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Amanda Fletcher Nov 2012
Jump.
     Well, no, actually.
            I don't want to jump.
I want to leap
and skip
and dance into a new sunrise.

It's time to turn off the light
and close the door,
Because it's really getting dark in here.

Close your mouth,
mute the babel,
bare your ears.
****** I'm speaking to you.
Not with my mouth,
with my heart
and my soul
not my brain.

These aren't feathered words.
This is my distress.

I'm sorry,
I'm going to turn off the light,
  close the door
    and dance.
bucky Jun 2014
YOU ONLY EVER KISS HIM WITH THE LIGHTS OFF. YOU RUN YOUR HANDS THROUGH YOUR HAIR; IT WAS CUT A FEW DAYS AGO AND YOU'RE NOT SURE IF YOU LIKE IT. YOU FEEL LIKE YOU'RE JUST KEEPING UP THE PRETENSE OF THE PERSON YOU USED TO BE. YOU'RE NOT SURE IF YOU'LL EVER FEEL LIKE HIM AGAIN.

HE, AS USUAL, LOVES YOU AND SOMETIMES YOU WANT TO RIP OFF HIS ******* CLOTHES AND TAKE HIM AND SOMETIMES YOU JUST WANT TO SCREAM AND RUN AWAY AND NEVER LOOK HIM IN THE EYES AGAIN (AND SOMETIMES YOU WANT TO RIP OFF YOUR ******* SKIN AND HOPE YOU NEVER BREATHE AGAIN). YOU NEVER TELL HIM THIS. YOU ADD IT TO THE PILE OF SECRETS. RINSE AND REPEAT;;;

AS THE DAYS GO BY THE BLUE EYES START MIXING WITH THE KIND OF REDNESS YOU CAN'T SCRUB AWAY. YOU TRY TO LAUGH BECAUSE YOU'RE LIKE HIM NOW (RED WHITE AND BLUE YOU'RE A ******* BANNER AND HE'S AN ICON). IT COMES OUT BROKEN. YOU DON'T TELL HIM WHY.

YOU STOP SMILING AND THE CIGARETTES PILE UP AND THE BOTTLES PILE UP AND THE SECRETS PILE UP. HE'S STOPPED LOOKING YOU IN THE EYES AND YOU'VE STOPPED PRETENDING NOT TO NOTICE. HE DRAGS YOU OUT OF BED AT TWO IN THE MORNING TO YELL AT YOU AND IT TAKES ALL THE ENERGY YOU CAN MUSTER TO LOOK AT HIM.

HE STOPS SMILING.

WHEN HE SAYS HE LOVES YOU HE DOESN'T MEAN IT. THIS IS OKAY; YOU HAVEN'T SAID IT BACK SINCE HE SAVED YOU. WHEN YOU SAY IT BACK ANYWAY YOU MEAN IT. HE LAUGHS AT YOU.

YOU TRY TO STOP BREATHING ONETWOTHREEFOUR TIMES. YOU STOP RETURNING HIS PHONE CALLS. YOU DON'T BELONG HERE THIS BODY HASN'T FELT LIKE YOURS IN SEVENTY YEARS BUT YOU STILL WISH YOU COULD CRAWL INSIDE YOUR OWN SKIN.

HE SHOWS UP AT YOUR HOUSE AT TWO IN THE MORNING AND ******* SCREAMS AT YOU. THIS IS THE MOST ALIVE YOU'VE FELT IN AN AGE. YOU TELL HIM THIS AND YOU LOOK AWAY WHEN HIS FACE CRUMPLES.

HE KISSES YOU WITH THE LIGHTS ON.
эти являются затемненные дней
r0b0t Jul 2014
if I was a light switch
would you leave me on
to always feel this way
to always feel as if I do not matter
because the sun is wandering and that is leaving me alone
with nothing but windchill to keep my company
and that is okay
I am okay with that
because it means
I can get closer
to the rain.
Vic May 2019
I don't think there's something like life after death.
Isn't life and death just a lightswitch? It'll take a little time to install the lightswitch and then your body is here. When you turn on the light your soul is here and when you die the lightswitch goes off. And Only your body is left, the extinguished lightbulb.


