"montages" poems - Hello Poetry

"montages" poems

Memories can become blurry, over time, like underdeveloped photographs, or incomplete, like sunlight through blinds. Our lives move ever forward, like the inflexible patterns of stars. Once fevered and immediate events recede, with frightening, doppler effect, as remembered yesterdays, become forgotten yesterdays. New Haven was abuzz. The hotels were booked and moving trucks had taken every free parking space for miles. Last Sunday was freshmen move-in day and 1,554 freshmen moved into their Yale residences. It’s one of our favorite days of the year. The hubbub of freshmen moving, lunching, shopping and later, seeing off their departing parents, created a delicious emotional chaos that we watched unfold, like a Greek chorus. The movie ‘Love Actually’ begins and ends with montages of people greeting friends, family and loved ones at Heathrow airport - it’s emotional and heartwarming. Move-in days are a lot like that - with their gordian knots of beginnings and endings. My parents were nervous and emotional on my freshman move-in day - as was I - but we all tried, desperately, not to show it. Welcome to New Haven freshmen, everything’s beautiful, but you’ll get too busy to enjoy it much. We upperclassmen move in tomorrow.

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Aug 24, 2023

Aug 24, 2023 at 1:20 PM UTC

Forgotten moments

Memories can become blurry, over time, like underdeveloped photographs, or incomplete, like sunlight through blinds. Our lives move ever forward, like the inflexible patterns of stars. Once fevered and immediate events recede, with frightening, doppler effect, as remembered yesterdays, become forgotten yesterdays. New Haven was abuzz. The hotels were booked and moving trucks had taken every free parking space for miles. Last Sunday was freshmen move-in day and 1,554 freshmen moved into their Yale residences. It’s one of our favorite days of the year. The hubbub of freshmen moving, lunching, shopping and later, seeing off their departing parents, created a delicious emotional chaos that we watched unfold, like a Greek chorus. The movie ‘Love Actually’ begins and ends with montages of people greeting friends, family and loved ones at Heathrow airport - it’s emotional and heartwarming. Move-in days are a lot like that - with their gordian knots of beginnings and endings. My parents were nervous and emotional on my freshman move-in day - as was I - but we all tried, desperately, not to show it. Welcome to New Haven freshmen, everything’s beautiful, but you’ll get too busy to enjoy it much. We upperclassmen move in tomorrow.

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I told them, “I don’t feel sorry for Robin Williams. He lived it. Coke-fueled, bearded trickster of ****** Well traveled and well versed, raging into worlds Physical and ephemeral, like a ghostly bull Goring mortals to unfeel the estoques Sunk deep into his vital corpse.” I had a friend who blew his brains out While his parents were watching tv in the living room And another who rented a room at the Marriott Then hung himself off the shower-rod Both early 20s You won’t see them on the big screen Or hear their witty banter on interviews Chic celebs won’t eulogize them On “Extra”, “TMZ”, or “Access Hollywood” No 2 minute montages At award shows, while tuxes and gowns float Clapping in ovation behind the shimmering façade Of golden statues They got a few lines in an obituary, in A7 Those who knew them will speak in hushed euphemisms No one daring to whisper “suicide” As if it’s the ****** Mary of deaths Like walking under a ladder, or breaking a mirror The mirror containing, like smoke, the future The jagged shards reflecting moonlight faintly I love them all the same

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Jun 11, 2015

Jun 11, 2015 at 7:14 PM UTC

I told them, “I don’t feel sorry for Robin Williams. He lived it. Coke-fueled, bearded trickster of ****** Well traveled and well versed, raging into worlds Physical and ephemeral, like a ghostly bull Goring mortals to unfeel the estoques Sunk deep into his vital corpse.” I had a friend who blew his brains out While his parents were watching tv in the living room And another who rented a room at the Marriott Then hung himself off the shower-rod Both early 20s You won’t see them on the big screen Or hear their witty banter on interviews Chic celebs won’t eulogize them On “Extra”, “TMZ”, or “Access Hollywood” No 2 minute montages At award shows, while tuxes and gowns float Clapping in ovation behind the shimmering façade Of golden statues They got a few lines in an obituary, in A7 Those who knew them will speak in hushed euphemisms No one daring to whisper “suicide” As if it’s the ****** Mary of deaths Like walking under a ladder, or breaking a mirror The mirror containing, like smoke, the future The jagged shards reflecting moonlight faintly I love them all the same

