"flooring" poems
Overwhelming mental congestion for perfection,
Socially influenced blueprints of future attraction.
Constructive criticism given by construction workers,
The labor of family and friends for reassurance.
A solid foundation of first impressions,
Structured walls of growth and development.
Insulation of natural feelings and experiences,
Ventilation to cool down the heated encounters.
Electrical wiring of an emotional and physical connection,
A circuitry of passion and romance with a light switch.
Hardwood flooring for candle lit dinners and ballroom dancing,
Granite kitchen counters for intimate midnight snacks.
An attractive exterior siding to woo the public eye,
A secure lock of commitment on all the doors.
A roof of trust, and a picket fence,
And now, my love,
I’m simply yours.
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 3:05 PM UTC
Songster, not as sinister as they say,
she's no monster, just admittedly
a bit lost in her way.
she caves as I'm walking
down the hall.
I pick her up, off of that flooring,
the rubbery kind, whatever it is,
I guess it's rubber, but the kind that
squeaks when you walk on it after
coming in from the rain; to hell with poetry.
And so anyways I pick her up
and sit her on this bench next to me
and give her about five minutes to come to
terms with breathing and pick shimmering
auburn hair out of the tears smeared across her face,
two, mesmerizing, perfectly blue wells
the source of the streams.
And then I ask her what that
was all about and she blurts out that she
belongs in the Fine Arts Department,
and her car broke down months ago
but her father
doesn't give a **** about it,
because she can't lay up the basketball
or steal the base and so he honorably
lump summed her entire tuition
and sent her to another state
and how ****** she would be
if she had to get a job for the first
time at the age of twenty three
so she wouldn't have to be
dependent on her family and
that she was sick of wondering why
not a single guy had ever given her
a ******* flower
and that if she ever did end up liking one
two weeks later she would find out that he
was exactly the same as the others and
she had a broken look in her eyes
when she said she wondered why we were
all here in the first place, and how we were
made this way, and if people were actually
ever meant to fit together or not;
*what if there was nothing as certain
as two halves making a whole?*
She wanted to know how everyone's
mind had a different game to play,
she wanted to know why Jupiter
had to be so far away and everything in
between.
We had strolled off of the school grounds by
this time but I still looked twice before pulling out my flask.
I unscrewed the cap, handed it to her and said
*follow me to Deadbeat Hollow,
where we've already thrown
our problems out of the window*
and she said
lets go.
May 11, 2012
May 11, 2012 at 9:46 PM UTC
Ears pressed cool against
glass tables and vinyl flooring
words score high drained slowly
slow like wasps caught in guttered draining
not like velvet names etched in casing, but weathered like bricked and beaten graffiti –
Waning like wax always melting
Tools: spelling and grammar – uncheck
Don’t fret too many gerunds grounding air suffocating hearing between the lines that past lower truths out straight in dirt and stinky face: eyes drawn with pensive staring
lines drawn global remains of words unused: boycott form because it isn’t daring.
Adopt sonar because it traces the smokestack between eaves drop
and scrap metal hearing like thorns prickled cut by cleaver.
Clink, clink, clank.
Unlatch cellar doors of images fixed in meaning: glances slanted
heads poked out behind legs enchanting ink under eyelids.
Clank, click, click.
Wishing: Sunday morning came to rest and the cat perched rest without the windowsill and the space between my legs lost meaning.
Forgetting: Painted houses haunting furniture misplaced, training lessons in memory fading.
Dreaming: Sounds dipped in vegetable oil, Van Morrison in teething states caring.
Still lost without my last breathe wondering…
Mar 2, 2011
Mar 2, 2011 at 1:31 PM UTC
Life moving fast
Like storm cell rain
Washing, running
Torrent and quickly
Through the drains.
Some daze,
In this cold and constant place
I wish I were a folded paper boat
Tipping, curving crests, afloat
And chasing the stream
Downwind.
Away and washing clean
A waxed vessel
Escaped
Pouring through
Concrete flooring.
I would steer for the sea
On waves awash with
Urban weeds
Detritus sweeping across
The deck
Of my paper boat built
For one.
I would run
With the water
A creased and soggy me
All folded and falling apart
At the seams.
Feb 9, 2010
Feb 9, 2010 at 2:15 AM UTC
For every star that whispers against
The cold December sky, there’s a wandering
Soul that tiptoes like a ballerina skates across
An icy stage before losing control underneath
The only street lamp that glared a yellow light
Up and down a short distance on the empty street.