-


It's 2AM, get some sleep.
~ Note to self

If you want to talk about this "theory" or anything else feel free to mail me on hellopoetry.
alex furlin Jul 2012
Insomnia is not the, uh
End of the line or some transcendent sign
That tells you that happiness and comfort are reserved for other people only

Take a deep breath to ensure the cheap death of the sleep theft
That robs you of your right to not dim the lights and go unconscious tonight
Stay awake and aware
Put foot to the brake and delay your despair

Mourn the loss of a fate that did not graduate
Into all that you’d hoped for and tried to create
Life is never translated perfectly from your grandiose dreams
To what actually seems to be the case
That the world is confusing and unforgiving place
Don’t cry over a book shedding some words making the leap from page to silver screen
Rejoice that you even have source material

For me, it was getting caught up in the fantasy of a girl
Who, for a little while anyways, redefined my entire world
My life's atlas is still undergoing edits, so she gets some due credit
And like an inquisitive child testing out his hypothesis on a lightswitch
She’d disappear without a sound and wait around to just be found
Awesome, awful, top of the world, bottom of the barrel, there, and not

And... not.

...

I was foolish enough to be a rollercoaster seat who genuinely believed that
The person who chose me wasn’t merely in it for the ride
But for something inside
Some kind of feeling
Only I could have supplied

But at the end of the 60-second 60-mile per hour loops and swoops
The bars come up and the passengers leave
And the seat is left there wondering
“Didn’t they like having fun with me?”

I’ve been brainwashed
to this strange spot
of abstained thoughts
there’s been days when I praise God
But today’s not
I gotta claim faith debt and hit rock bottom
And do to my demons what the so-called faithful don’t
Talk about ‘em

So for now I’m gonna let her light go dark
Because I’ve been blinded to the fact
That when I’m attacked
I can still create my own spark

I can climb outta the hole and
Get back in control and
shrug em all off and
the only thing she deserves is a scoff and
a few verses dispersed with perverse curse words

...*****.

I’m diagnosing myself with fictitious symptom syndrome
This apparent disease squeezes by my dilating eyes and disconnects my
god ****** diaphragm and derails my dialect

But as long as my skeleton stands up straight
And I have stories to create
Then yeah, I think I’m okay with putting off sleep for the night
In exchange for believing that everything is all right
Because tomorrow morning, I’m waking up at 100%
With the intent to reinvent myself and represent myself
As a glasses free Clark Kent
Curlan Eiruc Nov 2018
There's something to the thoughts in my head that build a wall
right in front of
me, it screams

love love love love love
love love love love love
love love love love love
love love love love love

and seems to pulse with all that time has said

my hands reach out to touch it but I'm already on the other side

through apparition or self contradiction?

what did I feel at that time.

I turn to look back but all I see is darkness

there is a lightswitch in my eyes but a voice in my head says it's not yet the right moment

I turn back to look in front and there's more darkness ahead

there's a lightswitch in my eyes but my heart says

" let's rest instead "

so I sit down and look around,
there's wind but I feel nothing.
All there is that's burned into my mind is the wall that could've made me feel something
where I shut off the recorder in my brain and refused to let myself feel
maybe because if I had, I'd be sitting here with pain bleeding from my brain
I make out to be strong, but I know I'm the weakest, that's why the fight never stops and I'm always left lying in stills
A light comes on and I look back at the wall and it's not there.
What is reality and what is fantasy when both ceases to exist when I'm the most in despair

Where the emotions are the realest and it's hard to even take in some air
Where the world is the brightest with flashing colors of reality mixing with messed hair
everything is broken and needs to be repaired
but I turn my head to what's in front of me
light switch still turned on
It's still dark, there's not much of anything.
it's time to get up on that stage and sing
AS Oct 2011
Sometimes I sit, 18 and overheated
in the front room of the men's heritage house, where I
play someone else's guitar and twist my hair in my
palms like
yellow bundles of uncooked pasta I  might
break or
bend or
eat out of restlessness.
Tonight my sandal worked idly, pressing
its shadow into my leg when your electric
warm gaze flipped on
my lightswitch
and clicked. Out of my beige office boredom
came you - toothy.
But in high school you hit on my
best mate's sister, so, perched next to me on the
only plastic chair at the loudest bar in town, I crouched
down in a puddle of beer onto
raised toes and mentioned your name and he,
being British and emotionally constipated, muttered
something about you between football shrieks and cigarette drags,
sipped his Guiness and saw.
aj Sep 2016
I don't quite know where the lightswitch is, but I know that the dark is much more friendly.
    
