"constraining" poems
I asked the Lord that I might grow
In faith, and love, and every grace;
Might more of His salvation know,
And seek, more earnestly, His face.
‘Twas He who taught me thus to pray,
And He, I trust, has answered prayer!
But it has been in such a way,
As almost drove me to despair.
I hoped that in some favored hour,
At once He’d answer my request;
And by His love’s constraining pow’r,
Subdue my sins, and give me rest.
Instead of this, He made me feel
The hidden evils of my heart;
And let the angry pow’rs of hell
Assault my soul in every part.
Yea more, with His own hand He seemed
Intent to aggravate my woe;
Crossed all the fair designs I schemed,
Blasted my gourds, and laid me low.
Lord, why is this, I trembling cried,
Wilt thou pursue thy worm to death?
“‘Tis in this way, the Lord replied,
I answer prayer for grace and faith.
These inward trials I employ,
From self, and pride, to set thee free;
And break thy schemes of earthly joy,
That thou may’st find thy all in Me.”
~ John Newton (1725-1807)
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 1:08 PM UTC
The fuzzy purple blanket under me,
Like fur caressing my skin,
So soft, so sensual, like a soft massage.
Soft black fuzzy pillow under my head,
Like a cloud, soft but supporting,
Cradling my head in its arms.
Colourful Tinkerbell blanket covering me,
Soft like velvet, rubbing my bare skin,
A cocoon containing me, to change to a butterfly.
Tight thong embracing me,
Holding that precious centre,
My well of nectar, held in a sweet embrace.
Soft cami covering my ******* my tummy, my back,
Soft on my skin, like a hug, a firm embrace,
Containing my, constraining me, freeing me.
Tight shorts hugging my hips,
My ***** my thighs, Peacock, teal, jade,
Bright and conforming to my curves.
All the textures surrounding me, holding me,
All bring contentment, like heaven,
The textures of my second skin of sleep.
Sep 22, 2011
Sep 22, 2011 at 7:54 PM UTC
Throat,
Please open,
I need to let it out,
I can't keep holding back,
I need to express myself,
But you won't let me,
You tighten,
Constraining,
Closing,
Around my feeble words,
That cry from their prison,
To be allowed to show themselves,
But you won't let them,
I choke,
My whole body begins to shake,
And those lyrics that seemed so perfect,
Stop.
.
.
.
I stare,
Into nothing,
Wishing I could speak,
But hoping more that I,
Can begin to sing in key,
But no,
You decide for me,
That my sentiment is not worth sound,
You refuse to permit my right to free speech,
By closing my vocal chords down.
.
.
.
Their eyes stare,
No sympathy,
Critical confusion,
In the end their glares usher me away,
I shuffle back from the microphone,
With an apologetic smile to my pianist,
I turn and leave the stage,
My hands hit the floor,
My head down,
Eyes down,
Tears fall,
Anger builds,
But only at my sorry self.
.
.
.
Failure.
.
.
.
The rest of me was so strong.
.
.
.
But my throat gave away my pain.
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 2:30 AM UTC
Passed down from one generation
to the next
not knowledge
but values - limiting beliefs
constraining, they were not healed
raised in the system, they knew only to heed
what is worse, their children plead
victims of the system their parents preach.
Sep 23, 2022
Sep 23, 2022 at 3:01 AM UTC
What is love?
Its such a simple question
With a much complex answer
What is it?
Is it something that holds two people together?
A mother and her child?
Or is it something
Between a god and his followers?
Is it an unbreakable bond constraining or freeing people
Or
Something someone people are indifferent to?
What is this thing "love?"
I dont understand it
Is it magic, fiction, surreal?
Or
Real, live, active?
What is love?
What does it do?
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 11:14 PM UTC
“How important it is to walk along, not in haste but slowly,
looking at everything and calling out
Yes! No!”
–Mary Oliver, “Yes! No!”
1.
The coils of this labyrinth remind me of the small intestine. This vexes me. Walking the labyrinth is supposed to be a spiritual experience, isn’t it? Neither time nor place for unlovely images of the body. The truth is that I dislike the labyrinth. I find it too constraining, too tedious—all these looping, repetitive coils. The truth is that I hate the labyrinth because it is pale and remote, and silently indifferent to me. If I am going to engage with something, I’d like for it to talk back, please. I have questions, you know. I have some concerns. And perhaps just one or two small issues with control, and delayed gratification.
