"discombobulated" poems
Feel empty in your post apocalyptic City of Angels,
Where not even your pets are real!
An electric android, a sheep or a frog,
The whir-flutter of micro-electrical wings of a butterfly.
Good, and so you ought.
Now grab the handles of your empathy box,
And in a shared virtual hallucination –
Feel: empathy, depression, pain, delusion and despair,
The outré myriad gifts of consciousness.
Billions of discombobulated and disconnected wrecks:
Adam's sons; Eve's daughters,
And among them simulations too,
Fakes! androids!
A phony circuit of implanted semi-conscious memories,
A hive of neural malaise!
Welcome to our world;
know how dead inside I am.
You, yes, you:
Need a pet to make you more complete?
Maybe you can afford
A Fake Fakir Flake like me who looks like Jude Law,
Sounds like Richard Burton,
And silently romances you like Rudolph Valentino.
Come and stick what’s left of your mind,
In here,
In hair,
Hear her:
har, har, har…
A box of lies...
A voice, Mercer's,
With texture from an age you neither lived in nor dared in:
Al Jerry's, a TV actor,
Droning on in pre-selected tones.
The real thing, the men, the women, the children - their animals -
Made in the wild, wild desert,
In the green pulsing savannah,
On the open crusted sea;
Now too, washed, choked, and drained,
Too many spliced and diced mutations,
Iterating your image:
The thing that was my heart,
My Child, now its imitation.
Oct 15, 2017
Oct 15, 2017 at 7:42 AM UTC
the people whose job is to
understand the multiverse
can't figure this world out
rid·dle ˈridl/noun: riddle; plural noun: riddles
1. | a question or statement intentionally
phrased so as to require ingenuity
in ascertaining its answer or meaning,
typically presented as a game;
a person, event, or fact that is difficult
to understand or explain.
"the riddle of her death" [puz·zle
ˈpəzəl/verb: puzzle; 3rd person present:
puzzles; past tense: puzzled; past participle:
puzzled; gerund or present participle:
puzzling
1. cause (someone) to feel confused because
they cannot understand or make sense of something:
"one remark he made puzzled me"
synonyms: perplex, confuse, bewilder,
bemuse, baffle, mystify, confound;
faze, stump, beat, discombobulate
"her decision puzzled me"
perplexed, confused, bewildered,
bemused, baffled, mystified, confounded,
nonplussed, at a loss, at sea;
flummoxed, stumped, fazed, clueless,
discombobulated
"a puzzled look on her face"
baffling, perplexing, bewildering, confusing, complicated, unclear, mysterious, enigmatic, ambiguous, obscure, abstruse, unfathomable, incomprehensible, impenetrable, cryptic
"his explanation was rather puzzling"
antonyms: clear
think hard about something difficult
to understand or explain;
"she was still puzzling over this problem
when she reached the office"
| [ ] think hard about, mull over,
muse over, ponder, contemplate,
meditate on,
consider, deliberate on, chew over, wonder about
"she puzzled over the problem"
solve or understand something by thinking hard;
synonyms: work out, understand,
comprehend, sort out, reason out, solve, make sense of,
make head(s) or tail(s) of, unravel, decipher; informal: figure out
"she tried to puzzle out what he meant"
noun: puzzle; plural noun: puzzles
1. [ ], [ ] ( );
a game, toy, or problem designed
to test ingenuity or knowledge;
short for jigsaw puzzle (see jigsaw)
a person or thing that is difficult to understand
or explain; an enigma:
"the meaning of this poem will always be a paradox"
synonyms: enigma, mystery, paradox,
conundrum, poser, riddle, problem, quandary;
"the poem has always been a puzzle"
late 16th century (as a verb): of unknown origin:
synonyms: puzzle, conundrum, brainteaser, problem,
unsolved problem, question, poser, enigma,
quandary; informal: stumper
"an answer to the riddle"
verb/archaic
verb: riddle; 3rd person present: riddles;
past tense: riddled; past participle: riddled;
gerund or present participle: riddling
1. speak in or pose riddles.
"he who knows not how to riddle"
solve or explain (a riddle) to (someone).