      Sometimes I dance with a ribbon lacing my body, and it feels like the last day. The string gets tighter and tighter,

and I am cut into a million pieces, but it's so dark. So have I really fallen apart?

          In the dark, all sounds the same, and the whispers.  Yes, the whispers. They're hushed and urgent. Like water rushing into my lungs, they take root, and evaporate.

              I've been going up, up, up

and I still haven't see light.
Aia Jaynn Jan 2012
Silence.
The typing of a computer.
A piano next door.
The clicking of a mouse.
The tap running, the toilet flushing.
Distant chatter from the house across the street.
A car on the road.
Footsteps.
The slow ceasing of a motor engine.
A dog barking.
The setting down of a briefcase.
The removing of shoes.
A chair being dragged across the floor.
A hand, patting another hand.
A man, singing in the night time.
Bare feet against a staircase.
The door opening.
The lightswitch.
The door closing.
Silence.
N E Waters May 2013
This aching churns within me where happiness will bubble
T-minus 5...4...

My writing is ****. There's no art here anymore.
Sob
******* onto paper.

Everyone relates to interpretation, but inkblots have no soul.
Stains, waiting.
Sunlight cannot creep where darkness cannot grow.

Coin-flip. Mind-trip. Sad rag-time beat out, off beating
beat poet beats drums no one can hear.
There's nothing here.

Jeckyl wishes Hyde would hide, run away
never come back--
I'll never forget how much I lack
I've cracked, back fractures breaking
too much ecstasy--not enough--You're shaking

is that me?
can't be.

This desperation
this need to cling to SOMETHING
it's worse every time--it's cheap when I rhyme
I can't ride out these mistakes, can't fake that I'm ok

I seem to be doing fine.
but its one
or the other in my mind

-NOT SO YOU COULD THROW LIGHTSWITCH RAVES-

can't be saved
keep repeating
I wish I could be saved but
they never let me have my pony.
No white horses
No dreaming

So obsessed with this wheel I keep spinning
the only thing I seem to be able to do is change direction.

tedious, no?
It's what we're working with.

All I ever wanted was somebody to love me
now...when it comes to be
it just makes me more crazy
how can someone love me?
it doesn't make sense.
I go to rip off your mask and I take off your face--

surrounded by rotting skin
searching for a way to end
so how can I begin?
Eliza Hale Apr 2018
I walk on eggshells to not upset you,
but it's hard to tell if it is working,
because my feet have gone numb.
You terrify me to my very core.

I never know if today will be a day that you love me
or love me not.
I'm like a daisy and you pick my petals whenever you want to,
but those days that you don't,
I miss your hands on me.
Because it lets me know you still want me.

People say you're abusing my mind,
but I can't tell what is real and what is not anymore..
I don't know if I want to tell.
What if everything becomes clear
and I lose you.
What if everything becomes clear
and you don't think I'm worth it.
What if everything becomes clear
and I'm
all
alone.

My friends say I'll never be alone because I have them.
But will they kiss my nose when I'm being stubborn?
Will they put my on their shoulders and parade me around their house?
Will they kiss me softly when I just want to be close?
No.
Because they can't.

He's my lightswitch.
He brings my life light and joy,
but he controls when the darkness rains.

It terrifies me how in love I am with you.
It terrifies me how you could not love me at anytime.
It terrifies me how this could all be over tomorrow morning.
You terrify me.
But I let you, because you're my favorite nightmare.
Miki Nov 2014
And just like a lightswitch
Im over it. Over you.
Renae Feb 2017
A loving relationship
doesn't just happen
It's not like flipping on a lightswitch


Commitment is a process
a wedding ceremony
A promise

Emotions may lead us
Though understanding, sharing our lives
Is hard work & compromise

Communication in dialogue
Is the key
Experiencing true love
Is our own

Love should start romantic
A gust of exitement sweeps us off our feet!
Naturally

The truest test of love
Will come from willingness
To share in the delights of life;
negotiating the bumps in the road

A mutual exchange of ideas,
any relationship
is the needs and experiences
of two people

Face misunderstanding
open and receptive with respect!

