"mistakenly" poems
In the digital l-and
We l-ive in
Mistakenly automatic
One pointing at a chest of tools
Eyes on i
No soul can tell a part a weakling metal
Robots robbing robbers rich
T-error terrifying t-errorists
Artist gods and goddesses
Sharing platform to unleashed gifts
Mint hue bubbles squeak
Fizzy dizzy violet haze
World head to toes spins
Any day it spins coins in change
A quiet girl is sinister
Siren of mystery or future
Robot is your mirror
Peach chin with teeth filter
No innocence and glitter litter
Guilty until proven the latter
A quiet girl a terrorist
Error mouths terror twist
Terrorist from the orient
They hide in between every end
Disguises they cover in
Racist as problem solving
Smile girl watch
A fake smile and eyes
Skin of steel so is her
Heart made alloy
How it blazes to the touch when heated
Oh it bites fingertips as it's cold
Hair resting on the curve of her spine
A woman's hair only breaks if it tries to grow
What she said
Tell me if you can tell us a part
Warning tears borne from her crooked eyes
Robot and soul
Terrorists from t-errorists
No soul knows either
Tattoos or memory shall identify you
May 18, 2018
May 18, 2018 at 4:21 AM UTC
The drug
The high
The confusion
The craving
The withdrawal
The brain feels overwhelmed
The noise creates chaos in my mind
The silence I seek
The alone time I need
The anxiety kicks in
Struggling to breathe...
Overthinking creates an addiction, to the things that cause mind suppression.
My mind is noisy, with thoughts of occurrences that have happened, and some not.
I try not to depress myself, but mistakenly think too far in the future, then get disappointed because expectations have not been reached.
Busy, distracted, chaotic, and unfocused.
I reach no end to where my mind goes...
A path of little thoughts that creates an explosion and downfall.
I crave the drugs to give my mind a rest.
To give it a sense of peacefulness...
I have failed lifes tests.
Tense, tight, my mind implodes.
Burn my thoughts and bury them in ashed coal.
Cannot sleep
Cannot close my eyes
Always in a state of overthinking...
Like my brain is constantly blinking
Nov 7, 2016
Nov 7, 2016 at 10:00 AM UTC
december 2011:
soulmates? something out of a fairytale!
handsome Prince Charming and the sweet Princess
are unlikely childhood sweethearts
their scripted fate tucked away under my bed.
april 2012:
soulmates? it’s just like in the fairytales.
we flirted with chance but knelt on destiny
my eyes were bright and wide as
true love’s first kiss hangs promised in the air.
april 2013:
soulmates? the fairytale wasn’t mine.
I tried to fill in the gaps with ice cream and picnics
but we were a jigsaw puzzle missing half its pieces.
don’t worry, I thought, I am still so very young.
july 2013:
soulmates? the fairytale forgotten
I threw myself at people hardly worth the toss
mistakenly discarding pieces of myself
I didn’t expect to need later
november 2013:
soulmates? a fairytale of treachery.
you sleeping beauty, wide awake
I tore myself to shreds on your wall of thorns
tread carefully, for fate is a dangerous game.
january 2014:
soulmates? a fairytale, for now
I cast that suffocating doctrine out of my mind
frozen in time, I decided now was what mattered
a love like one I’d never felt before beckoned
may 2014:
soulmates? a fairytale assured
I don’t know what the future holds, or how my story will unfold.
happiness is everything and care is not for this world.
love is abounding and soulmates can wait.
october 2014:
soulmates? they belong in fairytales.
chipped and damaged hearts don’t become more whole
just by finding comfort in another broken soul.
all the world’s a playground
these grown-up children
just playing pretend
because nothing’s really meant to be
after all.
Oct 31, 2014
Oct 31, 2014 at 8:48 PM UTC
Not an enigmatic smile
Like the constipated, condescending smirk
Adorning, and inexplicably adored, on the Mona Lisa's smug face;
But a smile to justify God's existence;
A smile that, when dazzlingly bestowed
Upon one fortunate soul, caught rabbit-like in its
Wondrous radiance, infinitesimally, and cumulatively,
Increases the World's joy. Where every living thing -
Whatever exists on the planet, imperceptibly hums
To a new, more celestial pitch -
An effervescent vibration celebrating Life's mysteries:
A reason for existence.
It's a smile to make an Alchemist cry -
Turning a leaden heart to gold in an instant.
It's a smile to make a mediocre poet struggle
To articulate an adequate description
Using all the hyperbole, simile and metaphor at his limited disposal.
