Road Trip: Thinking it's about time (find yourself within II)

This particular poem was born as a one line response to a message.  But in many other forms, half written, it exists still, un, unfinished, waiting for the next burst energy, the next holiday time, to reach a new finish line.

This is a different but similar to a poem posted on June 2nd, "Poetry Round (find your self within)"

Any error of omission is unintentional, but know that this took many hours, until fatigue won. If you never told or revealed to me your location, know that you will be called out, to and unto me, in another poem, called "your banner is my flag."

Fact about me:  You design me.
-------------------------------------------------------

th­inking it's about time for a road trip.

create an excuse
(reasons, I got a plenty)
to stop by,
to show you another side of me,
for a drink, a meal,
and some kind
of exchange, of
form and fluids,
manner to be determined.

to come to Minneapolis,
watch you create a heated sensuality,
verbally, from melted snowdrifts,
a hot time to be had
by all the poets
of the mini-apple,
I want to meet
and celebrate ann victory.

travel to Thiruvananthapuram,
tour the treasures
of gold and diamonds,
from whence come
the bejeweled poems,
that have earned visits from
thousands upon thousands,
pilgrims, devotees, followers,
to partake at that, his,
special temple.

Gomer, Gomer,  & MJJ,
I am in your Florida,
no, sorry, not in Ocala,
near to your homer,
and I feel you springer
ten times in the
November sun rays,
that have me locked
in a full Nelson,
your productivity,
endless,
a sea of orange sunburnt words,

Tennessee,
The Carolinas,
Georgia,
The South,
I rise with it,
now, again,
that I will need a slow
sunny all lazy summer long to
learn y'alls ways,
see the wolves,
in your forests,
helm the riverboats,
navigate the quaint tides
of Charleston,
the special places
where they heal, le ville,
where the ashes of
burnt children,
retuned to be whole.

learn y'alls ways,
walk in your boots,
of seeing poems
using your special
southern saber words.

missed the original
Thrilla-in-Manila,
but rest easy, assured,
that hotbed of creativity,
where I check the
PH of the mc waters
to comprehend its
wisdom and now, it's sadness,
will be an illustrious destination
on my itinerant itinerary,
stopping by Makati City,
after all,
it is writ in the good book,
this island,
the PhilippineS,
is the birthplace
of the letter S,
Samples: samson, sally,
and So many others?

in Nevada City,
which is of course in
krazy California,
wager philosophy, romance,
be available for
succinctly seeing
works in progress,
from which I
will imbibe,
so **** deeply,
may have to
stay awhile for...

while I am there,
will need to do
a search and
Hug Mission,
to find a special man,
his unkempt prose,
his mortal rhymes
disguise not his holy worth,
even to the grassy
cal-stratosphere,
to the mesosphere,
will I high fly,
to find his sweetest spot,
then and thereafter
going looking
further on to
Humboldt County.

in Leeds, in West Yorkshire,
(Hamphshirians, Northamptontonians,
patience please)
built foundries and factories
over the magical forest of Loidis,
near to the river Aire,
yet still hides a
magical sorceress of words,
casting spells over
men and beast.
no one has seen full
her half-turned away face,
but when she summons,
do I have a choix
other than obey?
even if I get lost,
my sorceress,
you know,
I am on way too.

to get there,
will fly I must,
to Heathrow hell,
will do it,
just for you,
faithful friend,
a man da gotta do, what
a man gotta do...for you,
but first a stop off at the
London School of Economics,
Hampstead as well,
for a tutorial about sonnets,
or sams in wells,
even if I come
in my bare feet.

even in New York Upstate,
a man da gotta do,
what he mulls over in his heart,
be not surprised at a knock upon
your door, to make comparative notes,
about each other's tattoos.

in the South African veld,
hid in the highland grasses,
crouches the poetesses and tigresses,
waiting to ambush you
with words that must be seen
to be heard, to be well understood.
perhaps I'll come at ester time,
under blue indigo skies over,
a golden landscape,
seizing all the gems
that can be seen
only at 3:00am

leeward,
north to Canada,
must I, transgress,
country of my momma's birth,
fly from Montreal to Toronto, Calgary
then over to Vancouver.
Canada,
a dangerous place for me,
cause there are beautiful
souls up there,
and maybe even a
warrant to
repossess mine,
they want their
poets back.

double down by ferry,
me to Seattle,
to see a man about river,
in the Pacific Northwest,
where I have happily
drowned so many times,
that The Lord is complaining,
am hogging all the baptismal waters,
but when reminded that
nothing lasts forever,
here tomorrow,
gone today, walk on,
I add my tears
to that river,
before hitting the road.

on that river,
gonna drive me a kayak,
down Daytonway,
on the Yamill River,
see a gyreene marine,
watching me do a beach landing,
in Willamette Wine Park.
he will teach me to salute,
I will teach him how to
shake hands,
and learn from him,
it's ok,
to stand down.

man o' man
there are a lots of poets,
in these here parts,
this grand
Pacific North West,
looking for one in particular,
who will be quite easy to spot,
as he is my very own
soul brother.

will be easy to find,
though we have never met,
he will be on his kayak,
I on mine,
tho when he paddles,
somehow he manages
to hold
never letting go
of, his lovely bride,
his best half's hands.

this will a problem,
for I must teach him how to
shake two handed souls,
while hugging and paddling,
even bailing,
with an old dented pail
simultaneous.
but you can teach old dogs
new tricks, even the ones,
that can't spell
rhymers.

have mercie on me Ohio,
like a mother has to her daughter,
done a three year sentence in Cleveland,
but no jail can hold an NYC boy,
but if requested, yes I will return
to set fire to the *Cuyahoga,
again! he he he...
but do not s mock me!
(now you know why the FBI loves
my poetry, my biggest institutional fan).

souls in torment,
where you be,
where you hide,
matters not where
you physical reside,
for we have found
each other
in each other words.