"riddle me this then"
Origin
Old English rǣdels, rǣdelse ‘opinion,
conjecture, riddle’; related
to Dutch raadsel,
German Rätsel, to read
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 12:19 AM UTC
(1)
There’s one thing I must get off my chest
that’s bothered me now
even 50 years on
with the passage of time –
my English teacher then
she always told me when I grumbled
homework was too difficult,
she’d tell me: “That’s a piece of cake”
And I’d go home discombobulated how
anyone could eat paper
or homework
and she said this not once, but every time:
“It’s a piece of cake”
(2)
And my parents and I looked at it
every which way and from every point of view
and concluded in our Perfect Ancient Native language:
*“This English teacher is a loony. She is wooly-headed.
She is the lamb Mary lost, silly and muddle-headed.
How can homework be a piece of cake?
Anyway, we don’t eat cake – we eat samosas.”*
(3)
And yet the English teacher would put her nose
up in the air
and remonstrate: “It’s a piece of cake!”
Oh yeah, would you like tea with it?
Now, my parents, bless their Ancient Souls,
have gone on into the next world
And I’m left wondering about the secret madness
of that English teacher
who’d ask me to eat cake when I expressed genuine concern…
Well, my parents have passed on, as I said,
and I’ve moved on
as is plain and radiant to see
to master idioms and vocabulary
Punctuation, the catenative verb and Usage;
and, as for that wooly-headed English teacher,
I’m sure she’s moved on into
a comfortable nuthouse
where the staff makes her eat her cake,
and make her think she can have it too -
cos that’s what they do to nuts, and such instances
(4)
And now that I have got that off my chest,
I can comfortably resume memorizing
Volume 3 of theOxford Dictionary
as I perambulate
and copy 100 entries from Fowler’s “Modern English Usage”
as I victulate
which is all part of my nightly ritual
since she told me to do so some 50 years ago
(cos I happened to look at her Union Jack knickers
when she sat high on the table, and I stood up *****
cos that's what they made us do in the cinemas)
- and that helps to put me into a state of dormancy, to hibernate
till the sun ushers in a new day for me –
and a new cake for that wooly-headed English teacher,
she, I can presume with certainty,
elegantly reposed and superannuated
Now, I’m glad I’ve got this off my chest
and mastered my idioms and phrases
and I can go eat my samosas
Jun 28, 2013
Jun 28, 2013 at 8:21 AM UTC
Discombobulated
beyond a miles’ worth
of snapped and razor-weight
wires, my roots have yellowed
and have split into insanity
My mind is crippled
By conditioning
Corruptive chemicals diffuse
shattering senses, imbalancing,
Dancing in an inverse orbit
Around this crumbling mind
For nausea and disorientation
My mind is crippled yet again
By the **** conditioning
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 6:14 PM UTC
wall
writer’s block
creator’s block
artist’s block
what blocks the creative , artistic flow of a poet, a writer, a speaker of the truths of the heart and soul of humanity?
if you , my fellow artists, dreamers, poets, writers, soulful people, should discover the answer to the question we all ask , please do share; for I am weary , bewildered and discombobulated; and all the metaphorical, ephemeral, infinitesimal words trapped inside me are scratching and scrambling to come out .
with love and raw honesty from a fellow blocked writer
Oct 12, 2018
Oct 12, 2018 at 9:59 PM UTC
We all long to belong,
To find our community,
Our family,
Our place of safety and refuge.
But feeling different to other people,
An outsider,
Of no fixed abode,
I’m not sure where I belong,
Or who my tribe is.
I feel confused,
Discombobulated,
Wayward feelings and erroneous thoughts
Running around inside my head,
Misleading me down the garden path,
Tripping me up,
Leading me down holes
That are too deep to climb back out of
Nov 16, 2022
Nov 16, 2022 at 8:20 PM UTC
Vertebrate beginnings,
I collate each chordates morphological traits
Striving to understand their profuse, evolutionary attributes.
Memorize the fusion of Latin and Greek roots
Interwoven just enough to complicate
Instead of differentiate inarticulate invertebrates.
Inhibitions confine to an educational institution
Discombobulated and ready to *******
graduate.
