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clever Apr 2018
It's 11:32
I'm still waiting here for you
Made my way down city blocks
Ignoring people, kicking rocks
But you've reached the deadline
It's 11:59
And I'm still waiting.
David Hutton Oct 2017
Down here, it is dark and damp,
Like a Concentration camp.
No more desire to discover,
as darkness has declared every colour.

My duration is close to descend,
No desistance from this decline.
The decision to disembark,
Means no more bloodline.

Don't delay my departure...

I can't see...
It's getting darker.
I have a deadline
that was set.
I probably won't meet it,
I bet.
But that's fine with me,
because I know
the person
who set that deadline,
and I know
that they won't mind too much either.

Because it was me.
Setting deadlines for myself by myself never really worked for me...
annh Jan 26
skidding down the slopes
of a Friday afternoon
deadlines looming fast
my rickety toboggan
- clattering alarmingly -
navigates the final run
and with a sharp turn
delivers me sweaty-arsed
but still in one piece
to the door of my weekend
at six on the dot
D Awanis Oct 2016
Never thought I'd listen to Kodaline,
as I walk down the Memory Lane

Oh, Clementine
For when I was with you I've always been sane
You said you'd be at nine
But since you were no longer mine,
I spent all night with you in my mind
And glasses of champagne on my hand

Oh, Clementine
It's hard for me even to draw a line
Letting you go costs insanity I can't define
With countless loss of dopamine
But I guess if you're fine
I'd do my best not to intervene

Oh, Clementine
February 14th you're no longer my Valentine
Driving through the sreets I ran out of gasoline
But the time is due and I've come to the deadline
While sighing 'I'm done'
I know it's time for me to be gone
Daniel K Apr 8
After the two, I underestimated you.
Time was wasted till four days left to finish.
Piece of cake drove me insane.
All the more did I rip my hairs out
When you gave me that smirk
Daring me to complete you if I could...
The more I tried the more I knew,
Petrified before the reality
As I scrutinized at my reflection in the mirror
With saggy eyes that lost its light
And back at you; unfinished masterpiece of Frankenstein.
Chained down by the inscriptions of nightmare
I give up all hopes to be free.

The last 2 days I perceive to be
Long yet way too short.
Truly the hands are moving forth without mercy
As I am writing this poem instead of
My 3rd ten page paper.
KiraLili May 2015
If your looking for confrontation
You want to fire me from a bad portfolio
A winked answer to a flirtation
The best response to a to a bold innuendo

When asked to stay up late when your up early
Or looking down a steep trail on a bike
Setting the bar high on a deadline mutually
Accepting a tequila shooter with Mike

Usually a common retort to a friend or boss
The challenge from  lover or foe is met or accepted
It lets them know how far you will go or how little the loss
The commitment is said and what's offered will be attempted

Knock the throttle back or make a stand and smile
Give it all you got and spend every dime
Let them know how you roll every mile
Tell them , don't threaten me with a good time
Common answer on construction sites to a hard task , I over use it often.
Dominique Apr 20
One hundred and five thousand,
One hundred and twenty hours.
Time you drown in while sleeping,
Or scrub in the shower.
The minutes that accumulate
When you're waiting for fate
To arrive.
One hundred and five thousand,
One hundred and twenty hours
Of which many you litter around
Casting the seeds of your life to the ground
Reaping your smiles from the words that survive.
One hundred and five thousand-
Some gone already, turned to mist
Imagine the laughter we've missed
Imagine the days you've spent not being kissed-
One hundred and five thousand hours,
Were you buried in books and too busy to look
Or have we just been afraid?
One hundred thousand depleting hours
Till this life of ours can't be saved.
The UN published a report which gave the world 12 years to resolve this climate breakdown before the effects of our consumerism and selfishness devour us whole. I have always been paranoid about wasting time, even when under the illusion that I had time to waste. Do not hesitate. Join extinction rebellion today, even if it's not to preserve the world which gives rise to such beautiful poetry that I frequently read on here. Do it for yourself. Extend your time, don't choke on it. Much love to all <3
patty m Jan 2016
Galvanized humanity

we envision annihilation.

Yet whose to say,

how many may live?  