One lost and broken body, crawling over
Paved concrete, looking for a part that hadn’t
Had the time to dry in the lukewarm sunlight.
For each shattered heart, waiting to be buried in
The wet concrete, hoping to mend its cracks
And fill its craters from too many punches to
The center of ourselves that should
Receive nothing more than love,
Will find its peace within the outside flooring
Where nothing is no longer temporary.
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 5:59 PM UTC
The last time I saw you sipping time on his rooftop, your wounds were smaller and my heart bigger than it ever would be. I had learnt to love you despite the smell of wild daffodils on your breath, and the look of expensive pride in your eyes - things you were willing to give up when you first hugged me with the surprising confidence of an old world pilgrim hugging the shores of new America and bringing with it the hopes and bitterness of the transatlantic blues.
The last time I saw you sipping time on his rooftop, the neighbours said that if I had arrived a bit earlier, I would have heard the sound of his sandy boots crashing against your rotten hardwood flooring, drowning your cries for constant help. His clenched fists might have broken your apartment window, But you begged me to give him the benefit of the doubt - maybe unlike me, he had never fallen for a wild daffodil before.
The last time I saw you sipping time on his rooftop, I remember confessing how you weren't truly my first love - that honour instead belonged to a monsoon paperboat that hado shown up at my flooded doorstep when I hadnt yet crossed the ripe old age of five.
Looking back - you told me, those were probably my golden years of romantic maturity.
The last time I saw you sipping time on his rooftop, you failed to realize why men kept falling over their swords to win the curled up furball crying in my arms, wearing an unasked crown of broken hearts. I wish you had remembered what i had said.
People loved you not because your face shone the brightest or you looked more beautiful than every damsel dancing in the ghostly courts of a dying town. Instead people kept coming back to you because you were Kolkata, you were literally this city.
The last time I saw you, we were sitting on the edges of a different city i had chosen to call my own. But I wish you had realized what I meant.
Feb 1, 2017
Feb 1, 2017 at 12:14 PM UTC
I am utterly convinced
that my spirit is a ten-cent *****
letting any passing nemesis
**** it in the mind
with almost no tension.
It must enjoy the sensation
as its host clearly shows
in the streams of tears
that flow through the eyes,
the spirit's ***********
It must moisten its knickers
at the viewing of torture,
as its host sits in an icy stupor,
with the times of grotesque
spectacle-sobs on tile flooring,
nicks on the wrist, what have you-
the only times of breathing.
My spirit must have stolen all the
charm it takes to captivate
the enemy into arousal,
as the host stumbles awkwardly in
public, pushing all potentials away
with vehemence and convincing itself
of its inferior quality to
even the vermin of the sewer.
My spirit has made me the loathing host
to the parasite of my own being,
my mind the main casualty,
ridden with **** from villainy both
outer and inner, decay from traumas
more persuasive than the tongue
of Casanova.
I hope it's happy.
Apr 29, 2010
Apr 29, 2010 at 10:46 AM UTC
Seagull on rotting planks, bouy bells ding to fog and driftwood.
A culling fire exploits the docking shire.
Filled with chlorine shards, legs caught in the clap-traps.
Friar palms glisten,
Rage responds with frisson.
Clear view over water.
Feel your arms relax and slip onto your back while the culling fire attacks.
Bulbous deadening brain chimes
As the eyes slide down to your omission crimes.
Leave me alone in my despondent company.
Don't push the matter further let communication fail to nurture.
A warm breeze carries me
like a floating portrait towards unreal scented meats.
I'm here now, alone in the corner,
The greatest intimacy with the static patterns on the carpeted flooring. The king of this corner is the odor of plank seating and flowery detergent in this lonely corridor fluorescent light-bulb poles and old grain floorboards.
Now the returning shards of panic to uncelibate strangers drive me up, far, deep in my own ribcage to something wholly non-organic.
Time to clock-in, time to check out.
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 1:25 AM UTC
I.
AM.
A.
Piece of ****
Here's how i roll.
I plop the excrement, directly in the pool.
I **** on chairs,
This is where i place stool.
Plip plob drop loads,
Crenated blood cells and lymphatic drool.
Hurt my kidneys in a fight with truth the other night.
7 brutal, flooring uppercuts to the Latisimus dorsi....
I am > "this girl"
That one that's taken more hits in the face than Tyson.
The one that makes Jenna and Sunni Leone look like pre-school dropouts of ****
Guys say.