2.
“I think serenity is not something you just find in the world, like a plum tree,
holding up its white petals” (Mary Oliver, “Yes! No!”).
3.
“Watch how we encounter each other,” you say, and we walk, slowly, separately. Around one turn we meet, and you kiss me, and your tongue is muscular and wet. Around another turn you say, over your shoulder, “Hello,” and continue walking. It is hard for me to keep my balance even though the path is smooth and flat. I feel like we are in a Magritte painting. Your white shirt glows softly somewhere to the left of my awareness. A voice not connected to your body says, “Do you like my hat?” We are walking. We are together. We are not together.
4.
“Imagination is better than a sharp instrument. To pay attention, this is our endless
and proper work” (Mary Oliver, “Yes! No!”).
5.
So now:
Quiet, quiet—the darkness is full.
Your skin is listening
to the night air.
In the center of the labyrinth, someone has placed a gift.
Quiet, quiet—someone is telling you a story.
The oldest story in the world, and his body hums and pulses
under your fingers.
In the center, there is a gift.
Quiet, quiet—this is not walking.
This is surrendering to the path, your body long and outstretched
against the stones.
In the center, someone has placed a gift.
Feb 15, 2010
Feb 15, 2010 at 12:02 PM UTC
She longed for the sea like one longed for a former time. The salty scents intoxicated her and ravished her senses. She longed to feel the current against her body as she swam forever, into the unknown. She longed for the salty fragrance of the waves to be her constant perfume, to be free of constricting corsets and constraining doctrines that bore over her like a bothersome chaperone.
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 11:42 AM UTC
Juxtapositional Refinement Redefined (Spoken Word- Freestyle-Dramatics)
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
== JRR ==
by
SassyJ
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Credits to: Angelina Lopez (HP Poetess)
(Copy the link below to your browser)
Juxtapositional refinement redefined:
When you meet beautiful souls we have been taught by the society to confine them. Like "I love you" but what does that word really mean. Does it mean "sharing in openness" or does it mean " been confined in expectations and obligations".
The paradigm that we live in as society is delusional. We have learnt to analyse the "in between" based on our analytical and logical systems. But how about going to the individuals involved and creating an open dialogue to talk about what the situation may be. This is a thorough and more accurate way of attaining acuity.
To flow in openness is like listening to 'harmonious jazz music' ...... it is like inhaling the beauty of the ginger scent in the breeze.
Life itself speaks to us and we don't have to make it complicated. If we only were able to have an open platform..... hearts that are blissful and not tainted by fear then we can redefine the contrasting views of dichotomy that we have as mankind.
In essence, If you haven't communicated to someone openly about something ...... we should never draw out conclusions. They will only be pre-judgemental notions oozing with constraining predefined and predetermined assumptions. Give everyone a chance and the world will smile!
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 11:09 AM UTC
The tempest builds in its confined earthly cavity,
Swirling and crushing its source.
It roars searching for escape,
Thundering out with torrential rains.
Lighting sparks through veins
Escaping in blistering snaps.
The soul relishes in the primal storm,
Yearning for a greater release,
A larger typhoon to rip this earth away.
To shatter the shell constraining its rage.
It shakes with monumental tremors,
Succumbing it’s structure,
to rubble on the floor.
-ALC August 14, 2022
Aug 14, 2022
Aug 14, 2022 at 11:25 AM UTC
Honey take away the blade
From those innocent little wrists
You're far too precious
To hurt yourself like this.
Baby, take your fingers
From down your scarlet red throat,
You're far too beautiful,
To make yourself gag and joke.
Sweetheart, take away those pills,
From your desperate hands
You're far too gifted,
To slip through the sands
Of time.
Darling, take away the fist,
From your delicate head,
Your far too special,
Use a pillow instead.
My love, take away the bottle,
From those pursed lips,
you're far too magnificent,
To throw your life away, like this.
Angel, take all those self destructive thoughts,
Urges and impulses,
Those painful memories,
Those constraining convulses,
Of the past,
And throw them to one side,
hold yourself in your arms,
And allow yourself to cry.
You're worth so much more
Than to cause your self harm.