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An entire sequence of fantasy, played out in the course of four hours. Like all good dreams, an abrupt awakening, rude and cold, gasping for breath, attempts to make sense of what is essentially nothing but means so much more Video montages, played over and over in the mind. Tired, and overplayed, still powerful and overwhelming something out of a fairytale: the way the light plays off his face, the evening sun shining on the branches, grass swaying to make way of a ball, nervous giggles accompanying nervous cries of birds, anticipating the moment we may beautifully collide- reality surrounded by a haven of immortality and happiness of the purest type Unforgettable. Problematically so.

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Jan 1, 2014

Jan 1, 2014 at 10:12 PM UTC

An entire sequence of fantasy, played out in the course of four hours. Like all good dreams, an abrupt awakening, rude and cold, gasping for breath, attempts to make sense of what is essentially nothing but means so much more Video montages, played over and over in the mind. Tired, and overplayed, still powerful and overwhelming something out of a fairytale: the way the light plays off his face, the evening sun shining on the branches, grass swaying to make way of a ball, nervous giggles accompanying nervous cries of birds, anticipating the moment we may beautifully collide- reality surrounded by a haven of immortality and happiness of the purest type Unforgettable. Problematically so.

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Sitting in my room, Boxing up my life, Sorting photos and tickets, Newspapers, Trinkets, Tokens of all sorts of yesterdays. Do you remember when we turned a GA at MUN Into that silly sci-fi universe, And do you remember those stupid montages, I showed in class so proudly, And that trip to San Francisco, When we probably passed each other's cars. What about before those days, When I was still in to planes and history and other's lives, Curious if I could ever live one as fully. Those 2 summers I spent on little league, When I learned no matter how hard you try, Sometimes you don't get better. Do you remember the dream you told me about, When we were left alone and all we need was us. What about when I had my first kiss, Or that time the beach lit up like a nightlight. Then there was that night when we starred up at that sky, All those nights with our backs on that cold stone. Then there were those drives, Those movie nights, Those dance parties, Those birthdays. Those conversations, That always carried us through the twilight. So many sunsets, From my roof and the hill The milkshakes after midnight, The board games, and cards, The trees and the trails, The ocean's cool waters. For a long time I thought it was beyond help, Trying to hold on to all those things, I surprised myself today, See, when you throw out a picture, a poster, a page, You'll never have to say goodbye, Oh, what a beautiful mind indeed.

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May 12, 2013

May 12, 2013 at 5:49 PM UTC

Do You Remember

Sitting in my room, Boxing up my life, Sorting photos and tickets, Newspapers, Trinkets, Tokens of all sorts of yesterdays. Do you remember when we turned a GA at MUN Into that silly sci-fi universe, And do you remember those stupid montages, I showed in class so proudly, And that trip to San Francisco, When we probably passed each other's cars. What about before those days, When I was still in to planes and history and other's lives, Curious if I could ever live one as fully. Those 2 summers I spent on little league, When I learned no matter how hard you try, Sometimes you don't get better. Do you remember the dream you told me about, When we were left alone and all we need was us. What about when I had my first kiss, Or that time the beach lit up like a nightlight. Then there was that night when we starred up at that sky, All those nights with our backs on that cold stone. Then there were those drives, Those movie nights, Those dance parties, Those birthdays. Those conversations, That always carried us through the twilight. So many sunsets, From my roof and the hill The milkshakes after midnight, The board games, and cards, The trees and the trails, The ocean's cool waters. For a long time I thought it was beyond help, Trying to hold on to all those things, I surprised myself today, See, when you throw out a picture, a poster, a page, You'll never have to say goodbye, Oh, what a beautiful mind indeed.