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 12:57 AM UTC
Self-breed hatred so easily suppressed
Taunted by the world, it’s waiting to explode
No, there’s no true taste, we’re only meandering
Listening to the menacing roar begging
To be given breath to materialize
Subtle commentary begins to eat at the flesh of self-belief
Identity crises momentarily paralyze audacity’s ammunition
True sights of self-aesthetic-beauty tremble
Diminishing that part of self-worth
Looming attacks threaten to pour over and reduce
The value of internal splendor for it’s seemingly of no use
Every praise never given to the self but to someone else
A constant crack at the foundation of self-love, it subconsciously ensures
She and she and she and she are said to be wonderful, but never the self
Realization that from any angle the self is not good enough
Leaves the mind discombobulated for lifelong sentiments of inadequacy
Seems to be the only route
Unconscious self denigration provokes false sense of value
For the true inner wealth in self-worth is sullied and unidentifiable
But the self is not merely self-loath and harboring of inadequacy
For goodness in abundance is found a few peals away from the layers of insecurity
Mar 16, 2011
Mar 16, 2011 at 4:42 PM UTC
Free falling; gone in an instant-- blink of an eyelash faster than lightning, flashing like brilliance
Drilling holes into the psyche
Astronomical; impeccable aim
Breathtaking colors with patterns like kaleidoscopes the creativity blows the mind
It's the morphine you can take without overdosing in pain and numbness
It's the chase you can't escape if you wanted to but you won't even try
It's the height of ecstasy and the awe of gratification
Its pure and magnetizing invigoration
When you prove what you set out to prove
When you give it all, you have everything to lose
The negative chatter fills the gaps of endurance and credence
The silence of the aftermath, leaves a clear distinctive taste
All the critics and the villains siphon air so you lose the ability to breathe
There is a glimmer, a tiny microorganism still standing on two feet pushing forward
Moving slow
Falling sideways
All, all alone
Glowing, fueling, bursting...flooding roadblocks, causing traffic
All the commotion is seeding havoc
Like an artist left unknown...you will grow
Flow and flower into a masterpiece
And the free fall secures you high amongst the nebula
There is no more spiraling downwards there is only a tiger lurking, always ready to pounce
On their victims, on the goals you've set ahead
Like a real winner always does, you finish first
because you did your very best
You're a tiger and you just earned you your stripes
So leave the amateurs on their soap box discombobulated
You're resilient, even savvy
You're a vision to be reckoned with
Sep 1, 2013
Sep 1, 2013 at 3:07 AM UTC
Someone came and
knocked one of my legs
out from underneath me
and I fell to the ground
not feeling at all stable
but shaken and confound
I'm usually quite good
at keeping it together
but now my composure
is worse not better
My tripod is all wobbly
and I feel discombobulated
One of my support legs
has a genetic anomaly
and until this leg
gets healthy again
She will need to lean on
the other two sides
We will get through this
together dear sister
With love as our guide
May 11, 2018
May 11, 2018 at 10:38 AM UTC
Discombobulated and flabbergasted, flummoxed indeed? No such bemused and befuddled? I am not perplexed on the prognosis to prospectus. They’re incongruous, I’m incredulous, it’s catawampus. Reconnaissance reconnoiter, rectilinear reciprocal rectitude. Radix repartee: Down here at the bizarre bazaar we all believe in the blasphemous farcical fugue-ness, estranged ensemble orchestrations and all. Some of us are even into the various assorted forms of related stranger weirdness. We’ll be having none of this putrid quasi queasy. Corrupt costume counselor siren skeptic. None of you ignominiously pusillanimous incorrigibles who aren’t brave enough to love are required.
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 10:05 PM UTC
Life is like a battlefield
it could hit you mentally, emotionally or physically
days when you feel angry
manipulated
discombobulated
like you originated
in a world that is meant to confuse
about the rules
like a rat race
where you are tryna to find your place
how can I define what is mine
so I can refrain
from feeling disdain
about things that will make me feel pain
and make me cry
because they were never mine
how can I refine
so I do not get denied
So I can feel useful
and not feel useless
clueless
ruthless
asking myself every chance I get
what is going on?
all I want is for it to go on
I mean life!
all I want is for it to go on…..
like the picture in my head
it isnt perfect, not at all
its not like I want it all
just a chance to make the call
to make a way
and see a day
a chance to win this race
moving at a steady pace
so I can define the gravity in which..
I exist.!
but..
I am not done
there is more to this, than this.
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 5:08 PM UTC
mechanical wonders are they!
the greatness of ever-changing plains
withered weathering willows which wallow in the wake of winds,
shriveling, sniffling, cynical twins.
solaris, the fantastical bringer of light!
oh how we lift our faces in your fruit-bearing gaze.
our thanks for extinguishing the inky blight, you have given us sight.
we miserable, entangled creatures in locks and chains,
at the mercy of the return of your fiery blaze.
we rely on Pandora’s final curiosity
and during times of ultimate crisis, we wish for you
and pray for catharsis.
but your sister…
luna, you wretched being, wrecker of sanity!
oh how you unravel the psyche, fibrous ends,
intertwining tapestries meticulously woven yet disassembled so quickly.
we are aghast at the horrors with which you plague us.
each stare through the mirror, reversed pools of vanity
freckles of light fall from their places
on weary onlookers’ shadowy faces
as they melt in the hysterics of your obscure domain.
finally a farewell, an intonation of speech:
“good-bye.”
discombobulated words, addressed to each;
for one sister revitalizes that which the other hath slain.
