilkes Arnold May 10
I can't write a word
Or even pickup a pen
I wish I had hands
Lives of the imagination
Loves as well
Are grieved more often
With similar despair
And greater melancholy
Than those of the world

As far as I can tell
There's closure in a coffin
It's to compare
That is folly
Those thoughts should be hurled
Or invite damnation
He cannot hear
I just now realized
He's deaf to it, it's all disguised
Everything, all of it, is crystal unclear
What's up is down and what's far is near

The radio boils
The microwave sings
The telephone listens, while his ear rings
But he hasn't noticed, his ignorance is loyal
To his strange world of backwards turmoil

His eyes tear up
At the toasters dull ding
Oblivious though, to orchestral strings
Crescendoing, divinus, in joyous buildup
An Ode only heard as a course hiccup

Puts books to his ear
But hears no voice
Thumbs through jibberish, but his hands hold Joyce
The steak tastes like spam and the wine of beer
He's deaf to it, all of it, everything I fear

He runs in squares
And lounges in circles
Tears down hopes, and builds up hurdles
Will flail in shallow water and fall up stairs
Then write love letters to hate-affairs

Has two left feet
And no right moves
His rhythm and soul have lost their groove
It's tragic, greek, a heart that offbeat
Might mistake victory and chance for fate and defeat.

He's wrong. What's more?
He's oxymoronic
His light-hearted prose are mostly sardonic
Wouldn't know an apple from an adonic core
Or discordant beats from euphonic score.

He's deaf to it,
Yes ears and all.
Despite what words I might here scrawl.
It will never get through to that dumb misfit
He's deaf and blind and full of ****.
The ending is a work in progress
He cannot hear
I just now realized
He's deaf to it, it's all disguised
Everything, all of it, is crystal unclear
What's up is down and what's far is near

The radio boils
The microwave sings
The telephone listens, while his ear rings
But he hasn't noticed, his ignorance is loyal
To his strange world of backwards turmoil

His eyes tear up
At the toasters dull ding
Oblivious though, to orchestral strings
Crescendoing, divinus, in joyous buildup
An ode only heard as a course hiccup

Puts books to his ear
But hears no voice
Thumbs through jibberish, but his hands hold Joyce
The steak tastes like spam and the wine of beer
He's deaf to it, all of it, everything I fear

He runs in circles
And sits in squares
Drowns in shallow waters and falls upstairs
Nothings left of romance when passion dulls
But crippled hopes and shattered hulls

He cannot hear
He just now realized
He's deaf to it, it's all disguised
Everything, all of it, is crystal clear
What's up is down and what's far is near
Ending is a work in progress
Life is pain.
But I wouldn't say
I've always felt this way.
Pain is a cruel and hateful teacher,
Demanding I fight for each and every breath.
I'm grateful towards death,
That it will all end at some point.
It's a ******* shame
That life has no real reason or aim.
What a peculiar thing
Wilkes Arnold Mar 30
It's the still nights, the stormy nights
When I want a cigarette
To spark life in my breath,
When sleep seems dead set
On avoiding me.
It leaves me asking why?
I don't even smoke.
Next page