That's a promise from me,
You're life is far too treasured,
For you to drift away,
In history.
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 7:11 AM UTC
**** slidin out ma ***
Squirts of liquid and spurts of gas
Constraining my face
To push it out and away
That lil **** hangin from ma hole
It's almost like it's got a soul
I shake it off quick
That big black stick
And then it goes plop
Down in the **** ***
Wash it away, with tears and say
"Urrrrgea, that was a big one aye?"
Then flush it down
And watch it fade away
Mar 17, 2017
Mar 17, 2017 at 6:33 PM UTC
The problem is not with the problem,
It’s that you don’t listen.
The issue is with the wound I carry
It is the neglect and egotistical dissipation
The ignorance and obscure character disposition
It is in your complacency and self-righteousness
I AM YOU INNER CHILD, CAN YOU HEAR ME?
Or have you grown too macho to surrender to your sensitivity
How many times I’ve cried, waiting for your attention
How many times you have been of disservice,
I have evolved into a numb and heartless rock
I no longer have the frivolity and freewill to levitate
It is I who chokes your rhythm when you hesitate
It is me taking a cold shower when you are embarrassed
The breath of you takes away my reasons to live
I AM YOUR INNER CHILD, CAN YOU HEAR ME?
No? But I have so much to say
I have been wearing this forlorn contusion
Even when I talk it is not a discussion
You have marred me to become bitter and resentful
Gone is your passion, you are submerged in your job
Gone are your dreams, you have focused on that promotion
Love has been jaded by your promiscuity
What happened to loving one person in a million ways?
You are a servant of the social mirror and its constraining chains
Dancing to the dictatorial piano that plays and plays
Where models are defined you are a written face
The beats come together picturesque but grotesque
For you are more about maintaining the picture on display
What is in your heart has bowed to despair
I AM YOUR INNER CHILD, CAN YOU NOT HEAR ME?
I am drenched by the sweat of your incessant grind for material
Can you not understand that this has left me hysterical?
Surrealism suggests that as partners we should yearn for the ethereal
Free me from child abuse
Free me from bad news
Free me that I can choose
Free me that we can fuse
Free me to sign a treatise of truce
So I can be the inner child you love and don’t confuse
So that we can be free to try new things
So that we can rise above dogma and play strings
So that we can ride the giant phoenix, on its soft merriment wings
…. And I will be the child in whom you confide and pay mind and find signs of truth in our stride, we won’t hide for we won’t be blind but kind in humility like we never lied and be free from the twigs that had us tied to a tree of no-open-mind and one we’ll be in time… I the child in whom you confide to find the prize of life.
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 4:26 PM UTC
Give me one truth to hold onto
cause I’ve been wishing on stars
higher than my expectations
My maybe stars and mostly flames
but they always fall down like hail
and leave bruises on my shoulders
already riddled with red spots
left by my bad habits and self hate
And bruises mostly stay longer than you want them to
talking about your weakness to strangers you’ve never met
It’s the same with hickeys and sunburns, but aren’t they all reminders
that yesterday your heart sang into another being
or ocean waves crashed into your ankles
and I know your eyes light up when that music starts
so don’t try to deny your vulnerability
You know, most of us been waiting for our lives to begin
for as long as we can remember
hoping and hanging onto daydreams
of inner peace and finally having love
but the smallest nighttime erases them
and our whispers are lost in the cracks of thunder
just like
every other wonder of every other lover I have
and all those lovers are stifled by each other’s unspoken phrases
and the rumble in the back of your head that chokes out
“don’t make a fool of yourself” “your words can’t carry your heart” “you will only end up embarrassed”
Why are we all so embarrassed?
When our beautiful friends stand in front of us blossoming as wide as a montana sky
and you stand there with a gate constraining your compassion like you’ve never cried yourself to sleep
But I have been both the guilty and the ashamed
and the only certainty I can give
is to speak your truth
or else wonder if you’re wishing on satellites
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 12:25 AM UTC
And leave it to Turturro
To steal the movie again,
A tour-de-force in a single character,
Repeatedly, consistently . . .
Except maybe one time.
"Raging Bull" 1980:
Turturro was "Man at Table,"
Uncredited, of course,
A man of no words,
A role difficult, constraining for any
Would-be Richard Burton,
Some shrew-taming Petruchio,
Over the top & out of a job,
Again.