Ensnared fate clamps shut effecting us all.

Turn back the cosmic clock

that triggers fatal events.

wedge open the doors of perception

to a paradise on earth.

The deadline to solemnity has passed;

its time to scan blue skies and gather flowers,

look forward to peace

and worry no more.
Ferns Jul 2018
The pile of books
The array of papers
They long-await
that ink will pour
on their vacuous
void of emptiness
For the deadline
draws near
Yet I'm still here
Sitting on my windowsill
Lackadaisically waiting
Certainly expecting
For water to descend
From the firmament
surrounded by dullness
where a mass of clouds
are there to be seen
Mike Hauser Sep 2014
I got here...

At the tail end of the moment
The last wink in the dream
On the second that I want it
The space that's in between

I arrived with...

The bread before it's buttered
The writing on the wall
The deadline at it's most crucial time
The longing in the distant call

Where I saw...

The show before it opened
The wonder in all it means
The only thing I'm hoping
Is that I haven't missed anything
It's silly all the thought that goes into writing poetry.
The poems that count are the ones which require no thought at all.
when you asked me to write you a poem, gave me a deadline
I knew I would fail.  Had failed.
The words on this paper will not bring you back
they won't wage wars in the name of God or love
won't rise up off the paper when all that's needed is an embrace.
These words are no more than lead on paper
strained attempts at funneling thoughts
distilled down to something somewhat legible
no more tangible then words spoken aloud.
dust on the wind so to speak,
fully capable of bringing tear to eye despite their inanimate position.
I need a drink, the burn of fire water to cleanse my soul
Poor me another, cause I can still see  the floor
Due dates;
A revolving strain on time,
A resulting
For proven effort;
Our productivity
Our professional fate?
We look inward,
And contemplate,
And find
Our update
Is late
CK Baker Aug 2017
Manning up in Texas
Geldof overdose
needles at the bed stand
starlet comatose

California dreaming
killer meets demise
hurling in a taxi
puke fee on the rise

Fighting in the Gaza
Jordan's holy war
rebels on a mission
Jihad underscore

The North Korean riddle
pales in grand design
crisis on the border
planes fall from the sky

Cooking on a deadline
tempting tapenades
herbs are in the spotlight
wines that give a nod

Google maps the body
DOW at record highs
Uber comes to market
corn is on the rise

Apple on its earnings
Caterpillar dead
European sanctions
banks have **** the bed

Clippers threaten boycott
Longhorns follow purge
Lynch is out of training camp
James is on the verge

Leinart taking *** shots
coughing up a lung
lions take a licking
fans are throwing dung

Another day in Vegas
Primm from A-Z
rolling out an ankle
a flying SUV

Quiet tempting spaces
made better by design
multi color pea coat
silence fuels the mind

Stabbing in the subway
goat caught in a well
apes are selling tickets
(but leave behind a smell)

Puberty on trial
a man without a head
teachers feel alone
lets take them to the shed!

Jonah's tomb destroyed
wreckage in Mumbai
Sugar Daddy sites
Freedom 85

The immigrant debate
Russia's mounting toll
unions on a mission
heads are gonna roll

Beaches for the nudists
hotels on the cheap
the best generic brands
a list you have to keep!

Planning your estate
questions from the camp
a mansion up for sale
where once they filmed The Champ

Midwives threaten action
aboriginal act
truckers want concessions
that train has left the track

Sharks are found in Fundy
a prized but perilous catch
food we love to hate the most
an irrefutable batch

A family on the brink
I want my kids to fail!
politicians drains all hope
a ban on Israel

Follow out each headline
let the columns be your guide
all these things did happen
the day that Newhouse died
Nassif Younes Mar 2016
How do you manage it,
You people with plans?
With your tendon-tight schedules
And checklists in chains;

With diaries strapped
To both of your feet
Does anything happen
That you haven’t foreseen?

Do you map out the cracks
Before heading out
For your hourglass walk?
When you’re looking at flowers

Are they already dead?
As your mind races forward -
With your crystal ball pen
And possible cards -

Do you keep a spare arm
In case one falls off
In a war even Nixon
Would never have called?

