I am walking on a trail I am uncertain of
Reaching for the stars while hopelessly grasping for the ground underneath my broken feet
I am touching your tears afraid that if I do not wipe them away you’ll wipe me away
The thought of you in pain always makes me feel like throwing up
Someone as precious as you should never understand what it means to be hopelessly alone while surrounded by people who love you
I am afraid to understand the misery that lies beneath your more than somber smiles
I’m following a journey written out to me by the government
Spending money I don’t have
Hopelessly aiming for a future where I can provide for you and help everyone who’s ever helped me
This accumulative debt is a spark in my check book
Ruining my finances but helping me achieve something greater than myself
I could never write poems the way you write music
And every time I look in the mirror I see a missing piece of me and I cannot find it no matter where I look
I’m trying to find myself alongside you
Afraid that you’ll be another to leave me behind and achieve grand things without me
Even if I am a lowly writer
Even if I am a hopeful poet
Even if I am a hopeless person
I need a sense of fulfillment to keep me alive
I am a train and no one is filling my coal
I have stopped on the tracks of life and I do not know which way to go
There are storms rolling in and the thunder is so loud that I cannot hear myself scream
My heart beats at an exponential rate and I no longer know if I want it to finally explode
Or for it to just stop
The clickity clacking of my fingers typing away on my keyboard is music
So I am a musician just like you
Only my instrument of choice is my growing vocabulary and my lyrics don’t always make sense
But I am still walking
Sometimes I run to a destination I’m certain doesn’t exist

An old man sits
on the edge of the bed
just after he's tucked in his grandson
He fiddles and fits
While his old gal, she knits
And his boy sleeps, soft and handsome

But what is this?
He can't help but think
As his grandson rolls restlessly round
What sort of ploy
May claim my boy
When his pops is dead in the ground?

His wife, she shakes head
All afluttered and red
Claiming that he's been a fool
For Death, he comes
For every which ones
As sure as summers for school

But wife, he cries
With tears in his eyes
As his boys turns roughly about
"What will become
Of my dear grandson
When a grandfather he is without?"

His wife, she smiles
Is silent awhile
As her needles go clickity-clack
"This boy, you see
Is our legacy
And a family he never shall lack."

the sunset was stunning
just like you
the constant clickity clack of the train wheels on the tracks
remind me of the beat of your heart
everywhere i go
has bits and pieces of you
a trail of clues
for me to put together
until the sun has set
the clickity clack of the wheels has silenced
and i step into the night
and am blinded by the most beautiful light
you

For the train goes by so fast
full steam ahead.
The engine powerfully in charge with the box cars
being led.
The conductor blows the horn
as its coming around the bend.
As the conductor yells " I hope there
ain't nothing in the way,  for some things
I cannot mend. "
As he grins and sips his coffee listening to another
"chug-a-chug-a-choo-choo,"  he thinks of things he's
seen gone by and remembers with nostalgia,
boo-hoo.  
  As the train will soon approach with the sound of
rolling wheels on the track,
like a rhythm of a song as it sings
"clickity-clack, clickity-clack."
The box-cars roll and caboose will
trail,
while the engine slows and does not
fail.
Time to help the passengers off with their
luggage and their cases.
Then another trip departs soon from the station
as its engine speeds up and races.

I'm sat at my window the snow softly falling,when I hear the telltale "clickity clack" of a pair of heels.
I imagine the wearer, tall by the time lapse in clicks,
wearing warm well cut clothes, due to the weather.
Her heels beat a tattoo, loud in the night time silence.
Echoing into the dark.

Hush, do you hear it? A softer step, masking its existence in time with her heels. No? Listen at the deep silence, stabbed by the staccato stilettos,
there, a soft crush in the snow. Her heels have quickened their tap,tap, tap on the pavement, the snowfall has also quickened, and so has the soft crushing steps of a man.
My heart imitates her stilettos, dread clutches at my core.

There it is the muffled scream that stops the stilettos,
snow is voicing a struggle, it's fresh crispness creaking and crying.
These noises are not new, they're why I sit at the window,
listening for the female, the male, the footsteps, the scream,
knowing that in the morning the news will feature the man dubbed
"The stiletto shredder".

