"coinciding" poems
A supine position
upon my bed
and a slow turning
of my head
I look out through my window
and by chance
LISTEN!!
Hearing the howling
and chilling desultory gusts
of wind
Noticing seemingly deceptive
immutable muffled
grey-white
low hanging clouds
enveloping everything
in its heavenly path
with coinciding
feelings
of being enclosed,
a slight hint,
the oncoming winter
A sunless sky also
matches the early November mood
as virtually motionless
elongated pearl-grey-clouds
having distinct
wind-kissed
topsy-turvy-wavy-ruffled bottoms
that travel and permeate
onward
across the heavens
These eerie vapors
s t r e t c h
from north to south
east to west
casting Buddism's
grey colored shadows
upon the earth below
while not permitting
any sky blue
to peek through
A distant howl and barking
of
a dog,
my inner volcano snuffed out,
the tranquilization of Hercules...
Time seemingly
stops altogether
and hangs...
... heated feelings
dissipate
into
cool nothingness...
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 4:27 PM UTC
Chance
is being in the right place
at the right time,
coinciding with the orbit
of another searching
the aspirations that you to seek.
A connection needs attention,
a compliment, a smile,
an enquiry of mutual interest
that engages instantly.
The abdication of convenient norms,
a shift in behaviour,
adopting a new travel direction.
It requires no discrimination,
but an open welcoming mind,
conjoining parallel convergence,
Meeting.
© Pagan Paul (2018)
Jun 7, 2019
Jun 7, 2019 at 6:27 AM UTC
I climbed the dark heaven to meet myself alone..
To smell all the roses and espy the stone..
Nevertheless, the cloud was frozen and the breeze was calm..
I saw her descending and coinciding with my palm..
Her plain white vesture was contrasting my red..
She was diffusing the divinity that I could not even bled..
Our faces were same but our aces were inverse..
She owned one whole entity while I was a disperse..
The moment was priceless and so were my emotions..
It was indeed the most breathtaking phase to my notions..
My other twin was bounded with a definite time span..
She was entirely a woman with the heart of a man..
*"You don't live inside me, I have never sensed you inside,
Painted with shyness, you rather live like a bride*.."
I peeled up my heart and had the eagerness to know..
If the sun lives in me, then why do I fall like the snow..
She smiled and glared down on me with the rays of her starkness
and told me how sturdily I have been lidded under the darkness..
Holding the flowers, she stands in the island of my soul..
She ponders my echo and waits for the control..
She imparts her colors when my pallet runs out..
but puts on her cloak when my demon comes out..
Surprisingly, I asked "You are my part. Why don't you fight out..!?"
She had an answer. She works eternally from the hideout..
In the midst of the stirring stillness, she reminded that I had to leave..
Ironically, I could not crave for what I had been dying to receive..
The same ladder showed up and slanted me back to my nook..
and the wind narrating slowly what I had given while what I had took..
*I returned to my place which was as murkier as ever..
I sensed the time-It was cursive and clever..
Perhaps I will reap more strength to deflect the chirping into the roar...
to mend every single lapse and bring her back someday on my door*..
Mar 26, 2016
Mar 26, 2016 at 2:15 PM UTC
There's a stream,
splashing and gurgling,
sending up in the air a single bead of water,
sun beams giving a lightbulb's twinkle
and inside lying fragments of it's history,
I wonder if it has a tomorrow
As I daydream about it's mysteries;
The path down the stream,
taken within the flow
with other waters,
weaves,
in and out of the gills of a baby minnow,
over and through smoothed rocks,
Seeping from a canal
racing through locks,
drifting down straights with no bends
Left from the **** of a stag weekend,
And before that a can of cider,
and before that a tube in a mechanical assembly line,
from a water tap,
that came from a reservoir,
Which fell from clouds above it's perimeter,
and before that splashed from ocean froth,
lifted up in a collision of waves like a table cloth
after being taken on the hull of a speed boat
carrying ******* from a river,
where it had once briefly been on a paddle
from a man fishing to make his living.
And further up the river where it divides into streams and then nothing,
and then famine,
moist ground from tears,
It had been someone suffering.
A million lives
entwined in a drop of water,
each one a coincidence,
coinciding just by chance
the spectrum of it's experience of us is wide,
and with each and every drop the water empathised,
Tears at a wedding,
At a funeral,
Christmas spirit in mulled wine,
A plume of sea water from the belly of a jellyfish,
Pushed forward through it's life,
A trillion drops of water helping to make gravity decide
How high or low to go to make the tide,
Unified in direction
helped by the sun's and the moon's light,
Does it take the love of one direction (not the band)
to be unified?
