"investigate" poems
Do you cut your birthday cake?
Do you know your birthday is fake?
Don't continue to make the mistake
It's time for you to now awake!
Ask your mother when you were born
You were kicking weeks before and this went on and on
You were alive long back, she knows
And even science has pictures as the embryo grows
Nine months before your so-called date of birth
That is when you actually came to earth
Then you didn't have blood, bone, and skin
You were just a Power, the spark within
But because you believed in the birthday lie
You believed that there were ghosts and fairies in the sky!
Every year you continue to cut your birthday cake
You don't realize the truth, just believe what is fake!
When will you, to the truth, awake?
When will you stop baking your birthday cake?
When you realize that nine months earlier you were born
Then to stop cutting the cake, will you undertake?
Although you know that it is not your date of birth
You came forty weeks before as the zygote on earth
But you just choose to follow the herd
You don't investigate, don't fly like a bird
You don't ask the question, 'Who am I?'
If the body came later, then, 'I am the body,' is a lie
I was that Energy Spark that first came to earth
Not on my so-called birthday is my real birth
In what way will this news make us awake?
Why this big fuss about the birthday cake?
When we realize we are not the body or the mind
Then, Self-Realization we will find
If you are not the body that developed on earth
You realize you are that spark, that's your real worth!
That spark is Energy, that spark is the Soul
To realize this is our life’s ultimate goal
After the spark, starts as a little zygote
Our body is created, be it man or goat
We are not the bodies that we seem to wear
The bodies will live and die and tear
One day, every ‘body’ must die
The one who was alive will depart into the sky
The body that is made of skin and bone
Returns to ashes, as people mourn
We are not that body that died, were we?
People say, 'He passed away', and we are free
They are so sure in the body we no more live
To the flames or to the coffin, our body they give!
If we are not the body that will one day surely die
If we were not born on our birthday, that is a lie!
If we are that spark conceived nine months before birth
Then who is it that on death leaves the earth?
The Soul, the Divine Spirit, the Atman is that spark
To give us life from birth to death is its task
It arrives at conception and departs at death
We are that Power that gives us breath
When you do a simple thing like stop cutting a cake
When you investigate and realize that your birthday is fake
You realize you are the Soul, you are no more vague
To the ultimate truth, you will awake
This Realization is the real beginning of the journey called life
It will liberate us from all misery and strife
When we realize we are not body, ego, and mind
Eternal Happiness and Peace, we will find
Just because we were taught many things that were lies
We believe that God lives in the skies
The birthday cake will make us realize
We will live as the Soul, we will be wise
So, from now don't cut your birthday cake
Don't continue to be ignorant for God's sake
Realize that your birthday is fake
You are the Divine Soul, to this truth awake
Sep 16, 2022
Sep 16, 2022 at 4:25 AM UTC
Trump sat in his tower, supreme in every way
Whatever he wanted, he only had to say
The President to the press corps, of him, one day made fun
I’m gonna replace you bud, when your term is done
He started his campaign, they said he was a joke
But he became popular with all the common folk
The stuff that he spouted, was more and more absurd
But the stupid morons, swallowed his every word
He’s a Super Callous Fragile Racist Sexist **** Potus
Even though the sound of it is really quite atrocious
Maybe we could change him, if we tried hypnosis
He’s a Super Callous Fragile Racist Sexist **** Potus
There's no such thing as climate change, everything is fine
Burning coal and shale oil is perfectly divine
Those lefty enviornmentalists love to yell and shout
(making lots of money is what I'm all about)
The Mexicans are gonna pay when I build the wall
And I’ll lock you up Clinton, guaranteed next fall
No one could believe it, when the count was done
The blonde haired, orange faced, nitwit, actually had won
He’s a Super Callous Fragile Racist Sexist **** Potus
Even though the sound of it is really quite atrocious