With your cutthroat calendar
And insurance tip-top
Will you meet the deadline
And die on the dot?

Is there an alarm in your coffin
Say, just in case
Somebody buried you
Alive by mistake?

As you prepare every moment
Has this one been lost?
I intended to ask
But I guess I forgot.
ryn Aug 2014
Step right up and get in line
Produce your ticket, your seat I'll assign
Down the steps, then left to your row
Best you hurry, lights are dimmed low

Take your seat, settle in, be comfortable
The show will begin at the blow of the whistle
I'm your ringmaster, behold the spectacle
Welcome to your life, your very own circus carnival!

Be awed, be mystified, be entertained
Be ready to witness the life you've gained
You'll see fate defying feats and high wire decisions,
Emotion driven acrobats and will bending magicians!

First up, we have a duo, we have a pair
A man and a woman, whom you've learnt to care
Armed with big hearts along with hardened whips
Here are your tamers, they're yours for keeps

They'll attempt and try till their very last breaths
Keep you riveted, as they toy with death
Love with their hearts and their whips do straighten
Teach you lessons with firm handed affection

Stay put, you ain't seen nothing yet
Seen it all you think, but not this I'll bet
Bespectacled, they work alone but part of a guild
Pen juggling and book flipping, one aim to build

To impart all they know across varying disciplines
They'll get it done through different ways and means
Sit tight, do well, for you'll be rewarded
After their routine, you'd have learnt, your life you'd have charted

Put your hands together for next in tow
No my friend, it's not the end of the show
Let's welcome the one you'll soon come to seek
Dons a suit, you might see him five days a week

For sustenance, it is him that you will search
Hurls tight deadline projects from his obscure little perch
Equipped with a bow and bolts in his quiver
Shoots assignment laced arrows, makes sure you deliver

This last act would be the best
It could be true, no! It's no jest
Feast your eyes on your evening's temptress
With curves that could **** and garbed like a sorceress

Tease your heart aflame with wild raw magics
Render you submissive with her sensuous feline tricks
She could be the one, for whom you would have bled
She could be the only, you might want to wed

This finally marks the end of our night of nights
Night abundant with reflective imagery and titillating sights
Hope you've the enjoyed the performances we've lined
Hope we've lit the spark in your body and mind

Before we part and go on our own separate ways
Before the sun rises for the rest of our days
Allow me to leave you with one final say
"Life will be the ultimate circus; whether or not you choose to play".
Blue Sep 2018
how have you not gone insane
when you pretend that you don’t feel pain

when you are supposed to take the same pill
everyday, same time,
when you have to submit your paper
before the deadline,
when you have to wear certain clothes
can't go against their dress-code,
when you are asked to speak your mind,
but your words are confined
when your dollar only gets you so far,
but they tell you to reach for the stars
when they deny your application,
yet you have never gone on a vacation
when they try to reach out,
but they don’t want to be put out
when you stare off into space,
wondering what’s outside this place

how have i  not gone insane,
my minds a ******* hurricane
this poem is for whoever wonders how, even themselves have not gone crazy from the rules and standards made by society and the stoicism that we sometimes are confided in.
Jordan Hudson Oct 2018
These moments are finally here
They are approaching and are getting near
There is only one deadline caused by some signed
Documents that can prove that it's mine
These days have approached but aren't coached
So they may be spread out and down the road
But I'll sit and wait in the dark as The Stargazer waits
I have priorities but I can't keep my head straight
The sitting back and having no control is what I hate
It is one more step up in life
But being held back from it makes me cry inside
I have absolutely no say
As to the day that I jump on the highway
Anticipation takes over and creeps outside
And out it goes into other people's lives
Can't hold back what is bringing me down
The fact that what I want isn't allowed
Just to drive at the time that I write this
Let them know everything that they've missed
I got a Scion TC but at the time I wrote this I can't drive it until I have my licence.
Anushruti Singh Sep 2018
In between sunrise and sunset
Blast off and deadline set
Before the ocean beach
And crowd reach
Just go
Because you have miles to go.

If the road is empty
Rough, tough and dusty
If the hand is empty
Everyone on their duty
If the mind is mess
Just go through base
Because you have Miles to go.