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 8:35 PM UTC
When nothing is everything
Everything is nothing
When everything is true
Nothing is true
When everything is false
Nothing is false
When everything is false
Everything is true
When everything is true
Everything is false
When everything is nothing
Nothing is everything
Constant war is constant
peace
Knowing nothing is as good as knowing everything
Complete freedom is complete dictatorship
The extremes are not furthest
apart but coinciding
~~~~~~~~
And past,it doesn't exist
Neither does tomorrow
Just this infinitesimal moment
Where everything is false,
Nothing is false
Everything is true
Nothing is true
You are me
I am you
Jul 16, 2022
Jul 16, 2022 at 9:35 AM UTC
I’ve been thinking about hands
a lot lately and how fingerprints are like
permanent, foreshadowing tree rings
etched onto our beings; I wonder if
the number of rings on my palms have any
correlation to the number of years I’ll live or
the number of years he’ll live or the number of
years that she lived. I’ve been thinking a lot about
life lines and heart lines
and if there is any stock to be found in palmistry;
I wonder how my fate line got to be
so muddled with my luck line.
I see my life the way a clairvoyant would:
in cut-up and choppy strips of film—
I should have seen the omens,
I should have read the smoke signals,
I should have recognized the cards.
Act One began on a waning crescent moon
and continued until its gluttonous belly
had swollen with light; I thought to
myself that craniums made of gallium
often melt the quickest, that blood filled
with plutonium often flows the slowest. I would
have given my body up to the pathologist free of charge,
would have let him dig his hands into my entrails for
some sort of divination, some sort of revelation—
I was never told to beware the Ides of June
nor the Kalends of November.
Act Two began with the birth of Jack Frost
and has been continuing without intermission for
the past four celestial cycles; I thought to
myself that heart valves made of sodium polyacrylate
often love the most, that sinkholes disguised as
fingertips often feel the deepest. He whispered
in my ear cliched words about not believing in
God, but how I made him feel blessed, and in
that moment I knew he was the oneiromantic being
that had been shadowing my dreams since 1996—
I guess you could say that, sometimes,
I believe in love.
There is an art to fortune-telling
there is an art to hands
there is an art to bones
there is an art to dreams, and over the years,
I have found them coinciding more often
than not. In my sleep, in notebooks, in
irises, in mirrors, in poetry, in small little sighs.
I do not know if I believe in fate or destiny, in
God, in auras, or in the Blood Moon Prophecy,
but I do know that I believe in you. I find myself writing
sappy verses and smelling your shirts and I do
not know if it is because I miss you or if it is because
I’m bored or if they’ve somehow
mergedintothesamething.
I’ve been wondering a lot lately about
where you show up on my hands; about where
he showed up and where she showed up. I want
to know which lines bisect and which lines fall
short; I want to know if the resemblance between
mother and daughter
continues into that of my palm lines. I want to know
if my life line matches hers and if my heart line
is even worth giving away—
find me in your crystal ball, make me
your sacrificed animal, look for my body
in the stars, and we will know that
it was all made to be.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 7:02 PM UTC
Perhaps we lived a night and day away
and never knew the other one was breathing
and so we saw the sunrise stained with grey
but never fully realised we were grieving;
perhaps our eyes or bodies might have met
when on the Northern Line, or on a plane,
and left us cursed, unable to forget
and nursing till our death a treasured pain;
perhaps you read my story in a book,
how I'd been dust these seven hundred years,
the dreams I'd dreamt of you, and how it took
a dozen books to hope to reach your ears;
perhaps the Lord had mercy on us; hence
this coinciding's no coincidence.