Navigate even the most difficult situations.
Take a deep breath, hold them
in a space of love,
Listen fully with all of your heart

A greater level
of personal transformation begins,
Learning powerful lessons
about ourselves.
Sasha Ross Nov 2012
think of the earth after the fall of man
or some other cliché about desolate landscapes
stark and clean and sad and alone
piles waist deep
standing in your driveway
the rubber in my chucks is frozen
and we can’t figure out how your broken-down truck is what’s blocking me in
it’s 3:42AM
(I made that time up)
the one light is from your neighbor’s porch
only on the way down
can we see how the ice expands the cracks in the pavement
the sky is falling
but not really
because up there it is empty, unlit closet, soul-crushing, run for the lightswitch black
and down here it is packed full, bare lightbulb, fresh coat of paint white
and it fills me up the way the ocean or the sun does
for people who don’t spend half their years covered in ice
k e i Aug 2020
the hamper’s starting to spill, week-old clothes pooling on the floor. the sink’s in need of getting drained, rotten food debris floating in mucky dishwater. dried leaves await to be picked out from the plants by the kitchen window. parcels are left unopened by the porch. notifications simultaneously ping as i turn on my phone, urgent messages left unreplied.

the room’s ever bathed in the dark, light unable to filter through as twilight starts, time i’d remain unaware of had my alarm not gone off. i’ve gotten by with chips for three days now, the 1L soda bottle nearly empty. a week ago i was supposed to start working on a project due two days from now i’ve gotten so far as mapping out a concept but i’m still looking for the will to tick off step one;
the will to get up, make the bed, put on clothes that aren’t rumpled or three-day-old like these jeans that i still have on.

i try to give myself another one of my “TEDtalks”, a rundown analyzation of things to go through how i’ve arrived to this colossally sinking feeling. but all that my mouth can coherently gather are year-long sighs. the teddybears propped by the corner of my bed, their black beaded eyes seem to hold more life, their stitched smiles actually formed with meaning. my blanket rests by the corner all wrinkled but here i am, sharing one with the dull melancholy dwelling in each heartbeat, babying it. i should brush it off but it clings, like the remnants of stickers you’ve placed on your first ever guitar that remains up to this day.

three days ago i was doing fine, not duly elated like a holiday’s thrill but i was able to joke around, go out, fulfill plans, cope with what the day throws, go home, satisfyingly crack my knuckles at the end of the night. now all the plans have stopped being sublime, “what’s even the point?” the only thing i can offer when they make themselves known.

this isn’t new, sliding in its way effortlessly into routine from time to time but each time it occurs i still get stupefied. like a sailor going down a shipwreck’s trail yet all i do is fling my lifevest off the faraway shore. like trying to find the lightswitch in my bedroom even when there are no lightbulbs installed. like some modus operandi where they hypnotise you and i find myself caught in a trance unable to break free even though i’m well aware of that sort of scheme firsthand.

i catch myself staring at the blackholes growing out from fissures in the walls. it turns into a staring contest dragging on for i don’t know, hours. i don’t know how long truly as clock work becomes fast-paced, mechanical, submerged in space.

alas, the aftermath dawns on in the early hours, ensuing the breakage of a curse years’-worth; i step out, unused to the halo of light. dewdrops form on orchid trees as the city fervently sleeps. the fog has miraculously lifted. relief follows through.
this was inspired by the song daylily by movements
PelicanDeath Jun 2015
1
the door clasps
dry whispers
echo down
the dusty dark
2
the moon
has a fingernail's edge
my neighbor sings a song
to his wife
mouth full of cotton
3
the lightswitch
clicks upwards
the light above hesitates
4
i've forgotten
how lovely
my cats are
Dead Lock Jun 2015
There is something powerful about the night
There is something terrorizing about the dark
No matter how much history and knowledge we gather
We are still terrified if we are to small to reach the lightswitch
RJP May 2019
Hospitable welcome exploited.
There's a colonial scent in the hotel
And they say Islamists are peadophiles

The mirror on the borderline dictates fate:
Err we’re not letting them in!
Meanwhile

Our guys are innocent its fake news.
Meanwhile
Faces harden into hurting for a life

Time wastes away any life they might’ve met,
The shining bill that got them into bed
Perpetually puts it all to bed.

The Naked Emperor
Switches the lightswitch:
Dark abyss dark abyss  

Float into the sky
Submerge in a cloud
Watch Judith merrily

Chat to Aristotle
About the beauty of flies
That ripened your summer street air.