You, who live in
your very own
personal hell,
I think we met there,
because
yours was
mine too,
tho not found
on any map.

maybe I will meet the
Empress Josephine Maria,
rowing on the canals of
the Netherlands,
no longer will she be
alone.

but then again, some
very special things,
like
the purest of love
are on no map,
they are everywhere.

while in India,
will seek the many musings of many lips
of aged rhyme men
and complicated charmers
so I may kiss them
with spiced humors
to pour and pour,
more and more,
upon this western soul,
mysteries of the east,
to Kashmir, Bangalore,
wherever I must,
even take a praDip in the Ganges,
I will go, find you,
un-hide you,
among the
teeming millions,
millions of
jokes and rhymes,
that make the
world spin brighter.

in Germany,
all the university students
speak English,
in Wiesbaden, they know
poetic beauty is not in the format,
some in Bamberg,
with a peculiar
Missouri accent,
which is nicht gut Englisch,
so study hard the real way,
speak the language
the new yorka way,
which will require
study abroad,
which is quite funny,
now that I think about it.

but in Mo.,
the native drums roll,
long and slow,
making words
I know
better, different,
in a way never saw before,
leaves me asking for,
mo', mo', please?

to get there, to Allemagne,
land of my forefathers,
a ship I will take,
from Southampton
across the Kiel Canal,
before I depart,
will have my hair cut,
my words reworked,
by her Ladyship,
whose keen eyes and
maternal instincts,
see the joy of life in every
Livvi little thing.

Watt am I going to do if
I need to find a Tecumseh,
taker of my naked poems,
and enlarger of them,
so truth by her,
all revealed,
we are all naked
at least,
twice a day?

In Nepal I will purr at the words
gleaned from the markets and
train stations where
voyages from Lalitpur to Katmandu,
start and end,
where there is a miracle almost
sixteen years young,
where they call their schools
future stars and little angels,
so why should poetic miracles not be
as common as its subtropical clime?

though I despise the
Dallas Cowboys,
not my  America's team,
nonetheless there is a young woman,
a true rose of Texas,
who waits and writes
so lovingly of her airman,
in Afghanistan, I have placed
their names first,
in my nighttime prayers,
hoping to be there,
schedule my visit,
to witness his safe return
and their
joyous reunification.

there are no Mayans in Maine,
but poets of similar name,
kould be, mae be,
Julia's in Jersey, new,
in Auckland,
there are poets
who don't know it,
and Down Under, too,
where getting high is easy,
getting high at
and on words
well marshaled ,
but **** sure I will be
peering and prring,
all the way.

Oregon,
don't be gone,
those wide eyes shut,
when I come by,
who knows when I
will pass this way again...
on my way to Phoenix,
where sunrayes bend to the
desires of dessert breezes.

Kentucky to Korea,
one long road to travel,
but middle son,
if you can do it,
so can I, and,
I will follow.

in a beautiful city,
unsurprisingly called
Belleville,
the leader of the band,
still leads us in belle 'noise'
and when he finishes
fall leafing us in song, he still,
rises up in the mid of dark,
prayerful haikus to write.

off to Rogers, Arkansas
to meet an Italian from Mexico
who specializes in skinny poems,
something one day I will be too.

maybe I will go to
places it snows,
there are so many,
but your photo,
and tattoo trail,
clues, will follow,
no matter how hard
you make it a mystery.

you, who live in just
the world,
don't even think,
that crazy dotted lines,
unstraight,
or huge plains,
are sufficient,
to hide your
moody dust trail
from me!

somewhere in the USA,
roses grow in ground
that needs the
watering of tears,
though this place
is hard to find,
ha, turn around,
that is me,
tapping you,
on the shoulder!

will find you,
as I am searching for
a lovely pair
of stockinged ankles,
each with a heart tattoo,
but I sure could use
a clue,
before this hobbit searches
all the shire,
derby hatted,
to find your
heart real, and the real you...

my mode of time travel?
why I am just
a dude on a rocket ship.

Wisconsin,
look for my ruby message
in the snow,
in the dust,
in the sand, the skies, the sea,
but will you answer me?

Pittsburgh,
patient, you've been,
you thought I forgot
all about you,
chimera  at the intersection
of three rivers,
all you need wonder,
upon which one
will my ship arrive
and why you still disbelieve
you are not a poetess!

ME oh my,
you too, a hidey hole got,
but, we are strange, we humans,
we would gladly bleed to please,
If we could but find
a combination of
new words that
would your heart gladden,
your eyes tear,
your lips wear,
a smile of pleasure
at our offerings poetic!
but still I know not,
the where!

Lagos,
where
I shall climb the tallest skyscraper,
calling out in Yoruba,
where is my Temitope?
where is mine,
worthy of thanksgiving
so I may carry my Popoola,
my pole of her of
written wealth?