"She"
"got the,"
"best head."
She has nothing in it though.
Her brain's finished by the time words leave her lips whole.
thats as far as it gets
the words pass her **** then she falls, grab her hips.
Prepare the sword for the stone.
The one with the baby whole in her dome.
She's not good, much else.
Her black hair and wisdom lines go bout as deep as her shirt.
Depending on the day.
Pervert.
Lets do ANOTHER line.
"Oh My GOD!" "We did so much *******
Coke in cans.
Filled with whiskey flask-hand.
"This night's gunna be one to remember",
if his member is inside, that's my gender,
Blend it with all the worst intentions,
Use the worst intentions.
Stab the heart of conviction.
Tear it to tethers with tension.
Rip the strings of friendship.
Tease the knots of frayed linen,
Like its the only thing ya got.
"I am so high right now."
I forgot what earth looks like.
Probably like my town.
Only place I've been.
I'm 17 ya see.
Its the only thing you got.
You don't deserve roses, flowers, Laurels.
No trees.
No dime bags, no speed, no crying hag.
I can sure **** 25 yearolds.
Saying your better never sounded more like a lie.
Worst thing is you have that prevarication internalized.
I have a god complex...
Wanna save em all...
Can't save a ******* one...
I did lie once...
It was...
When I told you that you weren't...
A piece of ****
Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 12:58 AM UTC
A passion dripping of sin
A drunken epiphany
Plucking all my heartstrings
In the perfect melody.
You soothe me with your words
Profound and adoring
I think of you in debauchery
The fantasy is flooring.
I'd die for your arms around me
Just for a second I lust
A desire burning like hot coals
You around me I trust.
Cover me with your poetic form
Your limbs lounging about
A warmth radiating from your sweat-skin
I welcome your nakedness with no doubt.
My sighs are heavy and hypnotized
I'm wrapped all up in you
And I'm not fighting at all
Because it's all I want to do.
Be with you
Be yours
Let you stroke my hair
My want is practically seeping from my pores.
But I am all ready yours
I just wish for you tonight
A moment apart from you
Brings my ache to an astounding height.
I miss you, I miss you
I'll say it a million times
As if that would put you in my arms
By writing all these rhymes.
Sleep well without me, love
If only for a night
I'll kiss you naked in my dreams
And forget this temporary plight.
Mar 3, 2011
Mar 3, 2011 at 7:42 PM UTC
*Slammed to "Pick Up the Pieces"
by Average White Band*
Life's a jungle I have found
Torn to pieces all around
There are foxes - there are hounds
Zoos where wild things abound
Just listen to the funky sound
Now we're going underground....
Underground where rabbits go
Down tunnels in a faster slow
It's all over, don't you know
Pick & Shovel, Rake & ***
You're down with it, on the low
Like you're Edgar Allan Poe
Feast or famine - friend or foe
It must go on... The Truman Show...
*Jigsaw pieces - play the game
It is just a crying shame
Dance for dancing - Fame for fame
Break a leg and you are lame
No one'll ever know your name...
**PICK UP THE PIECES
PICK UP THE PIECES
PICK UP THE PIECES
PICK UP THE PIECES
PICK UP THE PIECES***
You're a tiger, nothin' nice
You've been bought, you had a price
Yeah, you tore off quite a slice
Well, some are men and some are mice
Some eat meat and some eat rice
Some are fire - some are ice
Some are ticks and some are lice
Let me give you some advice...
Just so you are never boring
While you're out there pimping, *******
While you're the one they are adoring
Just watch out for polished flooring
Don't break loose from your fast mooring
Into the pit you will be soaring
After that there's no restoring
Listen to the lion roaring...
Chorus
Here we are in the U.S.
We are pampered we are blessed
Sometime soon there'll be a test
We'll ride the Bronco way out West
The Magnificent Seven rides abreast
There's a new Sheriff, have you guessed?
With a tin badge on His vest
He does not play - He does not jest
I'm afraid, I will attest!
It won't be fun, just wait and see
It will be "pain" with a capitol P!