Inestimably more brilliant, and more valuable,
Than the most flawless diamond ever found -
And, perhaps, just as rare.
Thankfully, a renewable resource,
Enabled to enlighten and heat
The recesses of any beneficiary's
Heart and invigorate their soul.
Helen may have caused a thousand ships to sail,
Destroying a nation as a consequence;
And Cleopatra nearly caused the collapse of an Empire;
But Tao's smile, unleashed in all its glory
Could melt the Antarctic ice-sheet -
Drowning us all in its magnificence.
Mayan's have a myth that states such a smile
Only comes around once every twelve thousand years,
In the Great Galactic turning.
Einstein's General Theory of Relativity
Is often mistakenly considered to concern gravity,
But is, in fact, concerned with one's relative position
To Tao's smile - an inescapable vortex of pleasure.
No music conceived of the fabled Celestial Spheres
Compares to the silent, ethereal harmonies tattooing my heart
Whenever, beacon-like, that smile flashes fleetingly in my direction.
And Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle has not a Quantum core,
But revolves around the statistical uncertainty of being blessed
With the ephemeral thrill of a benign grim.
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 9:49 AM UTC
You are a ghost, or
a spectral anomaly;
Appearing out of thin air,
while I am 2 hands and 7 minutes
into a video game. You are
a haunt, with no teeth,
no fear, no presence.
Not particularly interesting.
You absolved yourself from
conversation with,
"Have fun with your video game",
to which I replied, "you too",
mistakenly.
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 1:45 PM UTC
I simply cannot wait,
until the internet
turns public favor
against religion.
In its place,
the medium that
enables globalization
will exalt science.
We will not fear
being wrong.
Instead,
we will embrace
skeptical thinking,
and live according to
a collective consensus
that is based in truth,
and not in fear.
The problem lies
not with your
personal connection
to the cosmos,
but with the
established doctrine
orchestrated by the elite.
Parables and allegory
twisted by the desperation
of power hungry men.
Stories that offer
reasonable moral lessons,
but are mistakenly perceived
to be literal truth.
Religion continues to
justify acts of prejudice
and violence,
in the name of
storybook characters.
We must rise above
our iron age fairy tales.
Heed the positive lessons,
relinquish our fear of death,
and learn to exist
with an open mind.
Survival depends not
on who is the strongest
or who has the best story,
but rather upon a species
willingness and capacity
to adapt and modify
their behavior.
Science is our tool.
It can save us
from ourselves.
It is a collective enterprise
based upon critical analysis
and the constant pursuit of the
cold, hard truth.
We should not fear
what we discover.
For knowledge can be
spiritually fulfilling.
The real beauty of truth
based upon empirical evidence,
is that even if you do not want
to believe it,
it remains true.
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 3:20 AM UTC
Paul Johnson was a mad psychopath.
He had killed hundreds of women in his life all by himself.
He never used any tools to **** He barehandedly killed those women.
His ex-girlfriend was the reason why he killed.
She had ran away with his brother leaving him hurt so bad like crazy.
His ex-girlfriend was a beautiful blonde.
He chased them for years.
When he found them he brutally killed them.
He mutilated the poor girl into little slices.
He beheaded and castrated his brother.
Then he cast their remains into fire.
Ever since then he had never stopped killing.
His victims were always women aged between 25 and 30.
They're always blonde and blue-eyed.
He strangled them all with his hands before he buried them in his basement.
One day he mistakenly killed a brunette who was wearing a blonde wig and .
He was so startled that he stopped killing and soon after hanged himself
His mother was a beautiful brunette.
Dec 7, 2010
Dec 7, 2010 at 8:09 AM UTC
In a last ditch effort, I
Spread myself thin, mistakenly
Dreaming up elephant scenarios.
Are you for real?
Because I think you just wished
Yourself into existence
Like a wooden puppet
With an existential nose.
Delightfully androgynous hobos
Light my days up
But I have no extra cash!
I am going to the races today
And I must bet on the winning horse.
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 4:14 AM UTC
What will the news say about the girl
dark skinned and frail in your arms
removed from warmth in the dark of night
as means of debt collection?
Impact
Car wreck
Dim teeth
To dash
Retreat
Through pain
In rain
For her
protection
Steal back living, stolen property
mistakenly signed away
for the means of living, eternal
by backs reset to zero.
It's all right, honey, I'm here to save you
She'll turn white before the media
you've known since your acceptance
money hides the child in its green blades
pulled through kept grass hiding glass.