Maybe we could change him, if we tried hypnosis
He’s a Super Callous Fragile Racist Sexist **** Potus
It’s just that he was used to, always getting his way
He signed executive orders, on his very first day
The Judges over ruled him, and put him in his place
They threw the executive orders, right back in his face
He’s having lot’s of problems, with the phoney press
And though he tweets daily, it’s still causing distress
If he bombed the Syrians, maybe it would make amends
But all he succeeded in doing, was **** off his Russian friends
He’s a Super Callous Fragile Racist Sexist **** Potus
Even though the sound of it is really quite atrocious
Maybe we could change him, if we tried hypnosis
He’s a Super Callous Fragile Racist Sexist **** Potus
The FBI investigate, so he fired their chief
The replacement just carried on, Trump got no relief
Congress is thinking, let's put Trump against the wall
Pence is in the wings, just waiting for their call
He’s a Super Callous Fragile Racist Sexist **** Potus
Even though the sound of it is really quite atrocious
Maybe we could change him, if we tried hypnosis
He’s a Super Callous Fragile Racist Sexist **** Potus
May 21, 2017
May 21, 2017 at 3:55 PM UTC
Now, I won't try to analyze or criticize what was going on inside your head,
I won't even try to investigate or insinuate about the time taken,
leaving me waiting hoping for a reply but I was mistaken,
heartbroken left alone thinking my love tainted, no I won't try and figure what triggered you to leave,
or why I still want to believe,
there's something out there that can bring me an ounce of relief from the grief,
I just stopped Thinking with my mind my heart was just taking over,
I was turned around going in circles,
my whole world turned dark like all those sad songs you listen to on the radio to release your frustration,
but you seem to not care I haven't even spoken and you're already reaching to change the station, was it exasperation or desperation,
procrastination or your exoneration of obligation, vindication,
or was what I thought as love just another irritation,
I ask and ask but am met with silence instead,
no I won't ask what's going on inside your head, its plain to see no need for anymore concentration, I was merely mistaken.
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 2:39 AM UTC
He doesn't need Intra Ocular Lenses,
To dismember my defenses.
Without a Stethoscope,
He can hear my heart,
He won't have to take an MRI scan,
To know where to start.
He won't need to inject a syringe,
To romantically unhinge,
My every multiplying cell,
Into a palpitating craze.
He won't need a lubricating gel,
To ****** and amaze.
He won't require to operate
Nor investigate,
Me from head to toe,
To plainly know,
That I'm besotted,
my insides knotted,
My better sense clotted,
In deep rooted feeling,
Of immense love.
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 8:56 AM UTC
Macavity’s a Mystery Cat: he’s called the Hidden Paw—
For he’s the master criminal who can defy the Law.
He’s the bafflement of Scotland Yard, the Flying Squad’s despair:
For when they reach the scene of crime—Macavity’s not there!
Macavity, Macavity, there’s no on like Macavity,
He’s broken every human law, he breaks the law of gravity.
His powers of levitation would make a fakir stare,
And when you reach the scene of crime—Macavity’s not there!
You may seek him in the basement, you may look up in the air—
But I tell you once and once again, Macavity’s not there!
Macavity’s a ginger cat, he’s very tall and thin;
You would know him if you saw him, for his eyes are sunken in.
His brow is deeply lined with thought, his head is highly doomed;
His coat is dusty from neglect, his whiskers are uncombed.
He sways his head from side to side, with movements like a snake;
And when you think he’s half asleep, he’s always wide awake.
Macavity, Macavity, there’s no one like Macavity,
For he’s a fiend in feline shape, a monster of depravity.
You may meet him in a by-street, you may see him in the square—
But when a crime’s discovered, then Macavity’s not there!
He’s outwardly respectable. (They say he cheats at cards.)
And his footprints are not found in any file of Scotland Yard’s.
And when the larder’s looted, or the jewel-case is rifled,
Or when the milk is missing, or another Peke’s been stifled,
Or the greenhouse glass is broken, and the trellis past repair—
Ay, there’s the wonder of the thing! Macavity’s not there!