So! Now, you have miles to go
Just because,
Your parents wants
Better for your wards
And gives a comfortable life cards
Blah! Blah! Blah!
No! Dear no!

You have Miles to go
Because the society need
Poor children became weak
They all need a well treat
Just go for them
Make them feel relief
And as a reward
You shall get blessings
And resting peace.

Ok! I know,
What's going on in your mind
So, always remember!
Blessings have
more power than prayers have.
This poem is For youth to suggest them to do something different. The power of blessings changes the fire of adverse situation into water. Do something for country and society.
Daddy’s typing
He usually is
On deadline, he always says
That’s his biz
Covering politics
See him fume
Sometimes we talk about it at dinner
What’s the world coming to?
Fake news?
Daddy’s typing
Click, click, click
On deadline

But he is always there for me
Advice and consolation
Little league
Good conversation

He does investigations
Of big problems in our nation
He discovers
He uncovers
Then he relates
To the public
In the paper
It often excites

So we love him
Yes we love him
Daddy types away
Click, click, click
Daddy’s typing
Daddy saving the day!
gone \’gôn also ‘gan\

no longer existing: no longer at a place; departed or lost.

When asked about my favorite memory, I can recall nothing. All that comes into mind is a blur of what has once been, of what things were, right before everything ceased to exist. I remember the shadow of your smile, the echo of your voice, and the silhouette of your embrace. It was the simplest of things, and also the insignificant ones at that, that seems to be tattooed on my mind. Nothing can quite compare to the feel of your lips pressed against mine, to the touch of your hands igniting my body. When it comes to you, all else fades into the background: my fears of commitment, of being not enough.

However, none of it matters now, anyway. Not when all is lost; not when everything is all a little too late. So if one would ask why I do not consider these fragments of memories as my favorite, the answer is quite simple. A favorite memory should be something that could bring you rapture in reminiscing. How could nostalgias centered with you become my favorite if all they do is haunt me of a love lost and another round of “what could have been”?
Once in every dream my brain could come up with, amidst the constant troubling of my nightmares to sleep, I get visions of us holding hand in hand with everyone right there to see. I dream of you singing me to sleep, enveloping me in your warmth all through the night. But this wistful thinking burns all hopes like how a piece of the sun could burn like a coin in my hand. No more, darling, we could not go back to the way it was, no more.

Like a missing piece in a puzzle, I know it is more than a mystery, an enigma, why I vanished suddenly. Are you even still waiting for me? Are you still there pining for my return? If yes, then good for me that I have someone like you. If no, then just know that I completely understand. But whatever the answer may be, I know you deserve an answer. The lies I reasoned with for leaving are not entirely tell-tales. But I did lie, by omission, of denying you the truth of why I wanted out.

As I write this letter to you, I want you to think of me with the sun’s rays illuminating my dark locks. Envision me in a meadow by the hill, with the sun setting behind my back, the pen in my hand with you as the subject of my afternoon daydream. But in this reverie, I do not think of how it feels to be loved by you again neither how it soothes my insides to hear your voice once more. Instead, in this contemplation, I gather all the courage to make myself vulnerable to someone, to entrust a portion of my soul to the hands of another.

I remember how you once asked me, “Will you stay with me no matter what?” You took my lack of answer as an affirmation and kissed me on the forehead instead as we looked at the stars lighting up the night sky. There was a lot of everything that I would have wanted to say but nothing came out of my mouth through every attempt. I wanted to tell you that I could not, that no matter how much I would have wanted that to happen, it would be more than unfair to you if I stayed. No, if you stayed with me.

Do you remember how I told you how my grandfather switched up names of his own daughters? Do you remember the story of how my aunt mistook her past lover to be her husband? You see, love, a year or two from now, I might become them. I have been diagnosed with a terminal memory loss, the Alzheimer’s disease as they would call it, and only time then could dictate the deadline of every single memory I have.

Leaving, as they say, was always a coward’s way out. But is not it dauntless how I braved living without my lifeline, living my life without you? I did not mean to be selfish, dear, but cannot you see how I am being selfless in letting you go? To set you free of me is to protect you from anymore hurt that this condition of mine would bring you. The knowledge of me leaving you for an unknown reason is a more tolerable pain than the reality of me forgetting you in the long run.