Mombasa, Singapore,
Maryland, Rhode Island, Kentucky,
Huddersfield, Connecticut Joe, Ireland,
South Dakota,
where the merry elders
well ken somethings
about a moon and tattered clouds,
something about children and dogs,
and something about letting
tomorrow's wait.

Milwaukee, Atlanta,
chuck, in *PA., friend to all,
to all those scattered across these
United States of America.

can we dare not mention
"The Shaq" of Malaysia,
South Sudan, Pakistan,
of course not!

Suburbia,
beautiful, black San Diego, Detroit;

The BBB's -

British Columbia, Brazil, Breendonk, and
B'kara!
the goodness of *Boston,
flipping out in Flipadelphia,

did you think I would forget ya?

those of you hiding among 64 stars,
the groves of L.A',
on the lanes,
the special land of I-sia-Bella,
fellow citizens of Neverland,
those of you 'at home,'
in the land of nightmares,
concrete boxes,
those who post without a doubt,
and in the box,
this who think your birth year
is an identifying mark, not,
you never fooled me,
will visit each and everyone.

even and especially,
the grays of crosstown
NYC,
the red writers of my hood,
the tylers too.

I am exhausted,
forgive me well,
if thy locale,
I did not explicate,
for the hour is very late.

yet thru subtle fissures
in the clouds,
look for a tired old man
on the wings of a
chariot drawn by angels,
bringing you a dictionary
full of new words,
a present for you,
but truly,
a present to himself
for from it,
your future poems
will come.

*but the sun has come up,
so now I sleep.

Crack in the ceiling
Expensive repair.

Crack in the glass    
Duct tape

Crack of a switch
Stripe the *****

Crack of a gun
Someone's done

Crack the vein
Relieve pain

Crack of lightning
Frightening

Crack the whip
Obey

Crack my skull
My mind mulls

Crack the mirror
Old wives’ tales dither

Crack the door
It's  her …

Crack of her ***
Beautiful tail
Ends this tight little piece

land's moniker
mulls utmost care

     Kalinga

branding the ox
      of men with glaringly

  immaculate chiaroscuro,
atop hills flourishing
with the fruits emblazoning
  reticence.

  chase angel-ward, the synopsis
  of meaningfulness,
    jagged, indelible accoutrement
    akin to the brand of
         chaste heritage,

   galvanizing this epitaph
     with aesthetic nativity,
  gallant mambabatok - fill my bones with the ache of your past,
   carve in me what the rippling
    shrill of air has toppled
      in the highlands

  you have us shaking the blood
    of this archipelago like boughs
   breaking free from water's ebb,
   frenzied by the river-warm
    serpentine embellishment
   the strike of the thorns
    mints in our untouched bodies!

   altogether in this numerous hike
   we go in pursuit, hunting the
   nibble from flesh to bone,
    revealing the rebel, body
       to soul.

I have a confession to make, I said. I drink to forget all
That my failings and foibles beget. Sobriety
Sends me to most fitful sleep. No rest for he who in his unwaking hours
Mulls over the wine of his life, which he sours
With his own cork of guilt and self-conscience. All mine self-confidence
Derives from Contradictions repressing. Catatonic sleep of great notoriety
Is my limbo, my heaven, perchance my sick death. The
Removal of a blot on the face of this land should solicit, I fear, cornet
Mouthed angels to sound clarion of victory. If I was religious
I should become a flagellant invigilate most excellent
Flayed as the poacher would the pheasant.
And the landowner would the poacher.

Silence from both. I take a drought from my drink, she a small sip.
She looks at me and I look a way.
Do you want me to pay for this? She asks. Just the tip
Quoth I. Another drought and a sip.

Another.

I break down. I have nothing to believe in,
To believe in foul dogma to wash my soul of sin
I find repugnant. Belief in Progress and people and
The wonder of Nature is akin to praying to the inconstant sand
Castle made by the hand of a passing child.
Belief in my girlfriend! More my love’s greatest failure
To grant her the care and affection she deserves
Due to my sand castle of pride in which I do serve.
And thus do I say, to purge all my lust
There’s only one way, in Self-disgust I trust.

The Crickets cackle “crisp,”
With an only interruption, being I,
Atop dust, whisper and
Desert highway.
I’d tell you if I were running,
But I’m not quite sure, not yet,
Leaving the Coyote to eat,
Respite, and devoured,
The singing Crickets,
A’howl later,
To deliver answers unimpeded.

I have a faint memory –
A snake’s grip promised, via hand and
Crystal contingency,
“Wiser,” once bestowed, the mystic;
An epic complete, atop 17 years of thunder,
Steel stained crimson,
Street stained whimper
And forever remaining,
“Under-construction.”

Symbolic a more relevant scaffold,
½ bamboo and the other steel, the tower,
Note ‘fore me, it’s only purpose –
Elsewhere, and anonymous,
While I tap my belly to some
Melody we’d once enjoyed;
Maybe something by, “Coltrane,”
Or maybe not; but music we’d both
Recognize and reminisce too.

It’s an awkward alchemy of sorts,
As the Crickets, post-mortem,
Persist if only to chirp, and the Coyote mulls.
When the dust continues to cake.
When the whisper finds newer ears.
When interrupt’s abrupt, erupts,
Pacifies and interrupts again;
My precious distraction –
An amnesia loyal in away from, “then.”
Somewhere beyond, “there,”
And onward, “anew.”