Aug 24, 2011
Aug 24, 2011 at 9:59 AM UTC
A good girl
That likes to sin
Kneeling with a grin
His finger on her chin
With hands clasped
Behind her neck
Arched back
Head slightly tilted
Feet apart
No slack
Knees spread wide
elbows aligned
With her shoulder line
Red collar
Silver lining
chained linked leash
Tight grip short reach
The pressure enticing
Her body writhing
His body coinciding
Like a tight fit outfit
Mid-cut tye-dye tee-shirt
With matching
******* g-string so tight
They look like they don’t fit
And it’s the dopest
The moment feeling like
Hocus Pocus
Silky smooth skin
******* Satin thin
Slippery fingers
Sliding in
Hips gyrating
Her space
Penetrated
By him
Fingers Saturated
The way she moaning
You would think she is
Singing a hymn
Jan 10, 2020
Jan 10, 2020 at 1:32 PM UTC
And So the Day Begins (Bring Them Home)
~ With love for T.R. & S.R., my friends ~
<>
*Their spirits, sensed, well kept,
in a sudden breeze, a sudden sneeze,
at the precise exacting, millisecond,
when skin, mind intersect, coinciding,
Mine, Theirs, and wet eyes and
smile traces arrive unbidden but both
together, always simultaneous and I know,
full hearted, full throated gasp grasping,
my soul and hands, touching, clasping,
in the kitchen odors, morning coffee,
early daylight across my face sweeping,
on the tongue, their taste on mine,
and I am present in this moment
as they are too, with me forever if
but just for a heartbeat, maybe two,
stilled yet, my heart trembles as it fuses
with Them and Everyone of Us is renewed,
and so the day begins,
Oh Our Children!
remembering, a point on our journey,
our always unbroken continuum.*
<>
7:17AM
July 22
Two Thousand and Twenty Three
but one more day until…
Jul 22, 2023
Jul 22, 2023 at 7:38 AM UTC
Poetry
is born
of dreams
and reality
coinciding.
Jul 20, 2015
Jul 20, 2015 at 8:00 AM UTC
<Sun May 14 5:00 AM PST>
Let us be smart about this departure,
time unscheduled, yet leaving inevitable,
the sound of fabric torn, a rent performed,
a ripping, a release of the gripping, connecting
tissue of weft and weave tying parent and child
*(All of us poets, all of us comprehend,
there are two points, two buttonholes
that offer escape or farewell, when we
commence on something new, when we
pen our chest’s demands to exhale, cease the hammering*
*Perhaps, here, just after the third stanza,
the brick enormity of our selected task, on chest,
weighs heavy, boulder difficulties ahead, now fastened
and faster and faster realized, begs us, quit this essay,
return to placid, from an arrhythmia of imploding loss)*
So many fabrics, so many tears, wet and dried,
but upon commencement, the only finish line,
is another commencement, when the (mine-own) rendering
is finalized, beyond repair, when guilt gulfs overflows, flooding
plains of forever pain officiated by signed scar, “here was”
So many separations, varied and variegated,
surficial shallow surgical or plunges, widths of trickle,
depths of deadly plunges, records of inches, dates,
names, new heights inscribed, measured on a door jamb,
lost, erased, when child’s door closes permanently
Came today to the West, to Pacific Ocean entrance,
to celebrate a good boy’s ritualized threshold crossing
over into manhood, both symbolic and and realized,
but tear-up seeing the small child-man leaning in and on
his father’s larger frame, a coinciding giving & taking
no bonds are eternal, for such is life, the weft must be
warped, sundered and separated, so many reasons,
experience speaks, scars are like bandages,protecting
but deceiving, what they cover can never be excised,
a space created, that only oxygen can touch both sides
but never, ever be reperfected, mended,…or finalized
2023
San Francisco
May 14, 2023
May 14, 2023 at 10:07 AM UTC
i.
i still feel you in those times when i can drain the pain from my veins just long enough to smile, before it rips my skin and crawls its way back into my blood stream.
ii.
you are every poem i have ever written about love in a nutshell. you are so **** pretty. your pretty is a shredder, still ripping me to particles when all i want to do is sleep. forever.
iii.
i'd sing no doubt but you don't speak anyway. if i disregarded that though, would you see the irony? would you see that what i mean is i love you, i love you, i freaking love you, and i'm sorry i didn't try hard enough.
iv.
i still think you weave words like blankets for newborn angels. even when the blanket is wool, and it's itchy, and god babe, was that last poem about me? because if so, i want to ask if i'm a baby angel or if i'm just one or the other, a baby or an angel. because right now i don't feel like either, i just feel lost.
v.
you make me sick.
vi.
not because i don't love you.
vii.
i'd prefer you burn me with words instead of whipping my already scarred heart with silence. now my wings are falling off and i am falling apart with them. the cloud i'm floating on is pitch black and its on a pathway to something horrible.
viii.
i define fragility with silent sobs in the back of my throat. my wrists still throb even though for almost a year, i've been totally clean. the amount time i've been clean is coincidentally very close to coinciding with the amount of time i've known you, and i don't know if ever knew you because i never thought you'd just go like this.
ix.
i left for you. almost everything i do is for you- why don't you understand?
x.
i'm still not ready to say goodbye so the change in the weather tries to do it for me. it says that a new season means a new life, and since i didn't know how to live without you in the old one, maybe now i can learn to live without you in this new one.
xi.
this is almost a goodbye. one day, maybe it will be.