“Where were you then?” I was at the far distance looking at you exist without me in the picture. “Who else was there?” No one but your silhouette haunting me every minute. “Saying what?” That it was a mistake to abandon you.

Mourn no more for our lost love, dear. Mourn no more for the longing of what we once had and the regrets of what we could have had. As my every memory of you slowly wanes, always remember how hard I held on to them, the hardest that my brain could ever allow. Sometimes it is bliss to pretend that memory loss happens since the brain gives way for the heart to store the collection of moments we have, that my mind flushes you out to store you inside the core of my body.
But most of all, darling, the pain of leaving is endurable than the unbearable pain of seeing you suffer all because of me, than the inevitable pain of taking one glimpse on the masked agony on your face every single time I would ask “Who are you?” It would hurt to look at your beautiful face with me unable to know even just your name. You see, love, to be gone from your life is far more tolerable than to exist day by day with you in my life slowly vanishing into dust. Always, for always it would only be you. Even after all of my memories plummet into the hollow chasm and they are all gone, gone, just gone.

Disclaimer: This literary work in prose written in a first-person point of view is penned as a reply to Pablo Neruda’s poem entitled Clenched Soul.
Cedric McClester Sep 2018
By: Cedric McClester

Judging by the way
It’s now appearing
Looks like the lady
Wants  a hearing
Even though their deadline
Is swiftly nearing
And old white men
Are often domineering

There’s two sides to
Each and every story
Theirs and the truth
Then there’s allegory
Now you can disagree
But you can’t ignore me
He might cop a plea
If he wants to bore me

She’ll be accused of
All kinds of lying
As he prods along
Patently denying
That anything happened
Way back then
You know how it is
Men will be men

How it’s gonna wind up
Is anybody’s guess
Although he should be toast
More or less
Cuz his confirmation’s turning
Into one big mess
He should be withdrawn
See it’s no contest

Cedri c McClester, Copyright © 2018.  All rights reserved.
RJP Jan 28
Tomorrow never comes.
Tomorrow morphs into today, growing tentacles of pressure and deadline slinking round precious time.
Tomorrow is the myth that keeps us going into the hazed purple dark, only to vanish in bleaching daybreak.
Tomorrow is the pipedream we search for in bedsheets, neglecting the canaries of impending doom, the warming abolition of plague civilisation.
Tomorrow seems detached, pushed into the outer orbit like the catastrophic bombs hailing and howling in Syria.
Tomorrow hates us today a mongrel race but yearns for yesterday, the tender embrace of tinted times, always better
Tomorrow feels the wound of every hour passing by and sets feet into erratic stuttered taping heart breaking out of caged chest, passive but untamed,
Tomorrow is sitting waiting for all of us, unsure when we're to    arrive, shaking stripped down in a naked hot mess seeing the damage we've done today, fearful of more pillage and ****.
Travis Dixon Feb 21
the white race, paunched,
couched in lazy righteousness
steeped in knee-**** fright of us--
terrified by the sight of
our history of shamefulness
in every passing headline
and obit crossing the line
that makes the deadline,
day by deadly day
due to the arrogance of men
who refuse to even listen
to the obvious injustice
pouring since i don't know when--

our nation's deepest wound
forever reopened to bleed again
and again
and again
and again
Lydia Jan 26
We've decided we're waiting.

You shouldn't have given me a time frame because now I'm going to count down the days. These weeks will be spent trying not to think about being with you.

I can't get those memories out of my head.
Our arms brushing against each other as we browse stores.
Your arm around my waist.
Spending an entire afternoon together wordless.
Your hand on the waistband of my jeans.
The feeling of your moans in my mouth.
One last kiss before we get out of bed.
Your hand grabbing mine as we walk to your car.

We've gone two months without seeing each other. This shouldn't be any different, but it is. Then, we were expecting to see each other.

Now, we have a rough deadline.

You could have left it open-ended, and I would have moved on.