It's all right, honey, They'll keep you sleeping
Chopper
Blade cut
Touchdown
Escape
Brown face
Crying
Screaming
Breathless
Reaching
For his Blood
Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 8:52 AM UTC
i am convinced now that
no passion exists
like that between
a man and his craft.
no love
like the love for solitude,
by which one can enter
a world all his own,
and plunge to its unfathomable depths,
carelessly disregarding his return.
no quest otherwise compares-
oh how could it?
when countless years of history
can never be retold,
never be reenacted
with different players and different settings?
a man plays a role for
a day, a month, a year, a decade,
then withers in the sun, a palm in the desert.
no amount of memories can be remade,
and no amount of care is remembered.
he is destined only to be vessel of loneliness
for others to mistakenly join and unjoin.
but in his craft
a man loses himself.
he has only his love to invest
and only his love to be returned.
when stricken with failure
he selfishly laps it all up,
gathers it close to his heart,
and holds it as treasure, locked and filed.
he searches for the bottom with lighted torch,
the end with relentless fervor,
finds no evil along the way to be a hindrance,
has no expectation dashed and destroyed.
his eagerness for success drives him deeper.
his delusions of grandeur,
perpetually emboldened.
come find me, i am waiting for you
the solitude beckons him into its fissure,
the cleft in the crust of civilization,
indescribable and hardly intelligible to others.
yet its perfection is infinite as the stars are remote.
with enthusiasm does a man pursue that perfection,
does he pray to be with that god,
Lord of his life and Giver of his breath.
he is a post for flags to be hung,
seen only by those who wander the same mountains,
searching for a chasm of their own.
he is unaided in his walk with the stars,
windowless and guided by celestial phosphorescence.
a man needs silence,
darkness beneath his eyelids,
and space in his bed to breathe.
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 2:18 PM UTC
dear future partner,
i am sorry to inform you that you can’t run your fingers through my hair
it isn’t silky or smooth like a tall white girl in a brightly colored Garnier commercial
but try running through the fields of mind,
approach gently at each thought that greets you
touch sweetly, for every dream you unfold is delicate, easily molded by those who refuse to slow down for me
glide carefully as you discover unwanted spots in my brain, left by other travelers who I mistakenly allowed to begin a journey within me
you can’t run your fingers through my hair,
but you can traverse freely through my memories as they roll off of my tongue and onto yours
feel the wind rush past my ears as my lips take you back through time and space until your own mind begins to latch onto memories of mine.
a child on a swing. kicking back her legs and greeting the sky with a smile, unknowing and unfearing of all obstacles ahead of her.
you can’t run your fingers through my hair without pulling back a weird mixture of coconut oil, leave in conditioner, and whatever product is still there before wash day
but run your hands carefully on my skin
listen to the sounds of my scars as they whisper stories unable to escape my throat
appreciate the too soft or too rough, too loose or too tough parts of my body as they welcome you to me
and when it seems as if there’s no running left, come close.
lay your head on my chest; feel me rise and fall
as I try to my fingers through you.
Jun 27, 2018
Jun 27, 2018 at 10:02 AM UTC
i am a Gemini.
the twins,
the two faces.
people mistakenly me as the most unstable sign.
actually, it depends on
their action.
if you caught my attention,
you will know by my
loud dolphin laughter,
or by my random wide smile.
it means that you got my respect.
if you disgust me,
you can notice it by the
way i am so quiet around,
and by the ***** that you
will never get, ever.
i will be that quiet girl,
you are going to think that
i am a cold ***** who
does not even care about
your existence,
well,
it is because i do not want
to waste my precious time to deal with
whatever you do.
if i am into you,
you are going to see me shaking,
you are going to feel that i am
so nervous around you,
you are going to see my fast
transformations from the introverted
type of human, to the annoying extrovert.
i will start the conversation,
and make sure it will keep going.
if i am in love with you,
you will know it by the joke i tell, that does not funny at all.
i will randomly kiss you in front of
many people without giving a single care about their judgements.
i will rub your back, even when i am sleepy.
you will be the one, and only exception.
i will break down my walls for you
simply because,
i am in love with you.