Oct 4, 2016
Oct 4, 2016 at 7:00 PM UTC
Risen sensibility when it came to living life
Wiry tendencies to fall before a savior appears in the split second of your head coinciding with the concrete to catch you
You live too fast, you cannot die
A case of immortality floating through the blue and black veins pumping blood to your weary heart
Turbulent tremors beat the pallor right out of your personality
Trying to turn back time and see who's fault lies within the deficiencies of your relationship
Could it have been the haughty reactions to every novel he wept at?
Though inside he was deeply troubled by death and it's casualties in his life?
Could it have been the musk that owned his scent, one you used to crave but now repulsed?
Pine needles spiked within your perfume drove him off the cliff
And mood-congruent memory proves it's theories
You are gravely broken inside your chest
All you feel is anger for the boy that clipped the wings off of the butterflies that carried you
And replaced them with ****** tears sewn together with cheating and dishonesty
Irritable noises clamor inside your ears
Reverberating throughout your whole body
Shaking, like an earthquake, involuntary
Clangorous echoing of negativity is constant
Unshakable, ineffable, suffocating
Your disheartened recollections resonating with your adverse quality of letting go
Could it be, a silly girl like you fell for a manic depressive like him?
Or did the silly boy fall for the manic depressive girl?
Mood-congruent memory, flowing back in streams of discontent and remorse
Ambiguous reasonings and faulty evidence collide with your incoming tears
He was not, the problem
(You were)
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 12:24 AM UTC
Did that really happen?
Or was it just me.
Were you just batting your eyelashes
or did you really wink...at me?
Is there a reason for
you walking beside me
or is it just our paths coinciding?
Question upon question tower in my mind,
they form headaches,
as well as smiles.
***
Nov 24, 2014
Nov 24, 2014 at 7:00 AM UTC
Listen to the night ascend, and fade, as dawn approaches,
The trees weep tears of acceptance,
Brightly colored music is thrumming through the air.
A low and continuous chorus coinciding with the dawn of eternity.
A vibrant homicide of hopelessness, a resuscitation of elation.
We are together now.
Fear not the path into the light.
Today we will dance in the sunlit wilderness,
The radiant tongue of the sun covers us in slick moisture,
Our fluid bodies twirl, arms enfolding.
Embrace life like a maternity ward,
Full of limitless potential for love, chaos, violence and kindness.
As we release gamma waves, warping our world,
Shaping what we choose,
Embrace life like a maternity ward.
Negativity seeps out of us, and evaporates.
Our lives begin today.
Aug 31, 2012
Aug 31, 2012 at 7:10 AM UTC
function here in waves,
playful rose of fractal dance between the ashen
i-am-nesses fused --
what else can say existence
like you are like me?
that atoms mine are yours
coinciding kinds
in kind collide in braving symbols wide.
no interference holds amid the swing
from dark to light,
eternal constancy
of varied essence striking
joy on joy a smitten fullness-
breath of overcoming desperation's wrath
regrown particulates of god undead
of final unities no longer dark,
no longer merely one among
.
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 11:20 PM UTC
It'll be different this time , I think
Spit up toothpaste in the sink.
But I know this brink.
Maybe I'll actually make conversation
But every time my mind takes a vacation!
An overwhelming infatuation.
The silence used to be so pure
One dab later its all a blur,
Feelings mull and my speech will stir.
My temperatures rising; *hes so enticing*,
Those lips, inviting.
Our energies coinciding.
Its endless now,
We're on the couch,
Where there's no such thing as screaming ouch.
Then there's endless heat,
Neither miss a beat.
But is it trick, or sticky treat?
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 6:31 PM UTC
I remember the moment
you first said you loved me.
Our bodies coinciding
Bleeding into each other
Into the muddled mess of love
We've made.
In between our mouths
You fill the space
with your warmth
And I could swim
In the sky
Of your body
You paused our melting
released an 'i love you'
And I've rolled it on my tongue
Ever since
snatched your love off jasmine trees
placed it in my hair everyday
Your love is as sweet
Fragrant and beautiful.
I am sorry for walking
for not having roots deep enough to grow you.
I don't have enough, baby.
I don't have enough.