And when the Foreign Office finds a Treaty’s gone astray,
Or the Admiralty lose some plans and drawings by the way,
There may be a scap of paper in the hall or on the stair—
But it’s useless of investigate—Macavity’s not there!
And when the loss has been disclosed, the Secret Service say:
“It must have been Macavity!”—but he’s a mile away.
You’ll be sure to find him resting, or a-licking of his thumbs,
Or engaged in doing complicated long division sums.
Macavity, Macavity, there’s no one like Macacity,
There never was a Cat of such deceitfulness and suavity.
He always has an alibit, or one or two to spare:
And whatever time the deed took place—MACAVITY WASN’T THERE!
And they say that all the Cats whose wicked deeds are widely known
(I might mention Mungojerrie, I might mention Griddlebone)
Are nothing more than agents for the Cat who all the time
Just controls their operations: the Napoleon of Crime!
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The room is dark, filled with void.
The only thing between us is the paint and brush.
I turn your head up, lost deeply into your eyes.
My masculine voice commands,
I set you free, explore and investigate.
My body is your canvas, let them be your tool where you get lost in your world.
While I get lost in your lips and my hands explore your body.
In paintings we shall ignite a fire, we shall get intimate.
In paintings I rock your world, I dominate you.
With my lips doing justice to your body while I drill you with vigor and passion.
In paintings, we shall moan, groan and scream.
Feeling your body covered up in this beautiful artwork, the pleasure is exhilarating.
My touch soft enough to caress you, but strong enough to protect you.
I feel you, I see the hips gyrating.
In our world, I am your master and I will dominate you.
Let the paint expression express the feelings that can't be expressed.
Let the pain you feel move you and take you to another world.
In painting, you shall be set free but still my slave.
In painting, I shall drill you and your inner soul.
The scream is inevitable, the pain is the one you enjoy.
The very moment you fantasize.
May the paintings make our body flow smoothly so our souls can talk in spirits.
In painting, you, scream, moan and shout.
In painting, I breathe and I smack you out.
In painting, we get tired and pass out.
In paintings, we *** hard and loud.
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 3:31 AM UTC
Two Sport-Souls in an Olive's Mood bereft,
The Dove surrenders my Hard-Painted Brush
It was once a Quill; Yet due out of Theft
Lost to my Abuse of that Season's Lush
I guess this is a Bite to Understand
More so from the Pool you Both were long Raised
Twice you, Madam, the Lion you took Hand,
Netting his Tender and stamped it in Praise
So just as I Advised your Prince since told
When Gummi Worms evolve into Sweet Snakes
Twisted, though no such Deed I did that bold
And asked the Bobbie to investigate.
On this Last Page turned, I sealed the Ream with Tape,
Checking out my Card your Library gave.
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 4:04 AM UTC
Stairs fly as straight as hawks;
Or else in spirals, curve out of curve, pausing
At a ledge to poise their wings before relaunching.
Stairs sway at the height of their flight
Like a melody in Tristan;
Or swoop to the ground with glad spread of their feathers
Before they close them.
They curiously investigate
The shells of buildings,
A hollow core,
Shell in a shell.
Useless to produce their path to infinity
Or turn it to a moral symbol,
For their flight is ambiguous, upwards or downwards as you please;
Their fountain is frozen,
Their concertina is silent.
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The bar behind the theatre was nearly empty apart from a couple of gay boys.
Well, it was a gay bar, so no ******* surprise there.
I glanced at the fat one and decided, 'No thank you very much,'
as I have noticed fat people often smell unpleasantly,
maybe it's the sweat trapped between their ********** that does it.
But the other one was very cute and I decided I would have him.
In those days, it was regarded as 'de rigeur' to buy a lad a lager and lime
before dragging him home with you for some nookie,
so I coughed up for a half pint with charm and grace.
Sadly, he was no great shakes in the conversational stakes,
but was I after intellectual stimulation? No, I ******* wasn't.