Me, go as a witness you say, how?
He does what he does outside my window knowing I can never tell,
I'm his perfect witness,
I'm blind.

burning pages.
epiphanies procured through the pages of a book.
let's burn the already ones read.
i doubt the meaning of life is within the confines of the downed pink capsules.
the hollow shell of a human form.
i keep validating it. chemical communication has every place here.
the warm. hands clickity clackety against the keys. because they are home.
furiously scribbling is the one organic anecdote.
throwing a verse down is much preferred to THROWING DOWN. which is what human nature gives on the tendency to fantasize about.
let's not quabble over semantics here. (and let's not mention fantasy).
i'll check for justification in the mirror image of my face in the bottom of the carrot-stick bag.
no such luck, the soul ain't there either.
WANT TO VERBALLY SPAR, BABY?
i don't think you, nor i have the ability. (actually i do, it's more your well-being i'm concerned about)
erstwhile you sit and wait for the first attack, you should think into purchasing some pantene.
2.99 at walgreene's.
i've forgotten what i've started for. so let's not quabble over semantics here.
the death of white roses are never wept over. it's expected.
(maybe a vase in the corner is quite befitting of the lovely token of hopelessness)
it's like a catch-22, it's like fighting a losing battle.it's winning something like a full paid scholarship to plumber school, or finding out your best friend is a **** on christmas mourning.
merry christmas.
one should be cautious in stealing public property. the owner hadn't left it out for the recycling. you should have read the label.
and you:

i'm done.

LOVE REMEMBERED

all that remains
her cigarette smoke
crawling lazily to the ceiling

her footsteps
echoing down the hall
the angry slam of a red door

from the pavement floats up
the clickity-clack of red stilettos
the Morse Code for loss

a Focus LP
caught on a scratch
caught on a scratch

the same pale pink
lipstick kiss
on cigarette and champagne glass

rain falling now
in the open window
wetting the still sleeping cat

a church bell
scatters crows
a drunk staggers down the road

the end never appears
to be the end and then
it just is

I stumble against the record player
Focus get back into the groove
"...'round goes the gossip...'.round goes the gossip..."

so guess what, one day
I found a key (to a closet (in the church.))
and it was very dark and dusty
in there &
the ladder nailed to the wall was only wide
enough for
one
foot
at-a
time,
so, it’s lucky that
I’m skinny enough to wri-i-iggle my shoulders
up and through the hole in the
closet’s web-trailing ceiling.

I clambered up there and into this black
forest.
Plants were sprouting
up in big rills and clumps--
stalks thin as my finger and
pipes wider than my waist,
some fading up into the ceiling’s darkness...
others squatting low, and glaring up
at me with One. black. eye.
they were all deathly still.

Then,
the creaking boards, the black forest, the cramped path of unmarked dust that winds between the pipes, all that just
SIGHED and VIBRATED,
and with a hisssing hoarsse
!shhhhhhhh...
breathed!
and my heart just stops!!! BAM!





{cricket}


and i feel ****** into a dark mouth! i am caught and trapped by this black closet’s maw andI’mwaitingfor Godknowswhat tocomewrigglingfromthepipes-- ! --!
and then guess what?:

!b’URsting up its throat
is a SONG!
slowlyand Suddenly,
a blaring, screaming,
golden
!EAgle of a chord
that s(oa)rs and c’RASHES into anotherand another one
all rising and falling,
champing at the bit until One Thousand hhums and shhivers
fill each pipe.

and it feels like
holding ten coins in a stack and making them jump-clink-clickity-HOP together--
oh, it feels like
pushing your fingertips into a bucket of cold paint
it feels like the moment after jumping off of a tall tree
it feels like un-rippling your braided hair with both hands
like a songbird’s claws curling about your finger,
like closing your eyes in a hot summer-sun
and falling asleep in a hammock

it feels like holding a blacksnake
that curls and struggles strong against your wrists,

that’s what this church ***** feels like.

I’m gonna **** the genius that started playing while I was in there.

There once was an Old Lady that lived down the Lane

She didn't give a **** about what people would say

She would Cook and Bake and Feel full of joy

Until one Late Winter night.

Something didn't go quite right.

With a Clickity Clack

Her cats ran away

Neither did she know

She would never see day.