Dec 13, 2014
Dec 13, 2014 at 6:51 PM UTC
i am fascinated by the connections high school forms. who knew that that friend of a friend who was my sixth grade enemy’s classmate was the ex of my best friend? it’s a labyrinth of familiarity and camaraderie, and some might call it a trap; if it is, then it’s the most beautiful maze i’ve gotten lost in.
one too many times, i’ve made a list of my own; of people i know, of faces i recognize and of everyone in between. i’ve mapped out names and drawn lines to them like a game of connect the dots, all those relationships overlapping like venn diagrams with open ends.
with that being said, oftentimes, i wonder how the people i know describe me to strangers. i wonder how many times my name has shown up in conversations i was pushed to be part of.
i barely have anything to say about myself, so what would they have to say about me?
that kid with a camera. someone who can write. pretentious tweeter, Tumblr girl, member of a few clubs and organizations. student. ***** daughter. sister. ****** friend. it’s a possibly endless list and a mess of adjectives.
most days, i don’t know what- rather, who- i am... but here’s one thing i know:
i don’t want to be just another person in a story.
i’m not just ex girlfriend; not just used-to-be classmate; not just girl best friend; not just someone’s crush or someone crushing on someone else. i’m not somebody else’s past or future or present. i don’t want to be just that, don’t want to be confined to a constellation of connections that someone has created for themselves. yes, i may not know who i am yet, but i won’t let myself be a pronoun thrown around, a fill-in, a joke to tell. i’m not your punch line. not your ice breaker. not that one person you should talk about when the rivers have run dry, if you know what i mean.
i’m a bigger believer of coincidence than i am of destiny. i am here because of my choices, a build up of everyone else’s words and actions over the past years. i am here not for a reason- i am here, and along the way, i’m making my own reasons to be.
you know me not because of a bigger plan. but maybe because i ran in to you in a hallway. maybe because the administration put us in the same group when we were transferees. maybe because you complimented my music taste. maybe because i asked if i could tag along to your auditions.
we are whatever we are because of choice; of coincidence; of chance. call it luck. call it unfortunate. call it karma. this is what we have; this is what we are; this is what i am; and it can only be accounted to you, and i, and so many other people, and so many other factors.
you are bright and warm and beautiful. you are a constellation without them. don’t let yourself be a secondary character. this is your story.
be the villain, be the hero, be whoever you want to be. believe this:
you are not what other people say you are.
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 1:26 AM UTC
Can you settle for more or less if today was your last day
And what would be your retort if you were denied another chance?
How life introduces sobriety and the impending inevitability
The interstice and it’s ingress that encloses before your eyes
The demanding pouring of importune time
That soothing allaying sighs that evoke incalculable alleviation
If someone were to impart as they closed their eyes
As they died with a commital of happenings with not enough time
As to burden you with the impression of only one chance
It would seem and with the impending inevitability
Of your death which would subito compromise the day
A bearding contrivance plight of obligations engagement and commital no alleviation
An abecedarian dossier concealed for a long time
All this time the inevitable coinciding incident only for your eyes
The emotional habituation was of quotidian rendition each day
Of how trivial things take us on a dance with only one life one chance
With your attention and awareness on the answer the inevitability
Of what you are becoming with each passing second for each
Thought which transpires and no alleviation
Is there an epoch a replicating limn a depiction of our linear time
As we perpetrate and pursue progressively for our alleviation
Engaged to staying the course the day
Stirring closing in on our deliberate objective determined chance
Which remained for a terse duration from the inevitability
In which at the atrium of this erstwhile portage of a duvet to belabor
To stifle firsthand with your eyes
The variant from this domicile from this residence on a day
Is the vagabond to perish in yonder with no alleviation
Once man was a brute dullard or a curmudgeon spinster at a time
Which offers a mute disconnection ragged miscreant the inevi
Naivety or absent mindedness to somnambulist and its silhouette
Notwithstanding change
The quagmire and it’s nightmare the ingrate delighted with coined
Shunned eyes
Reputation with a flagrant obscene defilement galvanizing
The alleviation
At the heart of this lies another chance
A precocious inevitability
A man who lies to die another day
The annihilation in desperate want for from those argent eyes
To the starving newfangled optimism which in its sheen
Shines sunshine dulling the ocular orbs of time
Forwithal in befuddlement remain here
The time if infringement to comprehend the volatile vertigo
And the inevitability
The harrowing of hell
Glance at the shinning suns in her eyes intention considers change
After you heal and left are the cicatrix
Will you plunge further for alleviation
Or on the intent of regression once again
From long ago to another distant day.