Oct 30, 2018
Oct 30, 2018 at 11:03 PM UTC
fueled by alcohol
swollen emotions,
the age of consent
and mistakenly stuck doors
the mutual understanding that comes with a singular passion
singular desire
just one time
but when the clock chimes
1:45
and curfewed kisses are few
you take my hands and sing
"i want to know you"
my fingers weave along my glowing screen
praying your given digits will be well received
and when my phone buzzes
i sigh
for i had tried to not let doubt cloud my mind
but i did not know you yet
and it rarely happens like this
when the clock chimes
6:00 Am
my rosy cheeks wait in the cold mist
a note on the table excusing my absence
a pale faced taxi driver goes through the required motions
to take me to your warm lips
with two hours of sleep
your makeshift bed is the port in a storm
and your slight frame is the sort that initially misleads
but it is powerful and exceeds expectations
the sweet sharing of bad puns
disney songs
and the unexpected "i love you"
the "you have beautiful eyes"
and the mess that is my hair do
i wake you with a warm hand to the hip
and a quick kiss on the lip
reassures me it was the right thing to do
the twang of ukulele
and its warm wood brush over my breast
its hard form against my warm chest
you sing for me
and the poetry that traverses your lips is magic
though slight
you have no trouble maneuvering through my wide rivers
and hidden valleys
my small forests
you flip me with ease
a playful tease
tracing racing and running
soon warm water runs over our shadowy forms
because though forever may be spent in bed
the real world obligates us to move
to shower
in our travels we find ourselves caught in drizzly public transportation
making our way to the place of your occupation
though we are eating for two
you order three breakfasts
making up for the meal missed
replaced with loving
surrounded by kissing
you drink coffee
a quick pick-me-up
i drink a london fog
to remind me of the sleepy morning
and a quick peck to the lips reminds me of the rest
a test of my willpower
my power to resist taking you then and there
though that may have resulted in your termination
so i resist my considered temptation
i take a slight deviation
for every story must end
every sentence
no matter how much love
we must wait for blood
because every hook up,
every sentence
must end with a period.
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 4:08 AM UTC
Alright Jezebel is that not who you are? How much of your soul are you going to sell? With your chest pushed high and your **** in the air. With the smile you bare and the wink you blink. The fruit for the trick to get their fix behind blind eyes. Your secrets hidden away through your faults beauty and enticement. A walk that attracts nothing but the **** You put your self on the proverbial block. Though on the outside you converted and claim outwardly to the king of kings God and Christ. Though believe like a Pharisee. A marionette innocents for all to see.
Yet even a Pharisee doesn't hold the many lies you've told. For even they are the best known hypocrites that Christ warned and spoke against. Telling everyone your married, or so you say with a bold face. Yet you go out at night to collect your lies by spreading your thighs for material and lust. Helping to destroy families to commit adultery with theirs and your own. You lost your Grace and the Holy Spirit depart. Now you gain worldly excitement and shame. Living your life amongst the dogs. In a fad life style fed to you. Taking it as wholesome, knowing better. So it is to be said your like a lost little Lam on your way to self destruction. Without a care of the afflictions. You allow yourself to be used like a Devils tool, yet tell yourself your not a toy.. May it go to show you are becoming Lucifer's proprietary embodiment. Only to think you have the upper hand.
Shown by your eyes that is a window to the soul exposing wickedness!
Though on the deep inside is there not yet another cloak?? Do you not cry at night with heavy sorrow when you look in the mirror for the truth to be whole and despise the girl you have yet let blossom to become the ultimate woman that is there. Pretending to be some one your not. So you are a lantern in need of a new candle wanting to be rekindled. How cold you must be to have so many layers. But that's what you get when you become a player. A sweet and sour flavor. You say "Don't Hate!" Though to walk up right on the path of truth would attract in your self a better person. Why not accept your self for the real you. The one mistakenly hidden so deep inside. Is that not who you are? Instead you bed with the heartless desires you give your self too to become a trophy. The mold you have created of yourself only mocks at the real you. The inner you fading and becoming transparent. Now with out a care you have become fake, vile and foul. Yes he who has no sin cast the first stone. So it should not be thrown. Heavenly Father I pray for her!!!
Jul 13, 2011
Jul 13, 2011 at 2:17 PM UTC
Little unforgivable creature now.
Grime of the Scottsdale mellow.
I never belonged here;
not in this magnificent, foreign place
where they grew;
not in the calm and relaxation
their family, wealth, and happiness offered.
Not me.
Family history: poor and dysfunctional.
Personal background: self-destructive and anxious.
Still I was offered an opportunity
to become someone better,
a step up from the wasteland I knew,
and most importantly,
a new home without memories.
I clung to this safe haven
and hid myself away.
thinking I was clean,
I built walls in my pretty new refuge
to keep the tarnish away.
I wasn't clean then.
I'm not now.