On this bus, don't ride for free
This is not a game of Wii
There's a port and there's a lea
There's a shrub (Bush), and there's a tree
There's an us, and there's a we
**There's a YOU, and there's a ME...
PICK UP THE PIECES
PICK UP THE PIECES
PICK UP THE PIECES
PICK UP THE PIECES
PICK UP THE PIECES**
SoulSurvivor
(C) 9/14/2016
https://youtu.be/xpflST8xWm8
"Pick Up the Pieces" extended version
Average White Band
Sep 14, 2016
Sep 14, 2016 at 4:51 PM UTC
He’d been able, after some gentle persistence,
To wheedle his way into the place
(He’d been vaguely recognized by the caretaker,
A certain affable familiarity his stock in trade, after all)
And he had been decidedly deliberate in his search for the shoes,
Though he’d been quite certain where he’d left them,
Simply hoping to drink this all in just one more time
But though the rooms were ostensibly unchanged
(He'd noted the odd knick-knack and piece of bric-a-brac
Had been secreted out, to be preserved or pawned)
They held no fascination for him now,
Simply concoctions of hardwood flooring,
Decorative wall coverings, staid pieces of furniture
(Indeed, the paterfamilias of this whole mélange
Increasingly beyond his recall-- he could hearken back
To a certain hail-fellow-well-met in his demeanor,
And he'd had an affecting smile,
But he was unable to conjure any further details
From the recesses of his memory)
And with nothing else to moor him to these silent rooms,
He'd slipped on the ostensible reasons he'd come in the first place
(Their uppers maintaining their whiteness
Through any number of bleachings,
The soles worn to a near smoothness)
And, nodding perfunctorily to the mansion's steward,
He slipped away, heading to some other party
Carrying on in more or less perpetuity,
The battered bottoms of his shoes
Leaving just the faintest marks as he crossed the dunes,
Soon to be buffed away altogether by the breeze.
Oct 29, 2018
Oct 29, 2018 at 11:29 AM UTC
White traces across the wooden flooring from freshly powdered feet. Muscles stretching to their maxim capability while the body leaves the ground for just a fraction of a second. Knees bent one moment, then quickly flexed straight with the use of the several small ligaments running down the lower half of the body. Blood is being pumped double time through the bodies most vital ***** and the lungs are contracting and expanding with such timing. The right side of the brain sends signals to every inch of the body. Dancing is an art form, and it is a way to become one with the your inner soul.
The moments that my arms break through the air and my feet flex using every muscle, those are the moments I feel the most alive.
When my brain is creating emotions, my body wants to reveal them through movement. Toss away the sorrow and embrace the new found love. When my feet leave the ground and then land with such placement and thought, happiness can be expressed. With the exhale and curving of the spine, stories can be told.
My body has not experienced this feeling for months now. It aches to be set free to express my inner sorrows, thoughts, and worries. My feet are longing to blister with the movements. My spine is weak from the time away. My movements rusty, but still there. Like a world renown pianist dusting off his grand or a child riding her bike on the first day the snow has melted off the sidewalks. I am craving the renewal of my soul and the expression of my body.
Oct 23, 2012
Oct 23, 2012 at 1:10 PM UTC
Chipped, cherry toned toes, pressing
across the cheap, linoleum flooring,
She's wearing nothing but an
over-sized sweater from a college
she's never, ever been.
And her hands hit her hips,
her grin leaves **** those
smoky-stained calcium cuties,
wrapped by chapped pythons.
In which, you have to admit
that 90's bob bouncing is
as killer as cancer.
Coffee table eyes, glancing,
gliding between every take,
she lifts the bottom of that
balled-up, decade-old sweater,
revealing a tuft of brunette hair;
a place where you can touch her;
where you can escape and stop
lying to yourself, you nihilistic nothing.
II.
Breathing the cold, in the murky-dark,
she, laying on a decadent country,
huddled in my authoritarian arms,
we stared at stars, streaking across,
waiting to escape like them, instead of
relating to those already dead beacons.
Dec 13, 2016
Dec 13, 2016 at 2:02 AM UTC
The building is coming together.
Some floors are already
Glass wall offices and water
Cooler rooms.
For one year, this concrete
Mansion has been my
Workplace.
I have scars from edges now
Invisible to the suits and secretaries
Of tomorrow.
Somewhere underneath this
Wooden flooring,
My blood drops still remain.
I stand on the glass roof,
Watching my friends in hi-vis
Eight floors beneath me.
This was sky once.
This was nothing.
This held seagulls and city crows
Fighting over bread like the
Two remaining pieces of a chess
Game. Overhead, morning clouds
Withdraw to let a rising sun
Lay its red on Oslo,
And other buildings
I built. Housing
Other drops of my
Blood.
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 2:47 AM UTC
Hall, how you are full of ceiling!