She forgot the Sweet cookies she left on the stove

And the warm Bread Loaf That would always grow.

Soon she Smelt burning and the house tumbled Down

Poor little Grandma could only Frown

And Now to this day her corpse shall stay

And chase away who ever would came.

Shed scare the caretakers

And Burn them to

And now they say if you go in her house On that cold winter night.

You might as well Pray with all your might.

You'll soon smell the fire That burned that Old Woman

And You'll just stand there. And Keep on cooking.

Turning, turning, turning the handle

Hoping, begging, praying Jack won't escape the box

Turning, turning, turning the handle!

Hoping, begging, praying this fear is only in my thoughts

TURNING, TURNING, CLICKITY-CLACK

WATCH OUT! MOVE AWAY! GET FAR, FAR BACK!

T U R N I N G , T U R N I N G


..............false alarm
Turning, turning, this is tiring my arm
Turning, turning, clickity-clack
Don't worry, this has happened before,
It can't possibly be ja

Nobody can break me,
But myself,
And I do it so carefully,
To build a shelf,
Filled with stories of the lonely,
Pages of truth known only to me,
For I am the one they know,
To own the barely beating heart
That pumps ink instead of blood;

I break it on the daily,
To spill words so familiar,
Yet foreign like careless whisper,
Like the sweet nothings he once gave me,
Or the promise he broke chance after chance;

Still my heart held on,
Ink filled to the brim,
Flowing through the tips,
Coursing through every vein,
At the touch of my bony fingers,
Dancing away on screens,
Or the clickity clacking,
From typing bits of him,
But more of me,
And how I never knew,
That truth is this heart,
It bleeds free,
It bleeds true,
But not in shades of red,
Just black and blue.

@byizn

the days of the week lost their meaning when all my thoughts fell out of my mouth in a run on sentence
runnin' past punctuation, gunnin' it for confusion
the fusion of what im sayin' is leading to fussing
over why nothing i've said is rooted in facts
never ending like a train on the tracks
racing car by car to the back of your memory
drowning out the world in the clickity clack
of typed words racing through my mind
it's all a blur, I never know the answer
i've never been less sure of the cure for the pain my mind is trying to endure but it's
magnificent, its magic that a mechanical miracle could ebb and flow with ease
this train of thoughts and words keeps growing like endless leaves on a tree
the willow branches that reach to the ground, sending a sense of peace all around as its growing in complexity
but now its on to the next thing, racing down the hillside
banging around, its the most brilliant tease
because even with all this racket and screeching
I'm still finding hope in hiding behind my thoughts
like we fade out our photos
blurring our noses and imperfections to make those click that heart
light it up in red, **** our senses are talking to the dead
im trying to remember, how to slow the world
that speeds by my windows
im seeing the world, forget it, its nonsense
my days move slow but my thoughts are racing
fighting for the gold medal, its pure insanity
running isn't an option when reality is chasing you, on your heels
if it catches me this might all go to hell
because if you could see, if you could see the insecurity,
if you could see the immorality
if you could see the pain and strife and the wanting for life
if you could find everything that would bleed out with a knife
that I hold inside
i'd find my hands tied at the small of my back
and I'd giggle in a half mad insanity, half ticklish agony
forcing my head forward
id be seen walking at a slow pace of defeat
because if reality catches me, im waging a war with skills of persuasion
that im not insane, but a deep thinker or something
but I never believed in fighting violence with violence
because I don't fight for things that have a lack of meaning
so I fight for space on a page to display what I have to say
im waiting to publish insanity for the readily accepted public
because if my work dates dollar signs then I wont be racking up fines
for stepping out of the common lines drawn between
between
between being successful and being the next successor of that kingdom
like everything the light touches belongs to you
but in a room of clouds, nothing lives in the now
you're faced to paint your past like a masterpiece of aging
paintings look real in natural light and in my room
the light is artificial like my reign over my mind
because my thoughts rule me, they're riding my actions like a slave master
hollering and shouting bouts of anxiety with every step
misstep
I digress, follow the light, green glow for go
the exit sign from this useless masterpiece of a rhyme
compressing the door to greet the increasing degrees
of positivity and flirting
with every step, in every fit
i think today, I'm going to finally get it