Anyway, once I'd checked his passport to ensure he was over-age
(no one wants any ******* trouble from the bigoted morality squad)
I dragged him back to my elegant bachelor orgy-pad
and stripped him off to investigate his lithe little body;
a nice smooth little **** and a reasonably clean ****
What more can you want from a one night stand?
After a bit of a damp snog and a good old *****
I lubed him up and gave his *** a right good poking.
He moaned a bit, but then who wouldn't moan,
with seven and a half inches of thick gristle shoved
all the way up their sphincter? I know I would.
After I had filled his rear end with love juice a couple of times,
I felt that kicking out was the name of the game.
Generously, I gave him a half-crown for his bus fare
as he said he was a bit short of cash, being unemployed.
It was the least I could do, as he had three miles to go home,
and it was raining cats and ******* dogs outside.
After he'd left, I checked out the bed sheets (as you would)
and was irritated to find a few skidmarks there,
or they may have been where I wiped my fingers
after having eaten a bar of Cadbury's Dairy Milk.
A quick sniff confirmed my worst suspicions though.
'Ah well, true love always comes at a price', I reflected,
as I scraped the worst bits off with a nail file.
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 11:49 AM UTC
sit down, pen and paper scrape together,
come up with something clever.
blank mind
stare at the paper-don't doodle!
holding your head in your hand is not writing-
supposed to be writing
all of these skillfully woven thoughts that should be
bursting forth, but aren't.
stop spell checking, do it later. maybe that's the answer:
automatic writing
OK go into trance let the pen and hand dance.
don't think, let the ink flow from the inside to the surface,
you're thinking on purpose...stop it! OK this is obviously not working,
it's just jerking off and it doesn't even feel good, although it should.
Come up with a subject, not abstract thought...wait...thought has no
place here. where is the Muse? I'll blow a fuse if I don't get to use a
clever phrase I turned today. what about childhood walks in the woods,
first love, real love, not in-puppy-love with Jody Foster!
during the day all the stuff that's enough to fill a book gets wasted
and lambasted. I'm mad as hell and here I sit
broken hearted did my time and only started three hours ago.
could have taken a tour by now and, holy cow!, the Tao probably took
less time to write than this night of the living dead man
with two pinky and the brains.
where the hell am I going with this clap trap? this is out of hand, out
of mind-otherworldly. is this all that i am:
meaningless gobbeldy-gook
I'm getting spooked. it's time to stop and drop the needle on a different track,
stop the attack sit back relax choose to lose my senses, dulled and lulled into
false pretenses, mend some fences with myself, or else.
Or else, what? Not contemplate, deliberate, speculate, ruminate, investigate,
radiate...KNOCK IT OFF! Just put the pen down, get up, walk out of the room.
Nov 7, 2012
Nov 7, 2012 at 3:29 PM UTC
I don't ask you to be faithful - you're beautiful, after all -
but just that I be spared the pain of knowing.
I make no stringent demands that you should really be chaste,
but only that you try to cover up.
If a girl can claim to be pure, it's the same as being pure:
it's only admitted vice that makes for scandal.
What madness, to confess by day what's wrapped in night,
and what you've done in secret, openly tell!
The ****** about to bed some Roman off the street
still locks her door first, keeping out the crowd:
will you yourself then make your sins notorious,
accusing and prosecuting your own crime?
Be wise, and learn at least to imitate chaste girls,
and let me believe you're good, though you are not.
Do what you do, but simply deny you ever did:
there's nothing wrong with public modesty.
There is a proper place for looseness: fill it up
with all voluptuousness, and banish shame;
but when you're done there, then put off all playfulness
and leave your indiscretions in your bed.
There, don't be ashamed to lay your gown aside
and press your thigh against a pressing thigh;
there take and give deep kisses with your crimson lips;
let love contrive a thousand ways of passion;
there let delighted words and moans come ceaselessly,
and make the mattress quiver with playful motion.
But put on with your clothes a face that's all discretion,
and let Shame disavow your shocking deeds.
Trick everyone, trick me: leave me in ignorance;
let me enjoy the life of a happy fool.