It goes where the flooring is
Land prepares for giant flooding
and drinks the palms of oases
Hold the things before they will fly
Today's swirl isn't mute
Get tied down with endlessly high
torment to your inside root
To your cisterns of claims that die
being pecked through liver's shell
by fierce eagle which would **** dry
the water, drinks, pail as well.
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 2:44 AM UTC
Painted a masterpiece
In my dreams:
A Chilean villa.
Cactus streams.
A flower composed,
Wilted with time
With muted colors,
Tequila with lime.
Fields of desert
With tuxtla soaring.
Winding paths of
Wood and brick flooring.
A cool wind blows
Through the heat
Over sweaty brows
And sandaled feet.
A moment trapped
That’s never been.
A life of others
Never seen.
Put away my brushes,
Stood back to admire
The deep ocean sky,
The burnt orange fire.
It lay on the table,
Alive on the canvas
When waking did cause
My hard work to vanish.
In memory only
And never shown
Forever discarded
Once beautifully known.
My studio of mind
So often produces
A wonderful concept
With no practical uses.
I’d like to live there
And run those streets,
Take shade under awnings
Sampling savory meats.
But I’ll never go there,
Never see that place.
Never plant in soil
That’s been erased.
That marvelous day
Conceived at night
Keeps the dreaming
Forever alight.
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 6:11 AM UTC
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You may think, how can be done such changes with floors. There are many alternatives to do so, like replace the ordinary floor with the real wooden flooring. Wooden flooring is simply made up of real solid wood, structured of multiple layers of timbers. Exclusive wooden flooring you can find out in industry, like oak wooden flooring, engineered wood flooring, solid wood flooring, solid oak, natural wood, hardwood flooring etc. This way you can make your home unique beauty and also its eco-friendly and dust free.
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2. Very easy to clean
3. Eco-friendly
4. Cost-effective
5. Easy to install
6. Advanced and Modern Display
7. Strong and durability
8. Wide Range of Design Avail
9. Can be selling out after a certain time etc.
So if you want to impress the people when they come into your home along with unique presentation of home you can easily can make change with the floor.
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Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 5:42 AM UTC
Regurgitating secrets
onto sleek marble flooring
through the endless hall,
echoing in thier ears
like a broken record; repeating
and jumping back to
start it again.
Starting like the fresh blood
pumping into my veins
and out the cuts on my hands
that hole in my head
and down the side of the knife
impaled between the north and south
of my core *****
The so called "key" to living.
torturing us, wanting us to "love"
wanting us to "hate"
wanting us to pretty much "want".
But what do i know?
I'm just another writer
aiming for success
trying to decipher the
broken logic of lust and love
of trust and friendship.
TRUST?! is that what we need?
To make this world
actually rely on another
to possibly
help with thier troubles
and discover the other?
Or if trust was real
and there was no such thing
as a backstabber,
i wouldn't be in this hall
lying face first
in a pool full
of ****** lies
and truthful *****
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 1:51 PM UTC
Virginia Nicholson
How To Build A House In N-Dimensions
1. Begin with lines, pencil to paper (if they could exist) drawing graphite arrangements, N-space reduced to one, a structure viewed in slices. Imagine the bathroom off the foyer, the den off the dining room, viewable only as inked lines, dit-dit-dah, a contractor’s Morse Code.
2. Progress to carpet squares, linoleum tiles, the coral paint pairs well with the eggshell trim. Dit-dah-dit becomes something useful to the non-contractor, “door” or “Master Bedroom” or “x hundred feet of pipe.” Envision the imagined patterns hidden in the bathroom floor, the kitchen hardwood.
3. Move to volumes, solids, conic sections, height. One story, two stories, a basement, an attic?, take advantage of the introduction of 3D. Upgrade the closet to walk-in, needs more carpet squares. A snapshot of a family barbeque, Charlie’s height 1D penciled in to the 3D door, marring 2D eggshell paint.
4. Adding time, the house is built, ages, gets sold to new families with little Charlies of their own, new markings on the cupboard door, 3-foot-2, 3-foot-5, 4-foot-9. Grass fades from Kelly to sand to Kelly, saturation a cosine function with respect to time. The Zoysia starts in one, breaking ground in two, growing in three, a well-manicured 4D experience.