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Tamir is Israeli. I don't know what that means beyond he speaks Hebrew, came at one point from that area, and keeps dark-skinned friends. I'm trying to cultivate a lethal talent because one day I want to **** people by painting them as they are (and when you're known as yourself you have nothing else) but all my days are micro montages, characters grandiose, come and go drink a beer, do a line, perhaps chat about the politics of Germany France UK Belgium a little high. and then they go. this is a great city on maybe the world's longest coast and odds are tomorrow, 87%, the whole day will be grey and fog and a halfdark cloak with a sort of haphazard mist that isn't rain, but somehow in the grey condenses enough to slippen tiles, dampen jackets, water roses where everywhere it blow. within four weeks men in black jackets, ties sunglasses and training will come for me and though I have accomplished much and in a way am capable I will try and throw myself from a nearby cliff and I dream at night of the slope, of wonder how far out I'd have to leap to hit the highway below. (and honestly politely hoping I don't disrupt too much traffic when I go) because there is a life lived and a life worth living and this molecular decomposition holds no loyalty on me. but I guess I had some faith that I would live to.... that I would live. I saw my life a grand tapestry. thought my idolatry would eventually coalesce into at least one great novel, Bildungsroman, tale of development and I guess that's been taken away from me. and I've prepared ill-ly only exercised in beat/postmodern poetry. l will maybe soon stumble from the cliffs or handcuffed bite my wrists, and take any artery I might rend open and all particles, unfettered, heartless bits. nonwritten novel, this is it... there is the west and then there is the ocean.

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Jun 29, 2014

Jun 29, 2014 at 2:58 PM UTC

One week later:

Tamir is Israeli. I don't know what that means beyond he speaks Hebrew, came at one point from that area, and keeps dark-skinned friends. I'm trying to cultivate a lethal talent because one day I want to **** people by painting them as they are (and when you're known as yourself you have nothing else) but all my days are micro montages, characters grandiose, come and go drink a beer, do a line, perhaps chat about the politics of Germany France UK Belgium a little high. and then they go. this is a great city on maybe the world's longest coast and odds are tomorrow, 87%, the whole day will be grey and fog and a halfdark cloak with a sort of haphazard mist that isn't rain, but somehow in the grey condenses enough to slippen tiles, dampen jackets, water roses where everywhere it blow. within four weeks men in black jackets, ties sunglasses and training will come for me and though I have accomplished much and in a way am capable I will try and throw myself from a nearby cliff and I dream at night of the slope, of wonder how far out I'd have to leap to hit the highway below. (and honestly politely hoping I don't disrupt too much traffic when I go) because there is a life lived and a life worth living and this molecular decomposition holds no loyalty on me. but I guess I had some faith that I would live to.... that I would live. I saw my life a grand tapestry. thought my idolatry would eventually coalesce into at least one great novel, Bildungsroman, tale of development and I guess that's been taken away from me. and I've prepared ill-ly only exercised in beat/postmodern poetry. l will maybe soon stumble from the cliffs or handcuffed bite my wrists, and take any artery I might rend open and all particles, unfettered, heartless bits. nonwritten novel, this is it... there is the west and then there is the ocean.