Why must I see so often notes received - and sent?
Why must I see two imprints on your bed,
or your hair disarrayed much more than sleep could do?
Why must I notice love bites on your neck?
You all but flaunt your indiscretions in my face.
Think of me, if not of your reputation.
I lose my mind, I die, when you confess you've sinned;
I break out in cold sweat from hand to foot;
I love you then, and hate you - in vain, since I must love you;
I wish then I were dead - and you were too!
I won't investigate or check whatever you try
to hide: I will be thankful to be deceived.
But even if I catch you in the very act
and look on your disgrace with my own eyes,
deny that I have seen what I have clearly seen,
and my eyes will agree with what you claim.
You'll win an easy prize from a man who wants to lose,
only remember to say, 'I didn't do it.'
Since you can gain your victory with one short phrase,
win on account of your judge, if not your case.
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Wind bends a weak branch.
Fresh leaves sing in harmony.
A lizard of the same color
slowly stretches his way from leaf to spine.
He stops to investigate a string
of silk from a spider's web
and I wonder how that tastes.
Lit up like a jack-o-lantern,
his glowing body
reveals organs and vessels
much like my own.
He makes his 30 foot ascent
above hot cement
just to sunbathe on a leaf.
What a life that is.
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 9:38 AM UTC
Lately,
When I’ve tried
Opening the gates
The locks to my kingdom
It’s simply impossible to accomplish.
I’m terrified,
Terrified,
Of being ‘open.’
What does ‘open’ really even mean?
Am I supposed to investigate
Every dazzling petunia?
Conduct a survey among my local hydrangeas?
Or maybe I should consider taking a hibiscus
As my teacher
In order to learn the art of blooming.
Flowers mastered
The art of opening up to the world,
Without the fear that those around it
Will shine more astronomically
More brilliantly
Than they.
Yes, I wish I was a flower,
I wish I did not care.
I need to learn
How not to care
Like a flower.
Flowers may be ‘weak’
But they’re still stronger
Than me.
My skin is too soft-
My shell might crack
And it will break open
And you will see
That there’s nothing left inside me
And I will carve myself open
To prove it to you.
If I open up
Like a flower,
I’m sure to sustain an injury
Or a lot.
Trust is a butterfly
Easy to crush
Impossible to take
And wow
When you have it
It’s an amazing thing.
But when it’s gone,
Oh it’s an
Ugly
Mangled
Dead thing.
When did this trust
Fall out of my chest?
Did it shatter when it fell?
Because it’s sure broken
Into a million pieces
And it is mangled and ugly.
I am so broken
So fully broken
Hugs are poison
And your touch
Could burn the heart
Out of me.
I’m just anxious
I’m always nervous
My veins itch and
When your eyes dance on my form
I become physically ill
And when you put a hand on my shoulder
I’ll jump like a suicidal bird in flight.
These nerves are eating away
I’m being dissolved by their horrid bleach
And my organs are already mush.
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 1:54 PM UTC
We gather in Old London town,
the time is getting late.
The fog is slowly coming down,
the year is eighteen eighty eight.
The Leather Apron stalks this eve
ladies of the night beware.
Such things he does you wont believe
and for your welfare he’ll not care.
Hello Mister have a heart,
a girl has got to earn a crust.
A shilling for this fine old ****
for you look like a gent to trust.
In her hand the coin doth shine.
Does she lead this toff astray?
Here’s a quiet place that’s fine,
as she walks up the alley-way.
Face to face and eye to eye.
The victim happy to be plied
with vigour she lifts up her skirt
but now her hands are occupied.
Seizing strongly at her throat
he strangles her till unaware.
Unconscious although not yet broke
he lowers her by head and hair.
Now insentient on the ground
the Ripper sets about his work.
In the dark without a sound
there is no detail he will shirk.
He keeps the body to his left,
her throat is sliced from side to side.
The woman’s family now bereft,
whilst she lies here without her pride.