Ask any director who
Directed in the 1950s and 60s?
"Difficult to handle," says Unanimous,
Auteurs & Schlock Filmmakers,
Alike.
Turturro too, needs special handling,
Or Jesus Quintana will chew up the scenery,
Emilio Lopez will be sneaky-sneaky-sneaky,
Materializing without warning over & over
Again.
Turturro: veteran of 60+ films,
*Barton Fink, Miller's Crossing,
Fading ****** The Color of Money,
Do the Right Thing,
O Brother, Where Art Thou?*
Turturro TV: Frazier, Monk & Miami Vice.
And others.
Turturro: a Brooklyn boy, Italian,
Roman-Catholic, the son of Katherine,
An amateur jazz singer who worked in a
Navy yard during World War II, &
Nicholas Turturro, a carpenter &
Construction worker who fought as a
Navy sailor on D-Day.
Turturro: attended the State University of
New York at New Paltz, completed his
MFA at the Yale School of Drama.
A life most worthy, capped off with
Amedeo & Diego, his two sons.
So, I'd like to thank The Academy,
In advance yet decades overdue:
A Lifetime Achievement Award, Johnny.
Recognition over the long haul.
Sep 24, 2016
Sep 24, 2016 at 1:16 AM UTC
A pretty girl sits down at a patio table across from me.
She takes an acoustic guitar
out of her leather purse. I’m drinking coffee grounded from Carver Stories
With one hand, she tunes the guitar,
and with the other she strums the strings
with a beating heart.
I feel an emptiness,
deep from within my chest,
that is like a ceramic jar
missing its precious soil.
The lyrics to her songs
come from a radio station on the moon.
The one that plays
music made out of
empty friends and unplanned successes.
I hum along to the pauses
between her words and clap
to the punctuation marks, constraining her lovely voice.
She sounds like my future.
She sounds like a songbird.
She sounds like running your fingers
through a round, bald head.
The girl looks up from her guitar
and smiles at me, as if I am her second boyfriend.
The same one who she marries
out of necessity,
out of income,
out of security.
I offer her a piece of gum
Etched with masculinity.
She takes a bite.
Then spits it out at once.
I laugh.
She laughs.
And it’s not the kind of laugh that is forced,
or given out of sympathy.
It’s the kind of laugh that says:
“Hey I see you and I know,
I miss the stranger in your smile.
And the kick drum in your heart.
And all love
that I have never received, due to my stubbornness.”
I blinked.
And the girl transformed into
a mirror.
And I changed into the girl.
And then the mirror became the girl.
And the girl became me.
Then we looked into each other’s eyes,
and made love under the spell of a song,
the same one she played in the beginning,
with music notes that sounded like the anguished cries
that come from my heart, the same heart
that she uses to play her guitar.
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 7:47 PM UTC
These waves are like
the locks of your hair
how they seem to spiral endlessly.
The aroma engulfing me
is your honey-scented perfume
how I’ve longed to breathe you in
for hours at a time.
And this current is
your eyes
alluring yet dangerously unpredictable.
Odd,
how drifting on this pool
is not calming me.
Instead, it is constraining.
Has this current suddenly come
to a tragic halt?
Do your eyes have nothing
more to say?
Is this all that is left,
for me,
to stay
at the surface?
There is a sudden instinct,
An impulse that makes me
want to take this dive of faith.
But first, inhale.
Count to three.
I’m sinking,
but this doesn’t hurt.
I open my eyes and
how divine
to traverse to this new world,
immersing in your depths.
I submerge further
to the unexplored,
Soak in your joys
and sorrows,
Glide by your insecurities,
Yet I don’t quite notice,
I’m suddenly at the mercy
of your emotions.
Suffocating
in your secrets.
Drowning in your tears.
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 7:55 PM UTC
Recently it's as though my mind, my body , but most of all the entirety my soul, are confined within a perpetual limbo, they're suffering, neglected and abused.
My thoughts are smashing into each other while fighting against one another, amidst a whirlwind within perfect storm, ripping at my emotions, which by themselves have been confused.
Beneath my skin there lies this undefinable rage, a monolithic knot of sadnness and fury with an insatiable hunger I can not stifle, so it just keeps growing.