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My grandpa who eats steamed sweet potatoes on foothills textured in green rice patties dreamt up a tall brick house with a black iron gate barbwires sprung around the tips of the entrance to keep out thieves right now he wonders how long he can keep fibbing to my mother— their rotten hut at the end of the massive foothill, not fleeting monsoons come early, swells the ground till it gave a landslide takes four people and a child that day, red stars hung above Tiananmen square gates grounded bones came in sacks, white cement hauled by green skin trucks My grandpa who loves sweet potatoes constructs an ivory wall. after the revolution, the sun peeks out in montages peering through the smoke gunpowder stuck to the tank tire roads black heads roll off yellow tar dirt into a pit My grandpa gives his best friend one thousand yuan— visas for my mother and grandma, His best friend disappears, writes my grandpa an apology and, leaves him a large white sack of uncooked sweet potatoes light tan, severs in half and plops down on the lumpy cutting board, dusty orange inners, grandpa tosses them in the boiling water and later, while gnawing down, he pretends they are oranges for once Grandpa, who’s kneeling on our dried front yard with a worn out copper pail waters the salty earth slowly until it sprouts sugar canes chops one down, breaks it in half, the sun beats peering through palm leaves a viridescent river of silk and pale honey my small three year arms grab a hand full sliced by grandpa into pieces neatly placed in a blue flowered ceramic bowl years later, I chop a stalk down and chew until English becomes a second language again and in my twenties, I grab a hand full sliced my mom into pieces, places them in a weaved basket made of reinforced bamboo I put it in front of my grandpa’s grave in Fujian on the foggy mountainside of a small retirement town. The edge of the South China coast covered in a thick plastic smog, I sit on a stone eating sweet cold potatoes with my grandpa facing outland, a red kneeing sun, barely visible past the trees

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Apr 25, 2017

Apr 25, 2017 at 12:41 AM UTC

Grandpa Visits Me in the Summer

My grandpa who eats steamed sweet potatoes on foothills textured in green rice patties dreamt up a tall brick house with a black iron gate barbwires sprung around the tips of the entrance to keep out thieves right now he wonders how long he can keep fibbing to my mother— their rotten hut at the end of the massive foothill, not fleeting monsoons come early, swells the ground till it gave a landslide takes four people and a child that day, red stars hung above Tiananmen square gates grounded bones came in sacks, white cement hauled by green skin trucks My grandpa who loves sweet potatoes constructs an ivory wall. after the revolution, the sun peeks out in montages peering through the smoke gunpowder stuck to the tank tire roads black heads roll off yellow tar dirt into a pit My grandpa gives his best friend one thousand yuan— visas for my mother and grandma, His best friend disappears, writes my grandpa an apology and, leaves him a large white sack of uncooked sweet potatoes light tan, severs in half and plops down on the lumpy cutting board, dusty orange inners, grandpa tosses them in the boiling water and later, while gnawing down, he pretends they are oranges for once Grandpa, who’s kneeling on our dried front yard with a worn out copper pail waters the salty earth slowly until it sprouts sugar canes chops one down, breaks it in half, the sun beats peering through palm leaves a viridescent river of silk and pale honey my small three year arms grab a hand full sliced by grandpa into pieces neatly placed in a blue flowered ceramic bowl years later, I chop a stalk down and chew until English becomes a second language again and in my twenties, I grab a hand full sliced my mom into pieces, places them in a weaved basket made of reinforced bamboo I put it in front of my grandpa’s grave in Fujian on the foggy mountainside of a small retirement town. The edge of the South China coast covered in a thick plastic smog, I sit on a stone eating sweet cold potatoes with my grandpa facing outland, a red kneeing sun, barely visible past the trees

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oh **** you sent me those chills again today that one song knows how to bring it all back and i knew exactly what to do indulge, indulge, devour what i could sweep up these teary eye diamonds no questions---who am i kidding a million questions all across the grid it's magical, and i refuse to let it go nothing is remotely relevant like you i give you credit for breaking my heart trashing it with euphoric bursts your name, full of weight on my tongue prestigious, if only to these uninvited thoughts but i welcome them in, cordially and whole heartedly maybe, since then, i was disposable after some time **** i'm that kodak, thrown in the back of the drawer i'll suffer with those oh so familiar montages of photos treasure that innocent film we made i'll always pause at your smile--- banged up, reminded of you can't help the feeling of today brutally graced into submission we were imperfection held by conviction that...that i still love our relationship was dolled up for a date held by hairspray, that'd unravel every night colored by lipstick, that'd fade after one too many kisses darkened by eyeliner, that'd turn the normal into mysterious crafted by mascara, that'd run at the first sight of tears tyrannize, patronize, calcify my broken heart... don't hold back, instead, enable me--- enable me, and my broken heart send me those chills every so often i need to be reminded of you i'm addicted to yesterday and you underestimate the things that i will do search for those benson and hedges craddle that bitter coffee moving closer towards the edge suffer again and again i'm hopeless a hopeless romantic... and i give you credit for breaking my heart.