Travelin' hard,
Hoppin' train cars,
Seeing places that were once afar,
Hear the clickity-clackin',
Of that railroad a-cracklin',
Watch my feet start tappin',
And my lips start rapping,
My words start unwrapping,
As I start unraveling,
Some hysteria I've been feeling,
This road I'm walking,
This person I'm turning,
These people I'm befriending,
The choices I'm making,
The path I'm taking,
It's leading somewhere alright,
But only a small light is insight,
For this outlandishness I'm a-feelin',
For these feelings I'm a feeling,
Why can't I be good enough,
To pursue what I want to do,
I'm not the type of guy to deny,
The feelings that are nye,
How I live, how I breathe,
How talk, how I walk,
Should all be determined by me,
Not some farmer type taking notes,
Like I'm some sort of overdue goat,
No matter what they say,
If I think I can find away,
I'll do what I need to do anyway,
Confidence can be attacked,
It will effect the way you act,
If I can believe in myself,
I can do what would benefit ones-self,
And that's to remain happy,
Not caring about the negativity,
Of ones unfaithful liability,
Or your own self,
Trying to prove your wealth,
Prove your good enough,
Prove you can do everything,
Prove you can be anything,
Prove that you can do what you want to do, To yourself,
Tell yourself your full of gold and silver,
You won't need the confidence to do a thing,
You already have it,
And only you can be blamed,
For letting it boil into shame,
Take your dreams,
And pursue what you want to do,
Don't let anything or anyone,
Spoil your fun in the sun,
Because you never know when you will get a new one,
Instead of wishing for a time machine,
Trying to get a blast from the past,
Just hop on the same train I'm on and let the good times last.

WHAT ARE YOU LIKE?

You are like...
a Victorian architectural folly

glimpsed from
a passing train

fieldsandtreesandcows
dashing by with a clickity clack.

And one thinks to one's self
did I really..

...see that
or what
or not
or how
or why?

And then one is swallowed
down a tunnel's gullet

and only one's own
face stares back amazed!

And I can almost hear you laugh:
"Yes...that's me...me...exactly!"

LOVE REMEMBERED

all that remains
her cigarette smoke
crawling lazily to the ceiling

her footsteps
echoing down the hall
the angry slam of a red door

from the pavement floats up
the clickity-clack of red stilettos
the Morse Code for loss

a Focus LP
caught on a scratch
caught on a scratch

the same pale pink
lipstick kiss
on cigarette and champagne glass

rain falling now
in the open window
wetting the still sleeping cat

a church bell
scatters crows
a drunk staggers down the road

the end never appears
to be the end and then
it just is

I stumble against the record player
Focus get back into the groove
"...'round goes the gossip...'.round goes the gossip..."

On a slow train way past the middle and nowhere
Bob was chit-chatting with the wheels as they went  clickity-clack
Tom was playing the part of the conductor
As he showed the devil a new card trick
That didn't involve sleeves or arms
Just a top hat made out of rainbows and cigar smoke
Charles was smacking his keys hard and fast
Recollecting the lost memories of the lonely miles
Jack wanted to jump the rails and hit the road
It was well past the 5'o-clock shadow
That had started itching his neck way back at noon
They all agreed they needed a shave
But Burma had fallen off of the map
And no one had packed a razor
Someone started screaming or maybe just singing
But one thing lead to another
And they started breaking beer bottles
And the sound of breaking glass calmed everyone down
Before anyone was murdered more than once
They were all past drunk and the clock forget how to read
So the devil challenged god to a thumb war

It lasted centuries...

They were all laughing so hard at how absurd the whole thing was
And called it a draw
As neither god or the devil could prove the other one even existed
I was just a passenger on this slow moving train
Packed with gods and legends
And they only thought on my mind was
When or if we would every reach the café
Where the snow fell gently and warm
And the staff had an honest magic and beauty
Smiling and laughing good clean laughs
The café found at the end of the tracks
At the bottom of the road to nirvana

Haven Lane
By
Jude Kyrie


The night brings dreams where specters host
Old memories coming alive like forgotten  ghost
I am looking to find  haven lane.
The place where i will be safe again.
Down the pathway
Along to the sea
I find the roads
but not for me.
In the fog the house lights glow
Blinking in air as white as snow


Where is my mother  she's here again
Cutting fruit for a pie at haven Lane
Her old  chair creaking in pain
As she carves apple skins at haven lane.