Apr 4, 2019
Apr 4, 2019 at 11:09 PM UTC
Hey, did you know that I know you lied?
Here I am again, writing in my car, and this time I can't pretend that we are friends. We're not friends, friends don't do the things we did and the ones you've done since then makes think we've never been.
When is this night gonna end? Are you lying in her bed? All these questions hit my head.. Hey where's the whiskey at again?
You were discombobulated when you showed up at my door, leaving glitter on my floor.
But I don't like you anymore.
Nov 7, 2012
Nov 7, 2012 at 11:22 PM UTC
The Gift of the Sleeping Magi
**"But in a last word to the wise of these days
let it be said that of all who give gifts,
these two were the wisest.
Of all who give and receive gifts,
such as they, are wisest.
Everywhere, they are wisest.
They are the Magi."
O. Henry**
The woman, traveling alone, thru dangerous
West Side badlands, dancing lands,
where resident fairies, ex-ballerinas all,
magical mystify a passerby's thoughts,
mesmerizing them with their mercurial maneuvers,
tango dancing upon shimmering glass pieces,
enslaving all who gaze upon them forever,
turning their captives into sleeping beauties.
Restlessly awaiting her return,
the hombre-lover early retires
to the bed chamber,
weary from another day's
woeful world worries,
long past midnight, he awakens,
disoriented, discombobulated,
and alone.
Fearing the worst,
he summons her return with text spells
and magical ringing cell's bells,
all to no avail.
He dresses,
readying for the search,
to bring her home.
Ready to depart,
he opens the door,
only to find the woman
asleep before their door.
Unwilling to awake
her sleeping hombre,
she gifts him a
rest undisturbed.
Shoulder grasped, elbow guided,
her eye glasses surgically removed,
he returns her to their bed,
to complete her own rest.
instantly, she is re-gifted,
colliding with a gravity pulling her,
into a pleasurable deep sleep.
Now wide-eyed awake,
the hombre muses and
poetry pens this tale
of his restless confusion.
O. Henry's words refurbished,
rise up, infiltrate his consciousness.
**Of all who give and receive gifts,
even the simplest,
rest undisturbed, rest completed,
they are the wisest,
everywhere they are wisest.
They are Magi.**
2::03 AM, a few years ago.
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 6:36 PM UTC
Internal poetry while doing
Yoga.
I don't mean practicing
Yoga. I mean doing it.
Writing, because although
Yoga
Calmed my racing thoughts
And high electromagnetic frequency,
Additional
Judgmental,
Highly observant,
Rather foreign thoughts
Are returning.
The pirates pillaging
Sanity within
Are no match for the
Ancient Indian
And pre-Indian
Yoga and poetry.
In this day and age,
Yoga is heraled
For the stylish, revealing pants
Used for practicing.
As well as the many classes that reek of ego.
Poetry, on the other hand,
Has more or less gone obsolete.
They killed all the poets.
They have become replaced
By social media
Featuring those unsocialized with writing.
Now, when I need to hear the wisdom
Of a guiding angel,
All I hear
Is the pathetic language
Of the less fortunate in poetic freethought.
These discombobulated ghosts
Haunt me
When I hear far too many
Voices
And need stillness to compensate my illness.
These voices of the day, I fear,
Manipulate me in most unpleasant ways.
And being thinker, as I am,
Drawing conclusion and meaning
From everything I can,
A blessing and a curse --
Which, then again, are blessings nonetheless --
I cannot help but wonder
If this is part of a plan.
Orwell wrote of so not fifty years ago.
The language now constantly spoken,
As well as read,
As well as written,
Dumbing us down.
Losing touch with words of wisdom
In most trying of times.
This is what happens when
You **** off
All the poets.
Mar 31, 2017
Mar 31, 2017 at 10:25 AM UTC
Discombobulated...
"Bob! You late Again!?"