Hesitations grips me
Sometimes with a soft gentle squeeze and sometimes with an iron fist
That split second where you see that girl with whimsical hair and a playful smile and your body is screaming at the top of its lungs “GO AFTER HER YOU FOOL!!!” while your brain mulls over the endless stream of stressful situations
I can hear Robin Williams calling out to me “Let me hear your YAWP!” and I’m shaking, quivering, rattling, generating the vocal ferocity of a lion! And all that comes out is a whimpering “yawp…”
Hesitation grips me
A harmless compliment to brighten someone’s day, no harm done, just a quick simple “I like your pants” a smile and I’m on my way
Simple! Wrong!
That flickering candle of pleasantries is cut short by a swiftly shutting window of opportunity
The breeze not hesitating to extinguish its light
Hesitation grips me
How many moments must I suffer paralyzed lips before my can of complimentary worms is opened?
How many lovely strangers will continue to mill about their days in unblissful ignorance of my enjoyment of their simple, subtle or overt characteristics?
This hesitation grips me!
It shackles me and holds the key in front of my face and all it requires is one real Yawp! The mustering has begun! That key is my freedom of hesitant chains! Just! One! Yawp! I think I can I think I can I think I can! Just! One! Yawp! “yawp…”
Hesitation grips me

She mulls over
a void dance tactic
Before proclaiming
Me damaged and telling me
You need to meet a nice girl
And stop with all these
Pornographic sycophants
I insist I'm not sure
The nice ones would deal with
The cacophonous buzz saw
Roar of my thoughts
And she says
What about me?
Write me a poem like you do
For all the other girls
and then I'll straddle you
And make the pain go away
And I reply
Okay, but I am not paying full price
for this session.

His face is white like chalk,
he mulls death as an option,
"bleed , bleed my heart,
till you are white" pleads his desperation,
flying back after loosing her forever, deeply hurt,
everything he achieved so young
seems now just dirt,
in a chartered flight empty
except the crew and him
no easy route he can think to ease the pain.

Through the window,
in the bare  blue sky his eyes fall
on a lone albatross,  
going  down loosing height,
gravity pulls one down each moment,
rise above the clouds and expect a thunderbolt,
then go down like a flight in distress any moment.
thinking about her streaming eyes that followed
as he left her even without a goodbye,
he hears her SOS ringing in mind.

Will she ever know what really happened to them?

"Our love has been betrayed by the world,
we've been taken for a ride by all we did trust,
now far away from the hold of reality,
this cruel world anymore, doesn't deserve us"

The flight has taken to heiger altitude, away from all this
enters in to the magnificent city of clouds,
without seeking anybody's permission.
The skyscrapers in the high street of this opulent place
has created new reality to him without her

The steeples of cloud cathedrals bring calm,
there isn't any going back from this tranquil world.
"I wouldn't go back from here, dear captain,
look! how well we have fitted in this reality's fold
let us not turn back, but land here in the city of clouds,
where all flights, of every time, land for ever, never look back.

Call the air traffic control, make your voice cheerful
even the paths here are covered with cloud carpets,
let's save the fuel, fly on the wings of clouds
steady towards eternity, that wait for us."

Let's offer up our prayers to a finicky Father
who sits in his segregated heaven, rocking
away senility on that rickety chair
with a spare, tall back wrapped in striped wool blankets.

Who sits in his segregated heaven, rocking?
Our Father, keeping his heart warm against the gusts.
With a spare, tall back wrapped in striped wool blankets
perfectly square (but too small to share with others),

our Father's keeping his heart warm. Against the gusts
and idling time, again he stays busy carving figures
perfectly square but too small to share. With others,
these tokens will help the faithful remain fertile

and idling. Time again, he keeps busy carving figures
on the edges of a pesky map. Mad for expansion,
these tokens will help the faithful. "Remain fertile!"
Father cautions, as he watches a big screen TV.

On the edges of a pesky map mad for expansion,
many errant souls who wander are unable to hear
Father's cautions. As he watches a big screen TV,
the devil's slipping him a low-ball offer to buy

many errant souls. Who wander are unable to hear
news heaven's economy is still struggling, and
the devil's slipping him. A low-ball offer to buy,
our aging Father mulls over hot oatmeal and tea.

Neighbors who walk our street
notice the ramp constructed
with the bend toward the driveway
is gone after only three days.  

New planks of pine
******* in place as a welcome
never greet the wheels
expected to transport him to familiarity,
to warmth, to man's best friend
and to the peace of returning home.

Cars gathered around the ramp-less walkway
like bees at blossoms drinking in bits of nectar.  
His children want a taste of him that lasts.

In anguish they rend their mental cloth
while missing a clasp from his creased palm.
Each offspring mulls over unfinished issues
with his lingering spirit.

In life his skilled hands crafted love
into objects made from sawlogs.
In death he leaves imprints of endearment
in the hearts of those left behind.