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Dec 15, 2011

Dec 15, 2011 at 6:07 PM UTC

nothing is remotely relevant like you

oh **** you sent me those chills again today that one song knows how to bring it all back and i knew exactly what to do indulge, indulge, devour what i could sweep up these teary eye diamonds no questions---who am i kidding a million questions all across the grid it's magical, and i refuse to let it go nothing is remotely relevant like you i give you credit for breaking my heart trashing it with euphoric bursts your name, full of weight on my tongue prestigious, if only to these uninvited thoughts but i welcome them in, cordially and whole heartedly maybe, since then, i was disposable after some time **** i'm that kodak, thrown in the back of the drawer i'll suffer with those oh so familiar montages of photos treasure that innocent film we made i'll always pause at your smile--- banged up, reminded of you can't help the feeling of today brutally graced into submission we were imperfection held by conviction that...that i still love our relationship was dolled up for a date held by hairspray, that'd unravel every night colored by lipstick, that'd fade after one too many kisses darkened by eyeliner, that'd turn the normal into mysterious crafted by mascara, that'd run at the first sight of tears tyrannize, patronize, calcify my broken heart... don't hold back, instead, enable me--- enable me, and my broken heart send me those chills every so often i need to be reminded of you i'm addicted to yesterday and you underestimate the things that i will do search for those benson and hedges craddle that bitter coffee moving closer towards the edge suffer again and again i'm hopeless a hopeless romantic... and i give you credit for breaking my heart.

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If not imminence, is it lust? A need for silence, a want for noise I ask to live and breathe But breathe the scent of laced intoxication. Fabricated bliss in subordinate dictation - It tastes like blood on the tongue, An iron will I detest. Against the color painted hues of false amnesty In amber rests preserved skeleton supremacy Montages.

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Sep 14, 2016

Sep 14, 2016 at 5:55 PM UTC

If not imminence, is it lust? A need for silence, a want for noise I ask to live and breathe But breathe the scent of laced intoxication. Fabricated bliss in subordinate dictation - It tastes like blood on the tongue, An iron will I detest. Against the color painted hues of false amnesty In amber rests preserved skeleton supremacy Montages.

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depression is never blue, nor gray, nor black and white; it is seeing colors for what they are dissolving into one another, creating beautiful montages of vivid details... but their beauty is never a sight to behold, you just look past them.

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May 21, 2017

May 21, 2017 at 8:47 AM UTC

depression is never blue, nor gray, nor black and white; it is seeing colors for what they are dissolving into one another, creating beautiful montages of vivid details... but their beauty is never a sight to behold, you just look past them.

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"If my life were a movie? Oh, there would be a lot of montages because maybe I'd get things done faster that way. I don't think I could be an actor however. I'm clever enough to make it but too honest to fake it. Take it or leave it. I'm just a writer. Or at least that's what I wrote on the form when they tried to admit me. And those ******** told me I was crazy. But you told me I'm golden. Which got me thinking. And I thought, 'I do have a problem,' I thought, 'I think I think too much.' No, don't touch that remote this show is a classic. Oh **** if my life were a T.V. show? Well, it would obviously be a dramatic comedy. Because I'm emotionally unstable and ******* hilarious. But that would never happen because everyone thinks I'm crazy. Which is funny because I was crazy once. And those ******** put me in a small dark room infested with rats. Which is funny because I hate rats. They drive me crazy."