Its not
A statement
You can make
To make her change
The date again
Happy Belated
Birthday celebrations
Embracing
Her forgiveness
As the cure
For your forgets
Forged
Your signature style
Across the lines
Of her smile
As you kiss
With the intent
To signal her bliss
And ignorance
What's in store
For her
Is distortion
This portion of life
Fused with confusion
Contortionist
Twisting
The body
Of lies
With the a prose
That matches
Her pose
Unjustified margins
Never
Crossing the red line
But riding it
Writing with a wit
That could
Split her brain
In half
You call it
The gift a gab
Emotions versus Logic
The verse is
Littered with poetry
Personified
As a woman
Mixed feelings
Remixed
And mastered
To produce
A new product
For you to accept
Instead
You neglect
Her
Collected thoughts
!Implode!
She gathers
The pieces
To gain recollection
Of what happened
To her
To you
To love
She battles
Herself
To win the war
With you
Tie the knot
For christ sake!
Or undue
"To hell
With you!"
She yells
Her voice fails
To really reach you
It takes
Two
To tangle
Not to tango
To tango
Is to dance
And you'd
Miss your step
Every chance
You get
She feels
Obligated
To feel
For her first love
Inoculated
By the drug
That leaves her
Discombobulated...
Sep 30, 2010
Sep 30, 2010 at 12:17 AM UTC
All I ever wanted was to be a simple man.
Simple house, simple family, and work as hard as I can.
How come a calm life has become so complicated?
A time when technology takes tops over trees is discombobulated.
We leave behind the leaves and we take drugs to help us sleep,
The lonely anxiety of society that tugs us runs so deep.
Gone are the days when we just strive to survive,
But where are the days when we thrive while we’re alive?
I say just do you and keep it as simple as you can
Get a job, find a girl, or if you’d rather, date a man.
Life might be confusing but at least we’re all still free,
And a life of which I’m choosing sounds like happiness to me.
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 5:12 PM UTC
Every morning without you,
Is another morning,
I am arisen within a fire.
Completely dismembered.
Absolutely discombobulated.
And ended in fear and worry.
Yet whether you are here or not,
I jolt awake,
Writhing.
Another meaningless day in hell.
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 7:06 AM UTC
In their discombobulated lives no matter what occurs
Mrs Um and Mr Er never quite concur
Continually at loggerheads
Sparring is their game
Life like this is normal now
Really it's a shame
Mrs Um for her hols wants to fly to Spain
Mr Er would prefer Turkey on the train
Mrs Um would like a dog, what he says to that
Is well now let me see, er, I think we need a cat
Where to put the cross this time
I don't know do you
Mrs Um votes red
Mr Er votes blue
So they end up doing nothing
As on nothing they agree
How they ever got together
Certainly beats me
Nov 17, 2012
Nov 17, 2012 at 1:48 PM UTC
Hello Poetry; we meet again
my bored, unenthusiastic but sympathetic friend
Why is it you never seem to like what I do?
The rhymes, the rhythm structure, the ideas I write for you?
Or maybe, in my haste, maybe I've miscalculated
Maybe, it's actually me that feels discombobulated
I have had times when I've struggled with what I've written
I always die a thousands deaths, before I'm smitten
with how I might have dotted the i's, and crossed the t's
I'll hide behind furniture to be sure that no one sees
lest they lambast my catastrophic grasp on diction
With god's help I'm sure I'll conquer this terrible affliction
and actually construct a poem I'm happy with
Here are the laws, I'll live by, forthwith,
1. don't write about your pet hamster, no one cares
2. and you should probably steer clear of international affairs
3. remember no word in the English language rhymes with 'month'
4.
5. always know your subject, inside and out
6. Do weasels have noses, or do they have snouts.....?
**** you can't even write out a set of rules
You; You have no friend in anyone that won't suffer fools
gladly, but sadly, I have another idea
another lacklustre shot at being sincere
I hate this vicious cycle,
hate every single bit
but yep,
I'll get my pencil,
grab some paper,
then just
sit
Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 8:09 AM UTC
It only took three days
for me to think
I'd finally found someone
perfect and I begged
you for your flaws
you discombobulated
my love flux capacitor
penetrated my apathy
and climbed my spine
with your diction
you made my heart
want
again
you made my heart
think all the time
I'd wasted
wanting to find
my match
my someone
were the final yards
to a destitute race
but then you
called it quits
while I made
foolish plans
left me to wallow
in a murky shower
of self deprecation
and wonder
who gets to love you
and why she's not me
Jan 3, 2012
Jan 3, 2012 at 3:31 AM UTC
Who is I?