A guy awakes in the month of May,
his movement is languid, his thoughts full of fray,
he showers and dresses and then leaves his abode,
the spring sun doesn't warm him as he walks down the road.
He stands on the pavement and waits for the bus,
his fibre is calloused with collision and fuss.
He embarks on his journey with eyes facing down,
needing a break, and to get out of town.
He looks out the window as grey turns to green,
urban concrete to verdant serene.
He spies a large field and rings the bus bell to get off
hoping green grass will quell his bereavement cough.
He meanders through a meadow and parks himself under a tree
and speculates with veracity "what's happening to me?
she's gone and I miss her and i'm still alive
the answer to this tripe of mortality I do strive
why the stop, why a finite ride."
His words are peppered with anguish, seeking reason,
caught in turmoil in this springing season,
he slumps with head in hand against the bark,
no idea if it's light or dark,
or if he's she or me,
he slumps forlorn neath the tree.
Suddenly a voice is heard, soft and free,
the soft free voice of the tree.
"Hi, hope you're well and you don't mind my interject
and what follows isn't ferocious direct,
I know you're not waiting for epiphany."
said the tree.
"Or thoughts of gravity,
or eyeing me up for oars to power ships at sea,
I see you want to quell mortality.
Living isn't a simple thing I know,
leaves they leave and i'm covered in snow,
those nervous budding days that precede thundering green sat row by row
are lost  in kindle by the firework show,
burnt or brittle and toppled by go.
The tree pauses for a sec as the guy listens with a heart full of woe,
then the tree continues as the day starts to glow.
"It's transient and sad this life we have live,
some things are taken when we don't want to give,
and it hurts when we lose the things we love,
but for that there's a reason
and that reason is love.
It aches when their tangible space we can no longer share
and their dalliance as it stopped as their life was short and rare
but the loss is felt because of care
we wouldn't miss if we didn't love
every end would have the green of rub,
because love lasts for every season
in whatever weather whether or not,
so with love comes loss, i'm afraid and amazed to say,
loss comes with love i'm amazed and afraid to say,
if you're finding hard to deal or wanna express maybe say something to say,
I want to write about my leaves leaves now so at your leisure be on your way."
The guy breaths in and out slow for a couple of moments and into hence
and mulls on the tree's words as he moves  from to supple from tense,
and gets up ready
with something wanting to say
and as he bes on his way the guy opens his mouth and mouths into May...

"I'm missing you today and everyday since you went away,
Jan the 25th to precise,
I miss your kindness,
I miss your nice.
When we met in June tons of moons ago
we took our time from seed to grow,
watered with careful rush amid a loud hush,
slowly placing blocks while aware of the splendour of the finished build on the box,
germinating tender.
We grew up in each moment we spent smiling,
in every chat in every dialling.
We were kids eh, buying Kid A,
I held you in May and every other month I remember,
Laughs in December, hugs in September
the summer rush of August,
high fives in July.
We went to the cinema our close was abundant,
we had a handle on home and knew what fun meant,
going to concerts, exploring contours,
flying strong with the span of condors,
taking in breath, rising to soar,
moving together, using the force,
galloping free with the wildest horse,
we could talk in code, dabble in Morse,
our peace, our understanding a calming course.
Our strait newly furrowed no burrowing head in sand,
our relaxed eyes rest on promised land ;
It exists now, it exists right here,
the earth of Utopia burying fear,
it melds in the moment when you’re near,
I think I’ve found my lifetime career!
When you felt I was feeling depressed
you brushed off a burden and cleaned up my mess,
blocked those anxiety yelps,
knowing every little helps,
zapping away fear with your glorious medication,
here it is now, your standing ovation.
Then we didn’t see each other for ages,
as we ran through our own books on separate pages.
Then we bumped into each other and got back in touch,
not just a handshake and then a farewell wave
but shimmering convergence with all that you gave.
We got drunk and laughed as one turned into a few
knowing by now I’d go anywhere with you,
your witty jibes and blooming vernacular,
******* you’re blooming spectacular,
gulping fast, no little sips,
I loved your smile and your jiving hips.
You put the ancient in fossil,
the patience in tousle,
the strength in muscle,
the brave in bottle,
the brain in Aristotle,
the flame disparaged nozzle,
the fall in topple,
the tact in subtle,
the rain in puddle,
you stop the reign of muddle,
the pain and struggle,
the mazy puzzle,
the lazy shuffle,
the cake and truffle which I baked befuddled
after waking troubled and craving cuddles
then you came to me with heavenly huddles.
You’re the sunlight sweet sound of suggestion
And take the risk out of a game of Russian Roulette with a Smith and Wesson,
could never rue letting with you,
your moves define perfection with sublime projection.
You gently gild and made love a reality,
engaged me in present the future a fallacy.
But now you’re gone.
There are so many who loved you after you’d met
And they all miss you lots, especially your pets.
It's all the same without you on earth but different,
wise guys still get hints,
Polos are still mints,
sand castles still do best on the beach,
James still has the largest peach,
supercallifrilous
will still be expealidousis,
they'll still be osmosis,
my fake sibling will still be my faux sis.
They'll be dawn still & moonlight thrill
& silly cats on window sill, still, still.
They'll be puns on the hill & run of the mill,
they'll be hibernation curl to blossoming trill, chances missed & days to rue
& summer nights with joyful coo,
but still's not the same
without you;
because there is one less friend of cats & dogs,
this little world has one less cog.
I don’t know where you are,
you hit the end or the start?
And maybe when I end you’ll be starting my heart
and sat on my heart like a star
giving a light in the dark,
I love you Rebecca, wherever you are.”
The guy stops on the spot and mouths into May,
Rebecca my sweet, I’ve missed you today.