All I have to hold on to is today.
The feeling of you on the opposite end of the couch and how immense the space in between us felt.
The lack of eye contact.
Your loss for words.
Our agreement of terms.
Some light banter.
Me catching your gaze for a few fleeting seconds.
Me trying my hardest to resist the urge to kiss you.
The walk to your car.
Your strong embrace before you got into your car.
Me resisting the urge to turn around
and watch you leave.
Eno Dec 2018
Love only helps
In so far
As it does not consume you
Watch, it will stretch out your life
It’s been proven.

But true love
Real love
When you would refuse
A life without them
Well, that’s not built for survival
At all

A life
Your love
Gives me
A deadline
Vivian Jul 23
Watch the past roll out like a ribbon
Bury yourself in the days now gone
Feel the familiar tingle on your skin
Relive it over and over again

Play it in your mind on a loop
Feel the time go by
See the clock of death ticking
Opportunities and chances lost to the deadline

Soon it'll fly past, and no longer be there
So, for now, remember what is gone,
the memories that you can't ever go back to
Because for now all you can do, until it gets better
is to hold on
Homunculus Feb 1

Today, I learned the true extent to which I loathe the IRS. To be fair, I've always known that I hated them. I've had plenty of legitimate reasons for this in the past. For instance, every year, they casually extort our wage and salary, pretending to allocate it for the building of bridges, roads, and schools. While in reality, the infrastructure and educational system crumble, and defense spending grows without limit.
But then again, I do suppose that in a certain sense, roads, bridges, and schools are built indirectly with these funds; but only after the funds are used to blow these institutions to smithereens in third world countries, and private corporations like Halliburton are contracted to rebuild them for egregious profits. Profits, mind you, which are shuffled to dozens of offshore shell corporations, ensuring that they are taxed at a rate exponentially lower than the profits of the average working citizen.
But today, I experienced a type of hatred entirely novel to my conceptions of what is even possible in the realm of consciousness. A loathing so intense that it paralyzed my rationality, sending me into fits of rage and bewildered astonishment that I would wish on NO ONE . . . except Cheney or Kissinger, the ******* *******. For today, for the first time in all my 28 years of life, I filed my federal income taxes. I knew that one day the chore would inevitably arise, but I still consider it an accomplishment to have made it through an entire third or more of my life without ever actually dirtying my hands with the wretched muck. All that aside, the story goes like this:
I work as an “independent contractor” for a friend who runs a small business. I perform various services around the office, and he cuts me a check at the end of the week. I've been working there “on paper” for about a year, really a bit longer, but “what they don't know...” so goes the old adage. We had, the both of us, anticipated with tempered irritation, the arrival of this bureaucratic beast of burden. However, neither of us knew that the deadline mailing date for “independent contractors” comes nary two months sooner than for payroll employees. This information was sprung on us at the very last minute by his tax attorney who, from this point on, will be referred only to as 'G.S.' (grease stain).
As I was fulfilling my duties, my friend urgently beckoned to me “STOP WHAT YOU'RE DOING. TAXES ARE DUE TODAY, AND WE HAVE TO FILE THEM NOW!” Naturally, I panicked. I had seen an income tax form . . . perhaps once or twice? . . .  much less filled one out . . .  maybe once at 17 during the employment process at a fast food joint? . . . Initially, we had thought it would be a simple matter of the W-2, the likes of which had been filled out automatically for me by employers in the past as a part of the hiring phase. Nonetheless, since my status of “independent contractor” placed me into a different tax category, I had to fill out what is known as a 1099-MISC. “Simple enough!” thought I, “I'll just fill in the relevant details and get back to work.” . . . “NOT SO FAST, CASEY JONES!” screamed the form, with all its talk of “fishing boat expenses” and “crop insurance” . . . “O...K?” “and what precisely has this to do with me?” thought I.
My employer, courteous as he can sometimes be, called up (t)rusty old G.S., who referred us to a site where the form could be understood more intelligibly. After a bit of head scratching and chin stroking, we figured it out. No matter, though! Because once we figured the form out, we couldn't figure out what to DO with the ******* thing. 'G.S.' was once again consulted, and he told us that we could simply print the form, and take it to an H&R Block office for submission. “Okay, simple enough!” thought I . . . but alas! It was not to be so. When we arrived at said office, the agent . . . who looked like a burned out caricature of William H. Macy . . .  reviewed the forms, and said that to apply the deductions I had calculated, he would require a $300 fee for his services, and that I would need to fill out a “Section-C.” This lanky, rasp-voiced, twig of a man then withdrew from his cubicle, at which point, my employer whispered to me “**** that, I've done Section-C forms hundreds of times, we're ditching these crooks”