I know she's there at haven lane.
I must find haven lane again.
Grandmother cast a stitch of knitting
It's shapeless length the moments flitting.
growing stitch by stitch as she is sitting.
Clicking ceaselessly  in Haven Lane
Knit one purl one cast one
Clickity clicking again and again


Outside, In the fog, I feel the pain.
Cutting my flesh wide open again
Dreams  wash away in the morning rain
I am Lost and alone like haven lane

Surround Sound

Soft silence often broken by another's words spoken, houses speak with each creak

First alarm brings us back from the dead reckoning, buzz for a nudge or sonic boom to awake the room

Liquid flowing with daylight growing, splash really fast in a sink or shower for power, boiling brew before we think

Kids and squirrels chatter, spoons rattle, keys jingle, doors slam, buckles click,  engines roar, daily destiny ready to consume

Asphalt awakens as commuters' race towards rumble of a concrete jungle ,repetitions begin when the time clocks click

Town square makes us aware marking time with each chime, we hustle bustle moan or groan each a signal of bust or boom

Clickity clack from a railroad track then sudden LOUD whistle is not for dismissal, many types of horns to warn, not lost in a fog or struck by a car or truck

For a number a mighty rumble of machines enhances their working scenes, noises more familiar than a spouse's voice, time clocks a map from womb to tomb

Many more softness of an office is boring beige not white noise, hums or moans set the tone; daily gossip keeps them in check

Anytime fine for a rhyme, hearing notes brings major upvotes, many use a voice to rejoice singing brings new meaning, mental vibe is often that internal tune

Each voice helps us rejoice, acoustic energy helps set our internal synergy, each rattle does matter, another new pitch not lost like a lonely speck

Break from doldrum not always ** hum, whistle or chirp of a favorite bird, whispering winds settle softly as sunset simmers  awaiting the new moon. R.C.

WHAT ARE YOU LIKE?

You are like...
a Victorian architectural folly

glimpsed from
a passing train

fieldsandtreesandcows
dashing by with a clickity clack.

And one thinks to one's self
did I really..

...see that
or what
or not
or how
or why?

And then one is swallowed
down a tunnel's gullet

and only one's own
face stares back amazed!

And I can almost hear you laugh:
"Yes...that's me...me...exactly!"

Dreams now supine
Rotting into fantasies
Oblivious to the schism
Preferences decided
By an algorithm
The scorching sun
This burning pyre
What more will it take
To set yourself on fire
Killing your instinct
Shaming is taming
****** oozing
You were born to be
A statutory warning
An inherent cast out.
The fuse is in your hands
Don’t you dare fizzle out.
You feel it
You repress it
A dynamite
Convinced it’s a firecracker.
Time to smell the gunpowder
Clickity click.
Trembles the wicker
To dust off the ashes
You must
Burn down the empire.
Proceed with no caution

Set yourself on fire.

The Pause of Time.

Tick Tock,
Hear the sound of clicks
It's time ticking, seasons flaking away
With each new tick, never find ease
Lean closely my dear
& hear more cleanly,
This low pitched mellow voice,
Urging on, the rushing of mighty winds
In even bits of every unit
In each stutter of time

Clickity clat , are the batteries dying?
All is slow
I hope the hands of the mother clock are jammed,
Perhaps the sun is falling,
With its orbits never again to reign,
To press the laws of time

Or perhaps the light on time has shone
In rigid rays enforced a home on the inside
Kin to heart, petted to a snooze
To find me relief from the ladens of regret,
From a racing heart and a boiling mind
To have me reflecting on the little things
Amassed round and about my soul
To have me enjoy the procession of life,
Than suffer the knocks of a losing squabble
Against the hands of time

There's a certain youth that he missed the first time around.

A spring in step, a key gear unwound.


(The writer's eye is unbiased.

He clearly saw something that took a while to cultivate.)

In the same time-space that it took for her, something magical happened.

Colours exploded on the dance floor, unspoken desires (perhaps a few wet *******) sweat and passion all in simultaneous eruption.

Perhaps he'll give this a spin.
Dropping and closing his eyes, blissfully unaware whether there is trust or not.