With my eyes wide shut I lock away my voice and continue with my facade, in my stillness and silence a smile is worn, in hopes of no one knowing
A small part of me utters, in an almost breathless whisper, for help, boldly but softly I cry " hurry, i have lost myself again, please come and set me free".
But those whispers, they are drowned out and beaten down by the more dominate constraining force within, and it's motive......merely is to hide me.
I am wandering, meandering aimlessly around what once was the most familiar path I've ever traveled... my life
Unrestrained thoughts and memories that I tried to rid my mind of, in a awful frenzy race in... each one cutting like a knife.
There's an emptiness, a massive void is now spreading through out the place I would lock away the sadness, as it now is flowing free.
What a beautiful disaster it will make, when these sullen clips of my trouble mind are played for all the world to view and like a plague take over me.
Apr 25, 2013
Apr 25, 2013 at 7:41 PM UTC
You were born in the mist
Of a worldwide ****** war,
Shielded in the town of Oxford
No one would have known,
Who came to light
On a random winter’s day,
And would have studied darkness
To humanity’s bewilderment
And science dismay.
Who could have envisaged
A modest run-of-the-mill boy,
Having troubles reading would pass
From studying clocks and radios
To figure how they work,
To later toy with physics
Identify the laws,
Of a universe beginning
With a silent bang.
A singularity unfolding
Ever-expanding space,
Projecting multiverse odds
Stretching theories of strings,
To unfathomable infinity
Countless possibilities.
I fell upon you by hazard
Listening to your alas robotic voice,
Notions of evanescence and chaos
Information lost forevermore,
In deep mystifying black holes
Only to reach the end,
Of an article explaining
The genius you were recognised
Even when you were wrong.
Sustaining a verity
You humbly would recant,
Thirty years later tell the world
Indeed energy survives and is returned,
To cosmos under a radiation
They now call by your name,
For there are no “eternal prisons”
Not in space nor in your wheelchair.
Your alacrity showed humanity so
By flying in a zero gravity zone,
Defying the physics constraining your body
An endless fervent hope, I dare
Share with you. For one day
To travel space and understand
A theory encompassing all,
Started studying cosmology
All because of you.
Mar 14, 2018
Mar 14, 2018 at 3:56 PM UTC
Across the room I watch you from afar
So much to see, so much to admire
I can only gawk in awe:
Shimmering softly beneath the party
lights
Delicate as fine porcelain, elegant just
like a China doll
Little Perky ! diminutive little button
of a nose
A sublime protuberance, with a
wonderful angular symmetry;
Like a beautiful ballerina in the centre
of the face
One lonely Cinderella, forever
overlooked and unsung
Neglected, passed over, the great
unmentioned one;
So still and so quiet, mysterious like a
question mark -
"Little Perky, don't you fret, I! Me!
I'll be your poet though a poor poet I
be
I'll hold up your charms for the whole
wide world to see,
I'll be your dashing Prince too, if you
let me".
Finely chiselled, exquisitely sculpted
Better than any Michaelangelo
And I love the little wiggle;
How silently you sit there and how
patient, enduring all
Stuck between the two drama Queens
Eyes all painted up, that flit and dart
Twinkling and fluttering outrageously
like their a class apart,
And a rouged up Mouth's sulky lips,
burning rubber
Busy gabbing away, running off like a
wild piano;
But then there's you Little Perky,
simplicity itself
Shy bulbous beauty, a throwback to
childhoods innocent days:
Like the others, you play the game
You go along but it's not the same,
See you sniff into your little hankie
And know that beneath, you're
probably not all that happy,
You seem to say (to me at least)
" I hoped for more, I dreamt - I dreamt
of other things
And other nights than these".
I see you Little Perky, I see you all
alone in your lonely prison cell
I hear your sniffles, your silent sobs
and sighs.
When pinned in the corner and
assailed from all sides
My eyes, they secretly run to your
quiet hill, that lonely mountain,
Like Heathcliff in Wuthering Heights
I'll wait for you Little One
I'll wait for you there..... my Cathy
(O! lovely wild and spirited Cathy)
I'll wait for you through the wind, the
rain and the snow
I'll wait for you to come
I'll wait for the real 'You' to show,
Beyond all the bravado and the big
bluster notes
Beyond the crowds constraining looks
I'll wait for you, my Love,
We'll laugh again, and dance beneath
the stars
We'll live the dreams that once we had.