Left to the nights illumination
Jack executes his deadly art.
Performing such skilled mutilation.
and leaving plus one body part.
Daylight opens up commotion,
"Whitechapel Murderer", strikes once more.
The peelers haven’t got a notion
who it is that killed this *****
Scotland Yard are in despair
as they try to Investigate
their credibility beyond repair
for they cant find this reprobate.
Eventually the death toll, five,
the murders now come to an end.
Folk are free to live their lives
but could you trust even a friend.
Over an hundred years or more
professional research is far to late.
Jack, can we ever know the score?
"No... All you can do is speculate."
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 4:26 PM UTC
You make me want to kick and scream
Because I hate that I love you
and hate you all at the same time
Break the plaster
Shatter the dishes
Destroy the photos
Ensure there is no proof of us here
Because I believe now that love is a lie
A myth to get us all twisted
On reality and illusion
A trick to reel us in
When in truth it is a sin
The amount of destruction
That results from this word
Let’s start from this apartment
Then we’ll investigate the world
Love creates peace
But where does peace exist?
I’ve lost faith and I am petrified
Of what results from this loss of light
I punched a hole through the wall
And saw myself on the other side
A simple reflection
Terrifying when it comes through
Like a mirror
Existing in another dimension
Sep 27, 2018
Sep 27, 2018 at 11:01 AM UTC
The arms, legs, heads
were covered in clay
but their bodies
hadn't decayed.
They were trapped
in ice, transparent,
clean. That is the role
of bodies. To be seen.
That is the role of
children. To sit
quietly counting
coins. To brush
the long blonde
hair of their
sister (mother.)
To not be heard.
The dead leaves
of trees are
too loud.
Crunching under-
foot. Who am I
to investigate?
To take samples
of hair and
skin. To match
DNA and finger-
prints. No, the
ice should not
melt. As it
struggles to
survive in the
sunlight. The bodies
thaw. Heart first.
And I am trapped.
plunging the
secrets of rope
around throat.
Of stab wounds
and bullet sites.
And the blood
is so cold. So
very cold and
unforgiving,
unmissable,
uncharted,
until my hands
slice,
sift,
silence.
Mar 26, 2016
Mar 26, 2016 at 11:40 AM UTC
30 days in. Now, after, out to the market theatre.
People idling, few wondering who pulls the strings
few investigate who paints the streets
who constructs the buildings
it is a show if you slow your vision you will know
You go to a shop, you pick, you pay and go your way
Calculated activity
Prolonged elasticity
And money extends and circulates the sensitivity
the physical defying relativity
Schedules and plans, maps and structures of time
a defined life as I write
You go to church
the congregation settles, the pastor preaches
the congregation responds, "halleluyah" "amen"
songs are sung
tithes paid and progress of church displayed
soon the bell rings and away to our cottages
Cook sunday lunch and a day blessed by God
and sunday after sunday after sunday
You go to school
there's a teacher and students in the classroom
the teacher teaches, questions are asked and notes are taken
Again and again the routine iterates
until tests and assignment dates
how hypnotic this academic tale
promising a better future, a positive fate
And a mall is a town in a cubicle
a church is a social uprising theatrical
a school is a place of worship for the tamable
...and the World a jungle for those who oppose
a haven for the ignorant, a pacific abyss for the survivors of evil. All in all a theatrical play which is a story telling itself in rewind...
Jun 22, 2013
Jun 22, 2013 at 2:30 PM UTC
All those young bodies
so trained, taught and tight
all put together for more than a few nights
only the elite athletes are allowed in the village
no partners, no spouses no one to investigate
Apparently that leads to lots of hook ups
Celebrations, commiserations, there's a lot of stuff to do up
So the villagers are supplied with fifteen condoms each
And all around, there is fun in heaps
Jul 29, 2012
Jul 29, 2012 at 10:29 PM UTC
In a golden desert field sparrows played.