Red drops onto the spotless counter
Bright crimson against the pale white
A singular red circle in a sky of while
Another drop falls and joins it
Smaller than the first
Then another and another

She looks in the mirror
Maskera streaked like smoke trails against her skin
Pain in her eyes
Her lips quiver and she bows her head
Clear drops falls among the red on the counter

The tears continue to fall as she looks up again
She wipes the tears from her face
As her hand moves over the skin a trail of red appears
Her eyes focus on the smear of blood
She once again wipes her face and she knows what she must do

She takes a breath and looks to her arms
The small cuts seem like whispers in the night
She opens up a makeup compact case
Inside a dozen pieces of broken glass
Just as broken as her

She picks up a curved one
Originally from a glass she broke in the kitchen
About two months ago
Just another incident in a never ending stream
It looks like ice as she sets it against the white counter top

She lines each piece up in a line
Almost like a small army
Preparing for battle
However the war rages inside her
And the end is nowhere in sight

She looks over them
Some duller, older than others
She mulls over them as she makes a decision
And sets a few to the front lines
Looking up once again she takes a breath

Her tears have halted
And her breath stills
All waiting, anticipating
She chooses one
The glass feels so familiar in her fingers

The tip sits pressed against her skin
She winces as she pushes harder
And finally rips through
Skin tears from skin
As the glass glides through her flesh
Like a marathon runner crossing the finish line

The red arises from the depths
It pours over the edges of skin and slides down her wrists
It drips to the counter with ferocity
And soon the drops of red become puddles.

She chooses another recruit
This time a flat piece of glass from a window she dropped
Again it tears into her as she holds her breath
Blood flows and spills against the white
And the tears begin to flow again

Looking down she sees her wrists
Blood covered
They feel so weak
She begins to sob as she lets them fall to her sides
The pain of existence right there on her hands

She sits against the wall until she finds the strength to stand again
The blood on her writs gone from a running stream
To a dark paste
Blood on the counter a aftermath
Dried and black

She picks up a piece of clean glass
Presses it in the open wound and slides it through
The dried blood quickly overcome with a fresh spring or crimson
Once again the drops fall along with her tears

She turns the water on in the sink
It flows clear as day
Clear as the glass sitting beside it
She runs her writs under the cool stream
And winces as the water hits her wounds

The blood runs away and the gaping gashes are all that's left
She grabs a towel and puts it under the water
It dances across the counter as it smears the blood
She wipes it again and again until it all disappears
She runs her arms again under the water cleansing them

Lastly she looks to the glass
Bloodied soldiers only partially lined up
Several scattered around the counter
Like bodies on a battlefield

She scoops them up and washes each one
One by one
She sets the sterile glass back into the makeup compact case
Laying them to rest
Until they will be called to duty again

She looks down at the clear white counter
And turns off the water
She tosses the towel and looks up
A shell of a human being is reflected in the mirror
She wipes her tears again and leaves

Off to fall into the inky blackness of sleep
Hoping and wishing
That if it be even remotely possible
She could wish herself to death
And never wake up

I'm not in the hospital, hit by a car
I know I'm not online as much; I'm not far
from finally finishing out my degree!
Ten days til a Bachelor of PSYCHOLOGY!

Though yes, sad to say, the mishap from last night
Proved unsalvageable what took me all day to write.
But after the panic subsided, in spite
Of the loss I decided to invite
a CAN-DO mantra, that today still recite:

"Citing every source
providing claims; unless, of course,
the statements you express
are YOURS. Original.  Then, yes."
Would be no need to cite,
but I digress; I still endorse
vehemently: just reinforce
Pre-existing bodies,
    empiric and peer-reviewed,
Must become one with your own body,
     long before you can conclude
Much of anything; that, at best,
Could be considered misconstrued.
Which I reckon may elicit a subjectively quite rude
Swing at a pitch from your perspective you thought beckoned attitude
So rather than succumbing, and becoming quite contrite,
Just cite every sentence as though you know of no greater delight
 
AAAAAND
For the friends and acquaintances from on-the-line:
Out among ye mulls around an enemy of thine.
And by proxy, or  vis-a-vis? Uh, nemesis of mine?
Either way, it's a PHONEY! I promise I'm fine!

I wasn't mowed down while crossing a street
By a drunk driver; don't buy into this deceit!
When the hell have you known of me to be on the loose,
And outdoors by a street, with no **** good excuse!

Nah, brah; didn't get rek't, not in the ICU,
Anything 80_hospital says isn't true.
It's hard to imagine why someone would do
Such a thing, and hard to try and imagine who...

Nevertheless: til the mocking bird is absconding
Believe none are who they claim if they're responding
With something extreme, but failing to show face
And put shoe on head or something else, just in case

That for reasons beyond rational ways of thought,
Someone's chosen to wreak havoc on the distraught
At least until that jacka$$ sh!# f#@%er gets caught,
Just, my two cents? If they say "no I swear," they're not.

Does time suddenly come to a stand still?
At certain times, time just feels like a concept
that has no meaning, even going backwards!

She parks her car and sashays out, as if she
has never been frustrated with her life!
Dressed in a boldly patterned dress, she waits.
She looks more like a fixture in nature, a sculpture
that stood so long in a public place, not adulated,
bearing beating sun, snow and rain, yet so fresh
as if newly made, pleasant in a way illusory
her marked chutzpah,evidently intact.

At the park gate he stands, in a past he is lost,
peering at her face from afar, with a keenness
that doesn't seem to be normal, he hesitates
time has turned it's wheel s much yet it seems
a stand still to him,"Would one learn from life?"
he mulls over  as he invites a smile on his face
while walking over to meet her, the moment
of epiphany, he is sure and wants to cherish it for ever.