5-11. Include the things invisible to us, objects on the order of 1 meter, orders of 10E-2 to 10E9 seconds. Five to eleven drip through leaky pipes, seep through porous flooring, get lost in iron-rich soil and oxygenated exhalations. Five to eleven stay hidden, wrapped up in Calabi-Yao manifolds smaller than graphite hills and valleys marking little Charlie’s height, stronger than the 2-by-4s and stone foundation keeping strong in 4D. Five to eleven circulate undetected, seven dimensions shrunk to sub-pinpoint size, keeping seven dimensions of unexplainables covered until their traces are seen in the blades of Zoysia.
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 5:20 PM UTC
Perpetuate flyers, flowers minding their own business. The armed farmer grows his crops, unnaturally, factory wise. Genetically mutated agriculturally roasted. Mitosis, weeds stem cells. Winding blows back & forth. Back peddle into hardwood flooring. The view is great up here, giant machinery pretending to be trees. Hack the life out of bees, pollinated keepers keep secrets cause they're killers. These two eyes, see through me back to you.
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 3:01 PM UTC
Society called me
He gave me a name, a bunch of names.
So I walked the eggshells,
Peered through narrow gaps
Where curtains never met
At moon's glow or sun dull.
The pale yellow sunrise wished me Goodluck
I wanted him to be a night
So I closed the windows --
Haunting nightmares even if it's still daylight.
The sharp barks made an odd sound
People had slid wrists and knees scars
Where they too, had once dreamed
Laying themselves on the sofa by the wall.
A man opened my door while it was still dark
And in his hands was a chess board.
He said, "You didn't play well,"
There I saw his clothes -- torn.
His blood was drippin'
kissin' the laminated flooring.
A reverie --
I was in bed the next mornin'
With the chessboard beside me.
"The eggshells are fragile, and so are you"
The man left me a note.
I cried like a child, reminiscing about the old days.
The picture of mama and papa on the staircase,
They quarrel for a penny.
The laughter on the balcony
When my siblings and I had choco chips for midnight snacks.
The melody of the guitar
When my breath runs dry out of tune.
It was all in my memory,
Fresh like a heartbeat reborn.
My flesh was weak,
That's why I had these shutters all day long.
My days of years --
Society in different persona calls me.
And every day, each calls me
In adjectives and in digits.
Throwing me in suspense and horror
But I realized I was not in a movie of terror.
I met this man who had a key to my room
And I wonder why I have let him in.
My house was a disgust when I look at it with my eyes
But when his footsteps left imprints,
He had me in tears.
For the years that I've spent
was simply shredded with fears.
So again, I was looking for this man
But have never seen him.
But I was still searching for him
I am alive in just a chess board game
And how could it be?
Yes, in a chess board game
He had me "checkmate."
I won as he has won and I was reborn --
When I met this man.
Jun 6, 2017
Jun 6, 2017 at 3:46 AM UTC
Eyes darting wildly about the room,
He catches sight of the exit door.
With a burst of energy, he barrels forward,
Freedom just within his grasp.
The nurses chase after him madly,
Flailing about and hollering “Stop!”
His movements swift, he continues to run,
Escape too tantalizing to ignore.
The cold touch of the door handle excites him,
And he jerks the gateway open with great force.
Releasing the handle,
He steps out into an unforeseen world with eyes closed.
For a moment his mind wanders free,
Anxious to experience this new life
Weak from anticipation, his eyelids flutter open
Revealing the desolate dystopia before him.
The sight breaks his heart
As all dreams drain from the face of our man.
He drops his desires to the ground,
And turns dejectedly back to the doorway
Turning the handle again, he steps back inside
Weak with his enlightenment he stumbles,
Down on his knees on the linoleum flooring
He lets out a shriek and the nurses come running,
And he falls
Accepting the familiar warmth of the clinic.
Jan 7, 2013
Jan 7, 2013 at 9:42 PM UTC
I'm going to do it.
I am going to pull the trigger.
Blood, flesh, and guts will fly every where.
Guess who's fault.
It ain't mine.
As I stand here, with you
The trigger is getting closer to getting pulled.
I hope you see the point I'm making.
It will go all over your freshly white painted walls,
New wooden flooring,
Brand new 90" flat screen TV,
And your cutlery.
The evidence will be every where.
No true way to get rid of it.
Now it's been swell...
Bye bye mother ******
gun shot
body falls to the floor, blood and guts go every where
loud psychotic laughing
Bye bye mother ******
As you were warned.
It was you , to pull the trigger.
My suicidal duckling.
Aug 2, 2014
Aug 2, 2014 at 4:08 AM UTC