The sun beamed down from heaven, there was little shade
While the ravens circled over keeping watch
The sparrows kept right on playing, they didn't stop
Along came some chipmunks to join in the game
Two squirrels in the distance wanted the same
So they came over and started a fun chase
Four brown bunnies set up to investigate
While the wind softly blowing carried the voice
Of the robins singing their song of choice
I sat there and watched in amazement
Thinking have I died and to heaven went
Nov 11, 2012
Nov 11, 2012 at 4:03 PM UTC
there are a few, those who should tidy,
those who pump and clear, those who
investigate.
water beetles float their legs, paddle
the river, dimpling surface. hang on
the bridge , warming back and watch.
water men wear high visibility, while
the beetle shines black.
lately we have cut the paths
and planted bluebells.
sbm.
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 1:09 AM UTC
Foggy morrows alluding to the rest of day,
a grand mystery of what will be,
enshrouded in mists mans mystery motivates,
it calls upon our curiosity to investigate
and pursue misty shadows lurking and lingering.
What new mysteries shall be in this new day?
What marvels may be obliged to see?
Ah, this fabulous foggy morrow holds such marvellous,
deeply seeded, and enshrouded in curiosity, mysteries.
Oh the Foggy Morrows such relevance to life
I see in you, despite the foggy nature of your being.
Tho’ only temporary, your mystery shall reveal things
later becoming old, that is what you do,
Oh dearest Foggy morrows.
Apr 28, 2012
Apr 28, 2012 at 12:23 PM UTC
Its not love.
Now don't think I'm crazy. I swear I'm not, at least not mostly. But its true, its not love, it can't be yet, its been one night and I'd be a true psychotic if I thought it was.
Once I thought one night was love, but I was also high off the fumes of my own cruelty and didn't know left from right and Up from Toy Story.
But it matters.
Not in the way you think, God, I swear not like that. I am not mentally able to catch feelings right now as I stumble through the vacant halls of my own sanity, or better put, the filled asylum of my own insanity.
Still, though.
It was a night I could be me, a night I want to feel again, where I'm bare and broken and real and **** and that doesn't happen very often for me. My mask of smiles and lies tend to hide everything, but not that night, and not with you.
Here in this new sect of Wonderland I can be me , be Grace, with little to no question. Well, there's been some rejection and tears and pain and all the average Wonderland shenanigans, but its been magical. I feel like Wonderland is a place I can live in again.
In old Wonderland, I was beginning to suffocate, to feel the cold hand of stability take over me. But I am not ready for that, I'm ready for freedom and dancing in the rain and having *** until the moon goes to bed.
I wasn't ready to be in love with the Caterpillar. Crazy, considering I always thought it was he who was unprepared, but all along it was me.
Guess I can't live my life wondering what's just around the river bend, I have to investigate. I have to know. Things must get curiouser and curiouser, its how it goes.
Let my youth wash over me, let my childlike Wonderland wash over my eyes and let me be me for awhile. Its not normal for me to be this malleable. Everything used to be lies, but now everything is freedom, and for now I love it.
Thank you for that night. Its a beginning, a new one, for Wonderland and I. Why?
Because for the first time in forever, Grace of Wonderland is free.
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 2:28 PM UTC
You can smell it - when it happens,
and it does,
at the trailer park.
You investigate once, because you,
personally have never seen a rotting corpse.
Once, single use death, as when
one tries to use life too hard, too not
easy,
like heros on TV, not
gentle, as with a kitten or a yellow duckling,
held, in your own soft bowl of fingers.
Bubble, floating for a moment longer
than bubbles would if only water were involved,
-- input, use, grow a known, redistill, settle still
bubbles in the commode,
bubbles in the coffee,
bubbles in the hummingbird feeder, bubbles
in my brain, or my soul, sometimes, I wonder
if one is the other, when the brain is dead,
the soul is gone,
must be, wouldn't one assume?
perhaps here is where the spirit lingers,
watching souls lay dead where a bubble of life was.
Aug 18, 2023
Aug 18, 2023 at 4:06 PM UTC