She mulls over a multitude of dresses,
While she curls up her auburn tresses.
Into a heap of satin she'll wriggle,
Tossing the attires with a nervous giggle.


Every gown whether satin or lace,
Does not seem to bring out her face.
With brash impertinence the gown would divulge,
Her every flaccid protruding bulge.


The corset with all it's tightening,
Wasn't portraying her as placid and mellow,
Her teeth despite the whitening,
Seemed stained and yellow.


But the woman failed to realize,
That her beauty dwells in her eyes,
It escaped her mind ,
that she was one of a kind.


While women eyed her with envy,
Men awed her comely grace,
Her mind was clogged with a daunting frenzy,
That settled upon her pretty face.


Not once did she look up and observe,
The glances aimed at her with animated verve,
She was down with the spreading bout
Of venomous self doubt.


An untoward imbecile,
With no particular talent or skill,
Showered her with a word of praise,
Causing the heart to notch up its pace.


She longed for his fervent gaze,
A gratifying praise,
She needed him to validate her worth,
Only then would she be filled with mirth.  


She had herself to blame,
This pigeon headed dame,
Who was so blind to see,
That she was as beautiful as beauty can be.


To all the lovely women I know,
Keep in mind that men come and go.
Let not their vileness blind you from seeing,
How gifted you are you terrific human being.

His final passage
all it took
to get this girl
to read the book
he'd asked her twice
before he died
she said she'd started it
but lied

His point was made
she'd do her best
fulfill this day
his last request
for now, what's sure
she's hanging on
to every word
because he's gone

and once aboard
she's hauled to sea
no pleasure cruise
but misery
she stands her watch
from noon till nine
he drinks his scotch
she sips her wine

He holds the course
and surely keeps
the surging seas
from where she sleeps
and once her grieving
eases some
she's finds his voice
a comfort from

the memories
she reads his words
through tear filled eyes
her ears have heard
and now she enters
into his
her mind alive
with images

of life beyond
this mortal soul
of turquoise seas
and sandy shoal
she mulls each chapter
of this book
and smells the sea
and baits the hook

and climbs the mast
up to top
unties the sails
and let's them drop
and pulled into uncertainty
the ship sails through
calamity
but never does
she doubt the man
who said he could
she knows he can

and reading on
she comes to see
the trip was really
meant to be
for all her days
she's been alone
sometimes by choice
though seeds were sown

but landing here
on troubled water
no one found
his only daughter
and left to find
her own way home
to settle down
or wait and roam

she's simply learned
to stay afloat
while others love
and others dote
on children born
to entertain
she'd prayed for babies
but got rain

the wind kicks up
her heart still bleeding
blames herself
for never heeding
youthful dreams
for fear of failing
SUDDENLY
she's out here sailing!

now rising from
the galley door
the smell of fresh
baked bread and more-
sea-salt blends
with airborne yeast
and draws her down
to taste the feast

she swings the rope
from deck to ladder
there's her Dad
a little fatter
the captain calls
all hands on deck
a storm is brewing
still they check

to see what's cooking
time to eat
for work requires
mortal meat
and in the middle
of the story
here's her father's
pride and glory

pictures taped
upon the wall
his two best girls
and that's not all
a golden key
on nail in teak
she'll watch him knead
while floorboards creak

she stands beside
and learns his ways
for he was gone
most of her days
out to sea to make a living
and mama said
he's always giving

now she listens as he praying
for wife and child
what's this he's saying?
"Bless them both
while I'm away,
lead them safely
through the day"

while fishermen
have dropped their nets
he speaks of losses
and regrets
that one small daughter
missed her dad
he never knew
just what he had

and once again
the ride resumes
across a sea
of oil plumes
and men are hardly
scarce she finds
her father's story
now unwinds

he fought this battle
with his crew
while stirring up
a *** of stew
his Guif, the sea,
was once so clear
he loved to fish
and held it dear

the tales within
this mariner's log
Would pull her head
out of the fog
he's taught her how
to sail the sea
to feel the wind
which sets her free

from thinking it's
about the past
to taking hold
of things which last
and using what's
inside of you
to break the cycle
cook the stew

to forge ahead
and let it go
you must read on
or never know
now seeing that
his book will end
she slows her eyes
and takes his pen

and writes a note
on every page
attempting to now
quell the rage
for how could he
who claimed to love
allow her pain
to rise above

the peaceful calm
she's found within
his final passage
'tis a sin
and still, one day
he shouts "LAND **!'
the end approaches
heart in tow

she will not greet
the writer's end
nor leave this place
of make-pretend
She will not listen
anymore

but drops her anchor
just off shore
and won't accept
the last surprise
but stills his voice
and shuts his eyes
she fights against
the frothy foam
while bailing water
from her own

she cannot bear
to lose him twice
his loving presence
his sound advice
on written pages
this the book
about his life
at sea
the cook

for days to come
the text will sit
with marker near
the end of it
for this her only
comfort now
to know he waits
for her somehow

and days will come
and days will turn
to weeks, then months
a year to burn
the only way
for this old lass
to ever move
beyond the pass

to go and read
the final pages
put to rest
her rock of ages
to do the only
thing she can
to free herself
from limbo land

She finds the book
upon her shelf
and opening
it for herself
She'll read the words
the man had written
years before
when he was smitten

on that page
and by his hand
a blessing that
he'd always planned
to read her on
her wedding day
the daughter he
would give away

"Be sure to love
the one you're with,
and this my girl
your wedding gift"
and tucked within
the jacket there
a little clipping
of her hair

a poem she'd done
when she was nine
and two more things
within the spine
a lock box number
and that key
this man, he loved
a mystery...