I brought this filth with me,
under my nails and in my clothes,
in my memories and between my toes.
It festered and multiplied,
perfecting this chaos in time.
Now again, I seek escape,
from all these mistakes
that were made along the way,
to any foreign world...
or sanctum without a cage.
I thought I was better than this!
...And yet like a snail,
I have left a trail of slime
all while mistakenly thinking
I was leaving it behind.
.
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 7:18 PM UTC
Men of few words are the best men
Shakespeare's Henry V
(Act 3 Scene 2. Line 41)
yet men still
pleasure themselves oft,
the music of their voices
soothes their conscience,
even as it irritates
those unchosen few
who must deign
to listen to the
ration of their excuses.
I fare not well
in this endeavor,
for as poet and
recorder of all that be
known as human folly,
more is always best
or at least, better!
for no man knows
the limits of his import,
his web of self-deception
cast far and wide,
for it must perforce
hold him aloft,
on all the tissued lies
he hath convinced himself
to be the absolute truth,
and nothing but...
so let us ascribe
to those fools
who call themselves
mistakenly, men
a smokey, fleeting honour,
for many words
they do employ to
plead their case,
proving well in
a fashion most
contrary and contradictory
that their worth is
worst, when they speak
long and eloquent of their
vainglorious heroics and medals,
watch their words ascend,
and like smoke, forever disappear.
that is why, young reader,
heed the lesson of the
American cowboys
who say little,
but walk tall,
and sit straight
in the saddle,
and sing consoling songs of
lonesome love around the
dying fire.
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 2:14 AM UTC
In the midst of reprimanding my clumsiness, I suddenly fell captive to the enchanting beauty of the falling speckles of reflective light. Gracefully they swayed like iridescent snowflakes on a serene winter morning. I stood mesmerized by the overwhelming splendor before my eyes and unaware of the mess I had just created. In the blink of an eye, mistakenly spilling a tube of glitter transformed into a spellbinding experience of aesthetic appreciation.
Oct 14, 2011
Oct 14, 2011 at 10:09 PM UTC
It took a hastily-made hangman puzzle
to **** you, a present-day friend
of mine to simply whisper
that three-letter word
as if she were restating the gospel.
Ironic, then, that as you were dying,
I felt an era-long noose loosening.
I remember finding skin pores
mistakenly labelled as sinkholes,
every confession warranting
a "believe me, we knew" after the other.
If you had spent any more time,
an indefinite amount of days
deciding to stay lurking
in the corners of the closet,
out there in the rafters
where no one could hear you
whispering poison into my gut reactions,
I might have sprouted
a kamikaze bloodline,
a raucous rhythm in the ranks
cackling louder with each year
of silence, each span of secrecy.
Although your plastic inflection
vanished with a collective
unlocking of the joints,
your cryptic sentiment still loiters
while my common sense is sleeping,
and I remember to repeat,
three times like Dorothy,
that moment I could only
be my true self on paper.
Sep 12, 2011
Sep 12, 2011 at 4:40 AM UTC
You always insisted
That
"You"
Was a proper pronoun
But
That
"We"
was not
This clears up
Much of the
Mis-identification
I had
Mistakenly
Believed
About
Love
Jun 12, 2011
Jun 12, 2011 at 9:35 PM UTC
It started out as a flame
Flickering
Dancing off a matchstick that was an idea.
It kindled an idea to help renew,
To regenerate what was once lost.
The fire grew
And with it
A passion that could not be extinguished.
The warmth was welcomed by her body
A body so cold
So helpless against the dangers of the world
And herself.
The fire gave power
And with the power there grew an inferno
Once ignited, could not be smothered.
The fire whispered
Through smoke and cinders;
It whispered
To encourage the distressing ideas that flowed through her.
She was frozen
Frostbitten to the bone without the fire
And so
To stay alive
She stayed close by the hearth.
When friends became concerned
They tried to call her back
But she was too attached to the blaze.
While the smoke tangled in her hair
And coursed through her veins
She drew in ever closer.
She huddled towards the light
That was leading her to her dangerous desires,
Cutting everything off
Except for the sea of flames.
She clung to her damaged thoughts
And kept the fire steady.
Going almost unnoticed
Her skin turned red and warm;
She was too happy to embrace the heat.
She understood she was too close,
Yet she rose from her perch
Roused by the incandescence
The feverish luminosity.
She
A mere mortal
Drew within reach of the alluring fire.
The flames licked her face
Her hands
Her hopelessly lost mind
As she dove in
Headfirst.
Everyone she had turned away watched
Unable to help.