In the Now. I am of true boi essence.
A writer, a recluse, abandoned only of fate: Destiny ever alluring in the palm of my hand.
Limited only by my own inabilty to be present in only one consciousness.
I am split between reality strings.
A permeant spectre, caught betwixt parallel dimensions.
At times incoherrant, lost in esoteric translation.
I am physic(al) - I of breath + flesh, perception being my holster, corruption my armoury.
Intuitively, i am harmonious, sanctonious, welcoming of illuminations and the darker side of each unfettered moon.
Awareness sleeps by my side. Each waking minute guarded. of commonality.
I am enlightened.
I am bouyant.
mobile, fluid-like in kinesis.
Conventional existense being the foundation over which i fly.
Arms outstretched, willing risk to be my pull.
Enticing Love to be my drag.
balance, mediums, equilibrium.
Lifted high amidst winds roaring with possibility.
I am stark in naked complication, although often prone to cover up in cynical, self critical analysis.
I am given of self; being the taker a refreshing discourse to which i stray accordingly.
Of culture i am a liar.
By nature i tend towards honesty only straying when survivalistic path need tread.
I am of blood,
private yet optimistically open to scarring.
By custom i am trained, civil, content.
Of instinct; native raw tongue, i am rampant, rapid in force, compelled to grow then emerge.
Only.
To submerge
is to take full scope.
i am telescopic
in view of A/all else to which i drown my vision.
I am unsure if i am young,
Although certain that my passage is still being lit by the glow of its entrance, dark passageways luring with their shadows and cavernous corners.
I am liberal, random in speculatory silence. I am idle, often motivated by industrial desire.
Mechanical in process, structured of cerebreal architecture, yet somewhat discombobulated in particularity.
Sporadic be my strain, its think tank choking always on the weeds of sorrow.
Essentially i am nothing: yet overwhelmingly everything.
I was
I am
I will
therefore i
Exist
to i as
A/all and nothing.
As yesterday is to tommorrow, and visa versa, i am a window, a door, a channel:
as closed as i am open.
Dependant only on my own deliverence of influence and potential.
Driven by the promise of future and the demands of my past.
I am a vehicle in time, my presence, my motion, my journey
is I.
Feb 9, 2010
Feb 9, 2010 at 2:13 AM UTC
*It burrowed through her heart like a scared mole
sending ripples of pain straight to her soul
disbelief clogged her eyes as she watched discombobulated
by a lot of images strange and very unrelated
the air smelled of rose flower which scent didn't fit the moment
for her skin was weaved in piercing thorns of torment
her mind was a rim spinning contrary to the globe
as a dull alien sensation throbbed beneath her lobe
she could smell blood as vivid as it tested coppery
and her sky blue eyes turned bloodshot and teary
so much for an adventure she thought
she couldn't place her position in her congested mind
yet she had none but little strength much as she fought
she perspired yet it was darker than sunny
as she regretted focussing on the destination ,not the journey
Entering her vintage car was all she could remember
for her brain was roasting worse than a burning ember
it was like going through hell head first
made worse by the itching sub Saharan thirst
she mourned and cursed but after a time passed
she realised her agony was eating her voice
and instead ******** whispers leaving her no choice
but silence for she was suddenly voiceless and dumb
she tried to lift limb after limb but all were numb
she couldn't even blink as much as she couldn't think
serpentine tears crawled out her chilly visage
yet she could hardly scratch
All she saw was a blurry image
like she'd taken too much scotch
Had she? Had she tried to drink away her pain
**** the steering pressed into her chest
squeezing her heart, bruising her breast
the agony,despair and pain was driving her insane
she suddenly remembered every detail as the car heated
she was escaping from reality whence she cheated
Did she really think few bottles of bitter wine
would fix her mistakes,that drunk she'd feel fine?*
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 11:44 AM UTC
I like it when people stare at me
now
They make me happy
now
they gawk, Speculate
Probably even think about me when they leave.
Maybe at home
in their beds, next to their wives
Husbands
i may stand next to their children in their minds
in a sequence of constant banter about all things that happen
day to day
especially that day
I just sit and look up this
over contrasted
over saturated
array of photons
beaming my own image into a reflected
discombobulated
over exaggerated
caricature of what they
see
im not even there
i am perception
eating a burrito
with symbols and
fake hands throat and heart
merely concept in construct
a castle of light with no
windows to shine to humanity
although...
they wont know that.
i.construct.
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 1:15 PM UTC