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Dec 7, 2012

Dec 7, 2012 at 4:20 AM UTC

"If my life were a movie? Oh, there would be a lot of montages because maybe I'd get things done faster that way. I don't think I could be an actor however. I'm clever enough to make it but too honest to fake it. Take it or leave it. I'm just a writer. Or at least that's what I wrote on the form when they tried to admit me. And those ******** told me I was crazy. But you told me I'm golden. Which got me thinking. And I thought, 'I do have a problem,' I thought, 'I think I think too much.' No, don't touch that remote this show is a classic. Oh **** if my life were a T.V. show? Well, it would obviously be a dramatic comedy. Because I'm emotionally unstable and ******* hilarious. But that would never happen because everyone thinks I'm crazy. Which is funny because I was crazy once. And those ******** put me in a small dark room infested with rats. Which is funny because I hate rats. They drive me crazy."

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just a girl confused about boys trying to find her place laying on the floor watching Skins dying to be skinny but can't stop binging crying over silly things heartbroken over matters that in years won't matter lonely angry misunderstood broken inside writing poems because I'm so deep and unique no idea how to be social without the media staying away from drugs and drink because that's the only way to cope with past tragedies that have soiled my good dress so I only wear pants in case I need to go on an adventure so my life can be more like those teenage movies with dancing montages love triangles and happy endings thinking I'm extraordinary pretending I don't notice how conformed and ordinary I am unsatisfied reactive and inactive I'm just a teenager no different from the others I'm just a teenager and soon I will grow up.

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May 22, 2015

May 22, 2015 at 7:40 PM UTC

just a girl confused about boys trying to find her place laying on the floor watching Skins dying to be skinny but can't stop binging crying over silly things heartbroken over matters that in years won't matter lonely angry misunderstood broken inside writing poems because I'm so deep and unique no idea how to be social without the media staying away from drugs and drink because that's the only way to cope with past tragedies that have soiled my good dress so I only wear pants in case I need to go on an adventure so my life can be more like those teenage movies with dancing montages love triangles and happy endings thinking I'm extraordinary pretending I don't notice how conformed and ordinary I am unsatisfied reactive and inactive I'm just a teenager no different from the others I'm just a teenager and soon I will grow up.

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Mr. Movie Locked and loaded, ready to go I can already hear sneakers squeak on the linoleum floors Everything plays out in slow motion I guess the movies get some things right There’s really not much to aiming down sights nothing too complicated about squeezing a trigger What I never prepared for is the ease of being a star Each and every kid or teacher I shoot just sinks down no dramatic death scenes or stupid monologues Hell, they don’t say much at all maybe one or two grunts on the way down I’ve got to hand it to Arnold When I missed just to the left of his heart, guy didn’t quit He looked like one of those soldiers in training montages Our brave hero crawled under the bodies of students rather than barbed wire I didn’t expect the show My appreciation of his ingenuity was a headshot I make my way around the lower level of the school A peculiar sight catches my eye Some ****** appears to be spying on my work He’s got one nice piece of shining metal clutched in a fist Who’s this interesting character? Mr. Minute It’s finally ******* time! This morning, I tossed my calendar in the trash Today’s the day I circled it in red sharpie Geometry bored me as usual I looked to my left and right with a private smile None of the ******** around me could see the truth Judgment Day was upon them While Mccarthy droned on about triangles, my eyes stayed on the clock Passing period was only five minutes away That’s when I’d whip out my revolver That’s when these ***** would know their time was up Imagine my surprise when I heard gunshots down the hall I quickly unzipped my backpack, took out the gun, and blasted open Mccarthy’s head The other kids took a couple of seconds before screaming I was too busy peering out the door to mind them How the hell was this possible?! I planned this out since the idea first popped into my mind Some ****** was trying to steal my schedule Not on my watch