She registered one single thought:
It's too hot.
But
It was too late.
She couldn't step away from the furnace;
For suddenly she was bound by ropes of her own doing
A funeral pyre just for her.
She was stuck within the depths
Of the scorching fire she had so arduously cared for.
She tried to call out
To those just outside the fireplace
Watching
Witnessing
But the fumes enveloped her
Stifling her pleas,
Her cries for help.
She couldn’t breathe
The embers burning her lungs as she inhaled,
Silencing her voice as she exhaled.
She flickered for a second more;
The life left her eyes.
She collapsed
Leaving ash and bone to intermingle into nothing.
What she had once mistakenly perceived
As an idea,
No larger than a matchstick,
Was something she could not control.
But no one could control a fire that destructive
Or
Deadly.
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 9:53 PM UTC
*A stream pushed two sticks
up the river then twirled around
Finally settled down
on a hill looking over the valley
Up above a bird saw the sticks
decided that they would be
a great fit for her nest
Quickly she went down
Before any predator can
Grabbed them in her mouth
And away she flew
Back at her nest she had
two beautiful twins
The birdies opened their beacon
to receive the catch
The mom chirped and giggled
the sticks were
to fill a hole in the nest
The mom quickly filled the holes
and back into the sky she flew
The twin baby birds saw the sticks and mistakenly thought they were worms
They each grabbed one
with their beac and started to chew
till the juices came out
The sticks were
ripen twigs and tasty
They had been soaking
all night in a syrup
of a flower bed
When the mom came back there was
nothing left from the twigs
except the thorns
The mom laughed
and fed her twins
the tasty worms
she brought back!*
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 12:59 PM UTC
Don't call it silver
It is so utterly grey
Your banner waving
To humdrum anthems
Of countries upset
By the way you say
Patriotism
Loyalty
Words that are never
To be written in grey
Whose fibers cannot
Be found in your atrophy
You will die quietly
Not as a martyr dies
Never as red as the
Blood-stained uniforms
That blanket so many hills
There are none that you would die on
It is a shame you share
The color of stone
One might mistakenly
Paint you trustworthy
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 12:43 AM UTC
he's black, white,
and read all over
by acquaintances in his
circumference of people.
but no one asks,
no one takes the time,
to inquire behind
the gray mix of his
black and white appearance.
perhaps he's a light blue,
or a pretty yellow
that mistakenly ran into
some gray along the way,
but no one knows
because they'd rather spend
their sunday morning judging
a black story on a white page
than exploring the vast depth
of an intricate person.
Jan 31, 2016
Jan 31, 2016 at 10:40 AM UTC
The desk is a refreshing change of pace from the
uneasy comfort of the bed. I
eye the flimsy container of trail mix
lying in wait, my lightly salted prey.
rolling from beneath the body-like warmth of my
blanket cocoon,
I stumble towards nourishment.
I attack my snack,
and settle into the
beeswax halo of drunk hung Christmas lights,
mistakenly onto an uncapped felt pen,
tip bleeding into a beige throw
bought for a newly redecorated room.
Unnoticed, the stain spreads,
advancing on the threads of the throw.
I will, perhaps, see it tomorrow
and curse silently,
and wonder if it can be
hidden by rearrangement and ultimately
decide that a little folding will do the trick.
Outside, the snow freezes a fresh exoskeleton,
primed for crushing the footprints of strangers.
Jan 29, 2013
Jan 29, 2013 at 4:25 PM UTC
The spoken language of my indigenous tongue is unfamiliar with composing a complex signature of words. I am a justly man who only possess a singular thought at a time and my current thought comes unto me gravely. This note should be pretty easy to understand.
My evangelizing does not bound a union between a man and amen. Those fabricating words I once preached are as false as fish on grass. A paradox forms within myself. I am structured alike the absolute truth but I surely lie a fact. But I can no longer carry a deceit intention. Fool’s gold was at the end of the rainbow. And like a loyal dog, I followed with a wagged tail.
I believe hindsight is merely useless, now. I attest to seek truth as it appears but my eyes are blind with fury. I mistakenly remembered that vision is of faith rather than sight. I become a precise and selective balloter. I either speak its erroneousness existence upon them or become a subject of harsh matters.
The genesis Armageddon is occurring. Man falls to a higher sky because the mind of the body cannot outthink its own thought; therefore, it is the last transcendence. I kneel in solidarity amid the row of pews. Peace, be steel. For it will all cease, follow by a great calm.
Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 1:32 AM UTC