Little Perky, sweet alarm bell of the
soul, shiny little bugle that gleams
Go on now, give it one more blow
One huge giant elephantine blast
That'll sweep them all away
And leave only you and me here,
alone at last
Facing each other across this floor
O! Little Perky, my Cinderella, my
Cathy.......my Heart!
May 1, 2018
May 1, 2018 at 6:27 PM UTC
up to alaska,
tundra and me,
tundra and me,
spit on my hands,
shook your hand,
sharp grin,
sharp part in my hair,
you said i'd be bald,
i was a faux pas,
down to portland,
free your mind
in fish bowl,
in windowsill acid,
you said "loosen your tie",
we spent two consecutive
nights throwing dollar bills
across the room as we shook,
slid, stepped fancy, some clumsy,
until free of constraining clothing,
we called landlords
told them not to worry,
i bought you four americanos,
you pounded them out,
you bought me three bottles of wine,
worst night of my life,
across to pine ridge,
you scored peyote,
said it'd help me see,
all i got was sad,
staring at weathered, forgotten men,
and their starving spawn,
we headed back home,
spinning the only cd you own,
bowie's station to station for
28-hours,
i said i loved you,
you said i broke my promise,
bit me, stroked my hands,
said, "well, i guess we'll see where this goes."
Oct 7, 2010
Oct 7, 2010 at 8:31 AM UTC
Dear Somebody Worth It
I write this barefooted
freely and open minded
no rhymes no foot prints
no sense but quite dense
with much appreciation
I still lack plenty of love
I feel provoked and evoked
by long lost memories
I feel revoked, by what we call
"mokes"
this so called "black" society
doing nothing good but constraining
the young "mokes", ridiculous!
what do we call this? anxiety?
unfortunately no matter how many times
we wear a mask and fake our smiles
no support denotes our true feelings
but this is life - let us not promote
depression, but suppression instead
With the true intentions of making
this world a better vacation
Dear Somebody Worth It
Stop breaking our hearts just
because you're broken inside
Let us not play games, let us grow
let us glow, let us be bold
Life's too short for shenanigans
May your broken heart repair
and sparkle in gold
Yours Truly
-Liaa
Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 10:02 PM UTC
Drowning
Suffocating
Constraining
These purely physically degrading sensations
feel so real just in my mind
I know I'm breathing fine
but I'm drowning
I know I have room to be
but I'm suffocating
I know I can move around
But I'm being constrained
The mind is a powerful machine
that's why I am terrified to fall asleep feeling the
Drowning
Suffocating
Constraining
purely physically degrading sensations
that are all wrapped up in my mind
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 1:13 AM UTC
Compare cotton-cumbersome constraining,
from crops that appear planted clouds.
The thread count of the sublime silver,
cascade droplets shimmer and sluice sheer skin.
Weightless, transparent, contours to every curve and plane,
sliding slowly up feet, ankles, calves, thighs, and hips without a snag.
Vowels escape your tongue,
for a moment you are submerged,
in the universal solvent,
the cares of the world merely puddles.
May 16, 2012
May 16, 2012 at 12:44 PM UTC
Smothered in jewels
And chains of gold
The life most desired
By the inferior
Glamor and money
Become the dream
But the real dreamers
Think beyond the image
The chains reflect the rays of sunshine
Gaining the attention
But blinding the way
They hang heavy
Constraining each move
The outside voices
Control the opinions
And the money
Hides the truth
Red wine spills
You should know
It stains
When the lights eventually grow dim
The inferior become the superior
Left with true opulence
Or a lack of
I hope you're satisfied
Nov 10, 2016
Nov 10, 2016 at 7:31 PM UTC
Cotton ***** replacing eyeballs,
light bulb socket eye sockets
glimpsing a contrast computer screen under sullen light;
small talk in the room behind me.
They're really getting into it
three quarters over the line between
I really don't know
and I really don't care.
One foot constraining the other end of reality.
And it's like everyone is shaven down
by their own empty hours
into glazen-eyed laughter.
Forward progress into
counting dirt
in a hole.
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 1:40 AM UTC