Jan 23, 2019
Jan 23, 2019 at 9:20 PM UTC
With my blue wide eyes, I see nothing but airplanes in the sky.
I reach up with my sun hands, trying to feel the warmth of the earth, but all I receive is cold world news. I consider myself a shape shifter, not able to camera talk since my message appears weak. I play my cards & quarters, ignoring the warning sign, about getting lost. Who knows who cares, words I carry deep in my heart, trying to live my cubism dream. There are stranger things in this world, that are held together with a sticky thread. It was always you & I, we just didn’t know it for so long, unable to move forward because of our heavy feet. We lay and look up at the ceilings, only to see a black spot millions of miles away. Riding breakers out into the sea, it's hard to believe only three months went by since I met you and you met me. Sometimes we get caught holding our black balloons, filled with feelings larger than a wooly mammoth. Remember our trip to Mt. Washington? We had that white stuff from Columbia, a week I’ll never forget. Reminded me of our first concert together at the The Bowery. It was in our Gorilla Manor, where we got Hummingbirds drunk, for no particular reason. We are nothing more than Local Natives, coinciding in a world too small, for the adventurists living inside us all.
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 3:35 PM UTC
When I think of you,
I think of a bag filled with a variety of color.
One coinciding with the next.
A peaceful look through a kaleidoscope.
Being at ease in a calm hush.
A sealed smile found under two big bubble eyes.
Two fluffy cheeks, big ears.
The prosperity found in a lapel of flavor.
Bunched together to create something new entirely.
Taking a handful of you and placing it in my mouth,
Cascading around a swirling tongue.
This is me reliving each moment spent with you.
The thought of you protected by a plastic bag.
Based solely on this purpose alone is truly mesmerizing.
Each thought identical to the next, different in hue.
A tropical swirl leaving it's mark on the top of tongues.
Spreading joy with every touch.
When I think of you.
I see the kind of woman I can spend the rest of my life with.
Constantly falling in love with flavor after flavor of all that you have to offer.
Breathing you in with each swirl that circles around my mouth.
The thing about gummy bears, no matter how old you get.
They will always be timeless.
And so will you.
If you were a gummy bear I'd savor each piece of you until there was nothing left.
If that should ever happen.
I'd be tremendously sad.
As my gummy bear would be gone.
I can only imagine your expression after reading this.
Picturing you as a gummy bear
Nov 14, 2016
Nov 14, 2016 at 3:17 PM UTC
Shifting gears
Revolutions near
Red line absorption
In blue sky spectrums
Characterizing wave~particle
Photonic duality
Designating principals
Using dark features
Coinciding emissions
With elemental missions
Broad strokes
Masking narrow bands
Of water lilies
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 1:39 PM UTC
The old man groans as he gets up,
Rising from the chair is a job.
He notices now he is getting older
His head is developing a bob.
Not quite Katharine Hepburn,
Not a nod as much as a bounce.
It’s not a palsy, more of a tic.
It’s not really that pronounced.
And stairs seem to be an enemy
They don’t match the cadence.
Between the risers and his feet
There just too much distance.
Or other times, they are too short
And rise up as an ugly surprise
Not coinciding with what he sees
With his own aging naked eyes.
The man complains about TV
How they are mumbling too much.
They seem to be whispering
Or using foreign words and such.
And when he turns the sound up
The action scenes hurt his ears.
A ***** trick to play on people
Who are a bit advanced in years.
The old man gets disgruntled
When people outside make noise
Like they are some kind of teenagers;
But they’re adults, not girls and boys.
Here it is ten o’clock at night
When decent people are asleep.
What kind of schedule is this
For decent people to have to keep?
What is he to make of the music
These young people like to play?
It has to be some kind of abuse
To use a guitar in that way.
In his day there was melody
And words you could understand.
The noise they make is like a collision
Between a dump truck and a sedan.
The old man grumbles in frustration
That things have not stayed the same.
He would write a letter to the President
If he could figure out who to blame.
But one thing sure, he always insists,
It didn’t use to be this way before.
Now a kind of anarchy seems to exist.
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 2:58 AM UTC
Pressure rising
Pulse subsiding
Outside flying
Inside I'm crying
Problems dying
To much lying
No more denying
I know this is trying
Tired of the spiting
I see you've been hiding
Becoming, abiding
It's time for some guiding
It seems so inticing
To rid the unexciting,
Coinciding,
Whining
Jeopardizing,
Stereotyping,
To only bring on,
A new horizon
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 3:46 PM UTC