Ignore the clog of your throat.
Struggle struggle struggle for breath
Breathless sound whispers
That word:
emm Aug 2018
the blood on the lightswitch causes me to shudder.

you never learn, do you?
olivia Oct 2019
flicked down and dark
lightswitch
up
up
away
head in the clouds
straining to crane my neck
around
back to you
checking
to see if you're there

but when I see you
I'm a burning sun
although I'm only the moon
inconstant and dark and dull
but you light me up
you flick me on and up

I imagine you touching me
touching you, touching me
I know I'd only quiver
I'd shake
an earthquake
my thighs are vibrating
as I'm waiting
waiting
waiting

how can I miss something I've never had

somehow I already want more

more of you and more of me

but mostly more of you and me
#love
Alexandria Hope Apr 2018
She was a girl who listened to music boxes and dreamed of ships, stars, old country lanes. A girl who kissed gin and twisted ponytails in and out while studying her pupils with the lightswitch up, down, up, just as erratically as with her hair as her teeth set on edge trying to think of unfathomable words. Melodies whose names simply did not exist no matter how she tried to pin them down and press them for perfume.

She didn’t belong to the recently cleaned room she called hers, the term home not resonating. The house in Canada, not home. The house in Duncanville, TX, not home. Not the estate in her favorite book, no house belonging to a friend, no dream limbo, no college. Tormented by the feeling there was something there, in her reach but slipping out like oil. It felt like having a long distance affair with someone who, through lack of proper documentation in any census, simply did not exist. The pained, intimate knowledge of the characters in her head, of the places she’d only researched. If she opened her eyes a little wider, turned her head to a shadow quicker, took a side road, they’d be there. She’d forget why she ever doubted, and then, accompanied by the slow setting relief that she belonged somewhere, she’d smile easy and drop the stitch in her forehead. Somehow she supposed it was the same for everyone.

Everyone must be incredibly lonely, she thought. Driving the slow, dingy roads home. The balance between dry painful eyes and the darkness folded around the coarse street lamps found comfort contingent on perception. The familiar 40-minute crawl from town to town to home was wearing her gentleness thin.

So she lifted the newly washed sheets and took one last gaze out at the street lamps and glass for the day. Her heart had no place in it.
saige Mar 2018
his dignity went missing in action
turned out to be
a prisoner of war

to hoax a virtue, she fed him champagne from her palms
there on the rose garden battleground
then chained him with her finger
strangled him with affections
aphrodisiacs laced with venom

that girl spun epic tales
everything a knight could dream to
wail drunk from

a lightswitch, is how she played
damsel to tyrant
and my brother, built of sheer trust
tripped for every bit of it
threw his heart her way
she ducked, unbeknownst to him
and love was all they spoke of
her's flat, his mountainous
and he glowed for a while
open arms and skies and woes
let pride fledge from the windows to his soul

of course, she sported pomposity
as if it were a twee, fluffy keychain
brassily bouncing against her candy apple carriage
modeled impudence like another bangle on her bronze wrist
what a mess of smacking lips and pursing pouts
batting caterpillar lashes, same as cracking whips
twirling obsidian curls with magenta claws
because everyone knows straw spins itself to gold
then alas, to black

mercy, he rooted for her
and boy, she ran with that
sprayed spite like perfume
spewed crooked olive branches and lucky clovers
elixirs of brown sugar and sweet pea until she was a dead ringer for
the cover of vogue magazine
glossy, bold, paper-thin and ****
then gone
or that gaudy billboard near exit ten
she posed like a lady of the night
but all he noticed was a princess
what a witch
what a sweet, stupid prince

nonetheless, my baby brother loves her
even after she's whittled him down
to a welcome mat for high heels to flounce over
'cause she can't have that trail of filth catch up to her
so in her wake
my best friend, my closest kin
sacrifices half his sanity
to cover her tracks
as he waits for
whichever comes first
his dignity, or her
to come crawling back
David Jul 2015
John:
Is this your first Job since finished education?

These words are spoken in a monotone, tired, almost-bitter manner by a balding man whose age is somewhere vaguely over 45. The man is wearing glasses and is at least 50 pounds over his BMI. On the mans plain, forgettable white shirt, next to his plain black tie, hangs a name-tag, written with the words: "JOHN - CLEANING STAFF MANAGER". Behind JOHN is a wooden door which has a plaque attached to it, which reads: "CLEANING STAFF ROOM."

