"falacies" poems
If I listed out all of the things that have
Tripped me up
And troubled me
Truly my dear
You would never stop pitying me.
Take me backwards around that stop sign I split
My legs churn counter clockwise
To the backyard as kids
But I can't find a moment that will fit
The description
Of the happiness I sought as a prescription
And over took my kind
As an addiction.
I have to find the exact formula
To improvement
Because I can't keep living
In this whirlwind disaster
That has only begun to spin faster.
I have fallen into a
Petrifying and paralyzingly vortex;
The consumation of my years spindling around me.
I am wound in
Sloppy rings,
Sticky with sap and
Last nights spilt wine.
I've grown into where I will remain now,
Regardless of personal preference.
Mostly I can settle for my comfortable domain
Of limited know-how;
But when my tongue trips
And my knees scrape on
Every protruding corner
I will remember
I am only living,
Hidden behind callouses
Of all those spitfire falacies
I was gullible enough to perceive.
my bark has turned more
Into a disapproving grumble
When another inevitable wave
Comes to throw me under
In the tides of my troubles.
Perhaps I've grown accustomed
To the briney water rushing towards my ankles
And the gust that carries cold droplets
Across my hot, red face.
Let us jealously applaud
For those who trod on
Our aspirations,
And smile coyly knowing
We didn't let their
Questioning faces
Phase us.
****
I grew up."
I wish I didn't say that so much.
At twelve I was twenty-five and
At twenty-five?
Well,
We'll get to that
if we can.
Regardless
I know that nothing's going to give me back
Here,
now,
My short time. with
you.
Deep breaths only multiply the weight
Of the question that's lingering in my chest.
I rise,
Against the counteractive distraction
Of avoidance.
I hear the words come out in short blurbs like a stop motion cartoon,
"So...excuse me mister,
there's uh,
something I've got to do."
I'm stumbling up to your room
And betting
On the mood
And the moon.
C.e.M.
Dec 23, 2014
Dec 23, 2014 at 7:45 PM UTC
The line between opponents.
Drawn in blood.
Stale.
From centuries of spilled tension.
Its a tug of war.
With no spoils.
There is no obvious winner.
Just statistics of lost resources.
From the moment a baby leaves the womb.
Is there just another tally.
A collection of numbers that hold 'value'.
then somewhere along the way this becomes more of an aproximation.
Regardless of who is scoring.
Each red slash mitigates emotion and truth.
And the blurry line gets forgotten all together.
Given time and an abundance of falacies can one begin to entertain any thought.
And once logic gives way to the beast created.
Will any action become malicious in nature.
Regardless of whom the teeth doth shred.
May 16, 2017
May 16, 2017 at 6:39 PM UTC
Death is not how you think she is
or how I think she is.
She is silently staring
from a dark corner
in a shady alley.
She is tall, slim,
like a skyscraper.
She has dark, long hair,
that falls to the earth and covers it, like curtains.
(It blinds us.)
She is beautiful when seen from afar.
She waits for you,
patiently,
on that old motel bed with spread arms (and legs).
Her eyes are deep,
mirror-like.
They show you what it could be.
And her lips whisper empty promises (falacies).
Death smiles at you.
(she likes to smile)
You can see her yellow,
splintered teeth,
that reek of coffee and cigarettes.
From her mansion, she laughs,
throws *****
Spreads pests,
while drinking wine she collected
as you cut your wrists with expertise.
It falls like a stream of crimson
inside her cup.
What a delight!
You give her that alcohol (addictive).
Death cries when she loses
does not go to funerals.
Jumps the rope with a bag of bones.
And sometimes comes
as soon as you call.
Deep down, she is very lonely.
Wishes for love.
Wishes for you to love her.
You wish to love her too.
(It is easier than loving yourself)
Dec 8, 2019
Dec 8, 2019 at 5:57 PM UTC
Don't let me be the kind of *******
Who hides behind the facade of fake morals
Blinded by the who's and what's of the society
To carefully navigate into the spectrum of likability
Murdering ideas
Shepherded by the popular beliefs that the self proclaimed "ubermensch" with values smaller than the faith of a mother consoling her dying child propagates
Don't let me be the kind of *******
Blindly seeing the disarray of colors and beliefs
Waving divisive flags of identity
While failing to identify the core of what makes us humans in the first place
Erasing the tiniest sketch of personality
To enjoy the recognition that comes with society's impeccably placed self serving values
Foolish enough to think that they're smarter than the rest
Smart enough to recognise the falacies that dont serve their interest
Don't let me be the kind of *******
Bayoneting the rights of others to exists
Carrying big guns
Compensating for the personality they lack
Their inability to break the circuit
Their brains programmed to applaud
The orange bleep on their screens that rule their lives
Their messiah
Don't let me be the kind of *******
Pretentiously answeing to a higher cause
While dismissing the cries that really need answering
Leading life one line at time
From a forged manuscript
Playing my part just right to be recognised at the pearly gates
While closing my doors to the here and now
To the damaged
To the rejects who dont see the white and gold
Or the the blue and black
But simply crave the warmth of the fabric
Of a touch, of a hug
Maybe a warm cup of humanity
Not the body or the blood of
A humanbeing just like the rest of us
We're all capable of miracles
Not a trick like walking on water
Bur changing the world one life at a time
Not as gods
But humans, in our truest forms
(Fort Worth, TX 12/02/2018)
Dec 2, 2018
Dec 2, 2018 at 5:57 PM UTC