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Apr 6, 2017

Apr 6, 2017 at 8:07 PM UTC

Trouble in Twos

Mr. Movie Locked and loaded, ready to go I can already hear sneakers squeak on the linoleum floors Everything plays out in slow motion I guess the movies get some things right There’s really not much to aiming down sights nothing too complicated about squeezing a trigger What I never prepared for is the ease of being a star Each and every kid or teacher I shoot just sinks down no dramatic death scenes or stupid monologues Hell, they don’t say much at all maybe one or two grunts on the way down I’ve got to hand it to Arnold When I missed just to the left of his heart, guy didn’t quit He looked like one of those soldiers in training montages Our brave hero crawled under the bodies of students rather than barbed wire I didn’t expect the show My appreciation of his ingenuity was a headshot I make my way around the lower level of the school A peculiar sight catches my eye Some ****** appears to be spying on my work He’s got one nice piece of shining metal clutched in a fist Who’s this interesting character? Mr. Minute It’s finally ******* time! This morning, I tossed my calendar in the trash Today’s the day I circled it in red sharpie Geometry bored me as usual I looked to my left and right with a private smile None of the ******** around me could see the truth Judgment Day was upon them While Mccarthy droned on about triangles, my eyes stayed on the clock Passing period was only five minutes away That’s when I’d whip out my revolver That’s when these ***** would know their time was up Imagine my surprise when I heard gunshots down the hall I quickly unzipped my backpack, took out the gun, and blasted open Mccarthy’s head The other kids took a couple of seconds before screaming I was too busy peering out the door to mind them How the hell was this possible?! I planned this out since the idea first popped into my mind Some ****** was trying to steal my schedule Not on my watch

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Lately I've been driving in my car by myself The night sky reflecting off the empty streets That I convince myself belong to me Until the lights of another car remind me that everything is shared And I'm moving in montages, in sequences as the lazy strums of a guitar match my existing beat And I know where I'm going, the path opens up to me each turn I take But I have no idea what I'll do when I reach my dark, quiet home Full of people, yet I'm the only one awake, in this reality that feels just as far away as their dreams I'm alone in my shower when it warms my skin and melts the ways I tried to distract myself today A heavy comfort I cannot fully accept within my melancholy I walk into my hollow room, becoming the only life inside I begin to search for the meaning of Narcissism But stop myself because I know a picture of you would appear Like the one in my journal with your eyes crossed out And they say eyes are the window to the soul But those are not windows Those are prison cells

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Aug 8, 2018

Aug 8, 2018 at 3:48 AM UTC

Lately I've been driving in my car by myself The night sky reflecting off the empty streets That I convince myself belong to me Until the lights of another car remind me that everything is shared And I'm moving in montages, in sequences as the lazy strums of a guitar match my existing beat And I know where I'm going, the path opens up to me each turn I take But I have no idea what I'll do when I reach my dark, quiet home Full of people, yet I'm the only one awake, in this reality that feels just as far away as their dreams I'm alone in my shower when it warms my skin and melts the ways I tried to distract myself today A heavy comfort I cannot fully accept within my melancholy I walk into my hollow room, becoming the only life inside I begin to search for the meaning of Narcissism But stop myself because I know a picture of you would appear Like the one in my journal with your eyes crossed out And they say eyes are the window to the soul But those are not windows Those are prison cells

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Those three, none of now, {3 acts rerun} not possible, some how, you know what I was thinking is, what I say? Hey, remember, hey, hey, what I say? We all said what I say? Like we heard it said, Daddy, on TV, maybe so, not in some momma's house, true told. Blue-eye black boy looked at me and said, "Maybe news for a twelve-year-old white boy." Guiled was I, got me good, I understood, y'know nothing of my function at this junction, 11-04-2022 @8:08 an infinity piercing point returned to the Bud, type 2, we think, we are graphing the wholeg-stalled uphill and a yodeller, Gestalt, halt, religion has some pull yes, confirmation in the spirit, the Friday night spirit, vibe, post Halloween, lotsa sweets, right usual, ritual, spirits rise, and near the edge, one warrior watches, warnings, seen in stars told tales so wild a child scorns, old man, did you never dig? Oh, I dug, I dug a plenty, never dug no grave, but I doubt any story with a grave needs diggin'. - I double mind, my kind of mind, take it down - to reptilian for decision, - to limbic for reaction to infectious ideas War stories make money and we use money to make peace, does that make sense to me, no, so who has my reins, ai asked, if this made sense to whom it may concern, sift through the dust, if there is no diamond in this dust, we are all clouds of hot air interacting with water in time. What are these montages, standardo? Trace the curve, and follow the wave, if it were Cartesian, flat out. LO, no, not lost, I can read. I cannot make Ubuntu boot from USB, but that's on me, do I care, years of this is on those hard drives, precious as this in ten years, as times continuance clause is disputed in samsara cultivars sprouting food for war, with good reason, crispered in, like the sizzle in a sale, seals the deal, Pop. Leak. Enuresis I spelled that right, and remember Sgt. Whykill, I have not called, because I made a character of you, I told you, when I did it, you can't remember much it is strictly confidential, with faith, alone, no wu wu, fi solo fi fine, we good call me t'morrow, next time you get there first/.<)