Ross:
Actually...

The man answering John's question is the complete polar opposite to John. He looks almost like a retired rockstar, or a retired wannabe rockstar, or a wannabe retired rockstar; he has long hair, a perfectly trimmed beard, and folded sunglasses in his jacket pocket. His age is somewhere over 30, and he seems to be unaware of that fact -or perhaps would rather be unaware.- On the table that he sits at, facing John and the wooden door, lies a piece of paper which reads: "Ross Lewis - Application form" only about a third of the paper has been typed on.

Ross:
Actually,I never finished High school.

John looks up from the question sheet he's holding and glances at Ross blankly, judgingly.

These two men have nothing whatsoever in common, except that circumstance has led them both into the same room. They look like they belong on two different branches of the evolutionary tree.

John: So, what have you been doing for the last...

John pauses to look at a piece of paper behind his question sheet, then looks back up Ross.

John: ...10 years?

What have I been doing? Ross thinks to himself. what the ******* have you been doing for the past 10 years, John?" Is what he wanted to ask.
John had no idea what kind of things Ross had been up to. While John was getting up and going to his boring job every morning, and coming home to his boring wife who probably wouldnt even put out, and then trying to be a father to his kids who hate him; Ross was living the life. A life of adventure, excitement: a life that John would be scared of. John didn't know about the gigs, the afterparties, the tour in ireland, or the one groupie Ross had that turned out to be a guy but Ross was still thrilled about it.
No, John didn't know.

Ross begins to answer, refraining from the outburst that he feels like having.

Ross:
Well, have you ever heard of The Rolling Cans?

Johns reply is a blank stare.

Ross:
Well,we won a local battle of the bands competition in 2000, then went onto record our first album. For a few years we opened for some pretty big bands.

Ross stops himself for a moment, recalling one of the 'big' bands.

Ross:
Did you ever hear about The lampshade death squad?

John shrugs, clearly not knowing who Ross is referring to; which isn't too much of a surprise, Ross thinks, John probably lives under a rock, and will die under it.

Ross:
Anyway, we opened for them. Then we just toured around, really; promoting the album, and all that. Just band stuff, and, well...

Ross stops again for a moment, this time it's because he's realised how uninterested and almost annoyed John seems at hearing this.John doesn't even try to fake interest.

Ross:
Well, John, we decided to break up after that, but if we had just kept going..."

Ross struggles to finish the sentence. He is forgetting where he is now after memories of his time in the band, and all his hopes and dreams that were crushed, flood back to him. He really feels like he was supposed to make it.

Ross:
Everyone thought we were really good, you know? And if we had just..

There is a short silence as Ross stares through John, through the door, into nothing; as if talking to himself. John faux-empathetically nods and thus brings Ross back to the room.

John:
We usually get back to applicants within 2 weeks.

Ross nods and smiles, with a sense of embarrassment and guilt, like he's just been told his time is up by a therapist.




end

Ross's slumped head rests in his hands as he sits in the darkness of his lounge. The TV has lost signal and is showing a static picture. There is a bottle of some prescription drugs and a bottle of whiskey lying on the coffee table in front of him. He raises his head and looks at the tv blankly before closing his eyes. He forces himself to get up and walk out the room, but on his way he is stops in the hallway, paralysed. hes staring at a door which leads to another room. A room he is almost surprised to know exists. He inches closer to the door, almost cautiously, before opening it, entering, then turning on the light to reveal a room full musical equipment and band posters. he looks around the room, sorrowfully. This room reminds him of hs failure. He turns to a les paul guitar which hangs on the wall, moving closer to it, he looks at it, admiring its slick contours. His eyes look down the neck until he reaches the pickups, he stops there, seeing his own distraught eyes in the reflection of the pickup. Whilst Ross continues to stair into his own eyes, a knock on the door is heard. The door is shown with a plaque of a 'star' pinned to it. Ross is shown again, just turning his head away from the door to see his himself in the reflection of a dressing room mirror. Ross is all made up and no longer in his pajamas. The door swings ajar and Steve the drummer skips in with his drum sticks in hand.

Steve:
Rozza. Do you want to keep L.A. waiting, man? Wouldn't be the best start to our American tour.