At this point, we retreated back to the office, found what we thought to be the relevant forms, but were soon swept up in a vicious monsoon of bureaucratic legalese which, although it resembled English, bore few similarities other than word spelling and grammatical form. It is sometimes alleged that Kafka was haunted by ghosts which had an insatiable appetite for stories. The legend further has it that he would write for them to quell their unyielding wrath. Those of us who have read Kafka know intimately of his satirical preoccupation with the absurdity of bureaucracy. Perhaps these stories pleased the ominous specters which loomed over him like the fluorescent light beaming down upon me as I type these words. Some things can never be known for certain. If, however, this were truly the case, then it would seem that Kafka's ghost had now taken the role of writing MY story for his own amusement. Every cliché of the DMV and social services building was present in this ghastly affair. “Fill out this form; stand in this line; oh, I'm sorry, sir. You've got the wrong form. You'll need to file a (…) and take it to (…), their hours are MwAhMwAhMwAhMwAhMwAh” This futile circumlocution went on for SIX HOURS. All the while, thoughts of a perfectly wound noose, crafted of thick hemp rope, with thirteen pristine wraps forming a slipknot to be fitted as though tailor made around my neck filled my mind, as the acute stages of benzodiazepene withdrawal began to set it. Luckily enough, or so we suspect. We figured it out, and now I have only to wait for my return to come in the mail to see what I owe.
But once I got home, I got to thinking. There is a copy of 'Infinite Jest' on my coffee table. A literary epic whose magnitude cannot possibly be overstated. I began to think deeply reverential thoughts of the author of this book, and then something clicked in my mind: on that fateful day when Wallace took his own life  by the noose, he was in the middle of writing a novel about nothing less than the 1985 Tax Code in Illinois, and a group of IRS agents. Being the adamant researcher of all topics that he was, we can hardly imagine that he did not give this terrible ******* of language what he felt to be its due diligence. Of course, any responsible thinker understands that correlation does not equal causation; but as the admittedly ironic thoughts of suicide filled my mind over the course of this afternoon and evening, I can't help but be left to wonder if a mind so vastly superior to mine as his did not experience these ideas with markedly less irony as he reveled in the vile idiosyncrasies of bureaucratic jargon. Again. Some things can never be known.
I have begun keeping a journal. Not so much for the sake of documenting my daily experience, but more so to experiment with different writing styles and, perhaps to help clarify my own thoughts. I will also continue to write poems, of course.
Hopeful Cynic Jul 2018
What is love, should it make us feel alone?
What is the love, the most frequent contact in my phone?
Where have you been, did I do or say something you couldn’t stand,
At the end of the day, am I even still your man?

I’ve been sitting on this for a long time, couldn’t speak my mind,
For fear of being obsessive, balance is hard to find,
But it’s getting to me now, my insides feel so dead,
When you were active, then online a few minutes ago and my message is still unread.

Is it that I’m too tedious, a difficulty in your life,
One you don’t know how to or are procrastinating from pushing me aside.
It’s not overthinking anymore I’ve applied the standard of the ordinary man,
And after so long what would he think when silence is the only indication of your plan?

I scroll past those Facebook posts every single day,
The ones that say if he wants you a second to say hello is a cheap price to pay,
My he’s a she, my she is you,
I don’t want that to change, but the choice was always left with you, that’s true.

Feel like I’m demanding, like a drain upon your time,
Afraid that’s how you see me, annoying like a project deadline,
Yet for projects you put in the effort, your priorities are in focus,
And I’d give anything for one of those priorities to be us.

You should know by now, and if you don’t I guess I’m telling you,
Knowing my place with you is important, but right now I don’t even have a clue,
I asked for more affection, you said you don’t want to change,
But would it be so insufferable to let me know I’m not estranged?
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