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Nov 4, 2022

Nov 4, 2022 at 11:34 PM UTC

As you were, semper fi

Those three, none of now, {3 acts rerun} not possible, some how, you know what I was thinking is, what I say? Hey, remember, hey, hey, what I say? We all said what I say? Like we heard it said, Daddy, on TV, maybe so, not in some momma's house, true told. Blue-eye black boy looked at me and said, "Maybe news for a twelve-year-old white boy." Guiled was I, got me good, I understood, y'know nothing of my function at this junction, 11-04-2022 @8:08 an infinity piercing point returned to the Bud, type 2, we think, we are graphing the wholeg-stalled uphill and a yodeller, Gestalt, halt, religion has some pull yes, confirmation in the spirit, the Friday night spirit, vibe, post Halloween, lotsa sweets, right usual, ritual, spirits rise, and near the edge, one warrior watches, warnings, seen in stars told tales so wild a child scorns, old man, did you never dig? Oh, I dug, I dug a plenty, never dug no grave, but I doubt any story with a grave needs diggin'. - I double mind, my kind of mind, take it down - to reptilian for decision, - to limbic for reaction to infectious ideas War stories make money and we use money to make peace, does that make sense to me, no, so who has my reins, ai asked, if this made sense to whom it may concern, sift through the dust, if there is no diamond in this dust, we are all clouds of hot air interacting with water in time. What are these montages, standardo? Trace the curve, and follow the wave, if it were Cartesian, flat out. LO, no, not lost, I can read. I cannot make Ubuntu boot from USB, but that's on me, do I care, years of this is on those hard drives, precious as this in ten years, as times continuance clause is disputed in samsara cultivars sprouting food for war, with good reason, crispered in, like the sizzle in a sale, seals the deal, Pop. Leak. Enuresis I spelled that right, and remember Sgt. Whykill, I have not called, because I made a character of you, I told you, when I did it, you can't remember much it is strictly confidential, with faith, alone, no wu wu, fi solo fi fine, we good call me t'morrow, next time you get there first/.<)

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It’s a Sunday morning where I am, Lying warmly in bed. It’s time to get my coffee and catch a brief glimpse— Through my small virtual window I get to see, A lot of different Saturdays Happy faces in familiar supercuts, Montages of their laughter, No trace of sorrow or loss. Everything is better in spring. And the hearts I miss— They seem happier in their spring. Grateful I got this vibrant collage; And more grateful still, Summer’s sprinting towards me, among the sun and joy, I’ll be. Counting the long, And lonely weeks Until I’ll get to be (Smiling) on the other side of the screen.

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Apr 6, 2025

Apr 6, 2025 at 6:01 AM UTC

The other side of the screen

It’s a Sunday morning where I am, Lying warmly in bed. It’s time to get my coffee and catch a brief glimpse— Through my small virtual window I get to see, A lot of different Saturdays Happy faces in familiar supercuts, Montages of their laughter, No trace of sorrow or loss. Everything is better in spring. And the hearts I miss— They seem happier in their spring. Grateful I got this vibrant collage; And more grateful still, Summer’s sprinting towards me, among the sun and joy, I’ll be. Counting the long, And lonely weeks Until I’ll get to be (Smiling) on the other side of the screen.

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