Steve pauses and looks at Ross, with Ross looking at him through the reflection of the mirror.

Steve:
You alright man?

Ross now turns to face Steve. Looking relieved, like he has just woken from a bad dream in the comfort of his bed. He nods at Steve.

Ross:
Yeah, I'm alright.It's just that, I was just thinking, you know, like: What the hell would my life be i wasnt doing this?

Steve looks a little quizzical but smiles nonetheless.

Steve:
Well, believe it man. We did it.

Steve looks up  and gestures to the sound of the audience cheering from the ceiling.

Steve:
And we're on.

Ross grins stupidly, jolts towards his Les Paul guitar, grabs it, then follows Steve out the door, they jump up the stairs as the dressing room doors shuts. A moment later, the sounds of the cheering grow much louder, indicating the band is now on stage.

END



--------------------------------------------------­------------------------------
movie could end here but alternatively...

The amp is shown being switched on, and ross thrown the guitar strap over himself and standing there with the guitar. he takes a deep breath and attempts to play a chord, but the guitar is horribly out of tune. He then switcches the amp off and puts the guitar dowwn and the movie goes off at the click of the lightswitch.
all throughout the story ross avoids his actul room, only sleeping in the small front room. At the end he is shown entering the roo, which is full of band posters, musical instruments, pictures of the band, etc, and john stairs at a guitar hanging on the wall, then tries to play a chord but its badly out of tune, he puts it back on the wall before walking out.
Sean Patrick Armstrong Mar 27
TITLE

Self banished down crusty cave

reaching for the undenyable

Bridged hoping as a wounded defender,

The left arm naked, convexd

while the right is sunken casually,

eventually, patiently falling apart

haven't the strength of mind to argue otherwise

the lighted buddhist mask reveals itself, solidarity, or double false

only mindful as a shipwrecked beach ***

a stick in the sand and thankful for fruit flies

perhaps the ultimate bite has been taken, and for the use of stapled source it rejuvinates gradually, crystal liquid, gumball machine

like its underbelly is welcome, alwalys flipping like a lightswitch for kicks

a hot *** of water

or flix in a camera

perminantly borded to the take-out reason quiz

or constantly switching between dinner, lunch, and breakfast

anyways, misunderstood

as a leafing nightstand bible
Jay earnest May 2020
The lightswitch turns off, and so do the shadows that illuminate treachery in my soul.

good   night,
and sweet dreams to the
   ants that cover my bedside cookies. the milk is half
drunk
Ranita Oct 2021
Two sides, one coin
Lightswitch, on again, off again
Surrounded by decisions my own soul cannot face
Desperate to never be alone
So desperate I hate myself for it
Yearning to be okay,
Never okay
Sick to my stomach imagining myself trying to be something
Hoping there’s someone I’m allowed to follow
So little to offer because I’m too broken to love right
Terrified of being too small, while being too small to try to be bigger
I. Cannot. Do. It.

What kind of life can someone like me live?

Why force me to be alone

What are you doing to me
I am soft
And my heart is strong.

There is joy here, I tell you.

These are mournful times, I guess.
They say this isn’t a time for poets.
They say it loudly and often.

———

I walk the dog and unfocus my thoughts
Until it is only the dog and the sky and the street
And the houses and the pulling of the leash
And picking up the dog ****
And the feel of the dry dead leaves under my boots.

There is joy here, I tell you.
You don’t believe me.

It’s okay, I understand.
My grassy body has been devoured, too,
and my sweet breath stolen by the stink of the times.
I dare not speak of the rot for fear it will contaminate our sacred air.
Foolish, I know, to hang a curtain and call it a shield.

Still, I am soft
And my heart is strong.

———

I find myself staring out the window more than I used to,
Memorizing the backyard.

There’s an owl who lives in the towering evergreen right outside the nursery,
(A good omen, probably. I haven’t heard otherwise.)
That tree is said to have been a Christmas tree way back when,
now standing sentinel,
guarding the child who sleeps in its shade.

I purposely do not clean the handprint above the lightswitch in the hallway.
Its hand long gone,
A baker, her family said. The hand that planted our tree.

There is joy here, I tell you.
A weapon of defiance.
This isn’t a time for poets, they say.
They say it loudly and often.

And still, I am soft
And my heart is strong.
I sharpen my pen
And wait for the battles to come.

— The End —