.@>@>@>@>@>@>@>@>@>@>@>@>@>@>@>@>@>@>@>@>@>@

Today she rides
upon the seas
and sails around
the Florida Keys
she drops her anchor
swims to shore
the waves won't scare her
anymore

and just last year
she met a guy
a salty sailor
with just one eye
he'd seen the movie
lived the book
not the ending
just the hook.

My mind is confusing
Opposite of wallflower 
It skirts though loudly obviously
It observes with eyes too blinking
It takes you in and mulls you like cinnamon and ***
It screams I will look at you I will not see you
It listens does not hear but what you have to state
Until near too gone
When it puzzles a million things simultaneously
That means at the same time
It lunges and parries and strikes at the words
Until it cannot contain to hold them
And it must combust
And it writes them down
Speaks them up
And I 
Understand.

His final passage
all it took
to get this girl
to read the book
he'd asked her twice
before he died
she said she'd started it
but lied

His point was made
she'd do her best
fulfill this day
his last request
for now, what's sure
she's hanging on
to every word
because he's gone

and once aboard
she's hauled to sea
no pleasure cruise
but misery
she stands her watch
from noon till nine
he drinks his scotch
she sips her wine

He holds the course
and surely keeps
the surging seas
from where she sleeps
and once her grieving
eases some
she's finds his voice
a comfort from

the memories
she reads his words
through tear filled eyes
her ears have heard
and now she enters
into his
her mind alive
with images

of life beyond
this mortal soul
of turquoise seas
and sandy shoal
she mulls each chapter
of this book
and smells the sea
and baits the hook

and climbs the mast
up to top
unties the sails
and let's them drop
and pulled into uncertainty
the ship sails through
calamity
but never does
she doubt the man
who said he could
she knows he can

and reading on
she comes to see
the trip was really
meant to be
for all her days
she's been alone
sometimes by choice
though seeds were sown

but landing here
on troubled water
no one found
his only daughter
and left to find
her own way home
to settle down
or wait and roam

she's simply learned
to stay afloat
while others love
and others dote
on children born
to entertain
she'd prayed for babies
but got rain

the wind kicks up
her heart still bleeding
blames herself
for never heeding
youthful dreams
for fear of failing
SUDDENLY
she's out here sailing!

now rising from
the galley door
the smell of fresh
baked bread and more-
sea-salt blends
with airborne yeast
and draws her down
to taste the feast

she swings the rope
from deck to ladder
there's her Dad
a little fatter
the captain calls
all hands on deck
a storm is brewing
still they check

to see what's cooking
time to eat
for work requires
mortal meat
and in the middle
of the story
here's her father's
pride and glory

pictures taped
upon the wall
his two best girls
and that's not all
a golden key
on nail in teak
she'll watch him knead
while floorboards creak

she stands beside
and learns his ways
for he was gone
most of her days
out to sea to make a living
and mama said
he's always giving

now she listens as he praying
for wife and child
what's this he's saying?
"Bless them both
while I'm away,
lead them safely
through the day"

while fishermen
have dropped their nets
he speaks of losses
and regrets
that one small daughter
missed her dad
he never knew
just what he had

and once again
the ride resumes
across a sea
of oil plumes
and men are hardly
scarce she finds
her father's story
now unwinds

he fought this battle
with his crew
while stirring up
a *** of stew
his Guif, the sea,
was once so clear
he loved to fish
and held it dear

the tales within
this mariner's log
Would pull her head
out of the fog
he's taught her how
to sail the sea
to feel the wind
which sets her free

from thinking it's
about the past
to taking hold
of things which last
and using what's
inside of you
to break the cycle
cook the stew

to forge ahead
and let it go
you must read on
or never know
now seeing that
his book will end
she slows her eyes
and takes his pen

and writes a note
on every page
attempting to now
quell the rage
for how could he
who claimed to love
allow her pain
to rise above

the peaceful calm
she's found within
his final passage
'tis a sin
and still, one day
he shouts "LAND **!'
the end approaches
heart in tow

she will not greet
the writer's end
nor leave this place
of make-pretend
She will not listen
anymore
but drops her anchor
just off shore

and won't accept
the last surprise
but stills his voice
and shuts his eyes
she fights against
the frothy foam
while bailing water
from her own

she cannot bear
to lose him twice
his loving presence
his sound advice
on written pages
this the book
about his life
at sea
the cook

for days to come
the text will sit
with marker near
the end of it
for this her only
comfort now
to know he waits
for her somehow

and days will come
and days will turn
to weeks, then months
a year to burn
the only way
for this old lass
to ever move
beyond the pass

to go and read
the final pages
put to rest
her rock of ages
to do the only
thing she can
to free herself
from limbo land

She finds the book
upon her shelf
and opening
it for herself
She'll read the words
the man had written
years before
when he was smitten

on that page
and by his hand
a blessing that
he'd always planned
to read her on
her wedding day
the daughter he
would give away

"Be sure to love
the one you're with,
and this my girl
your wedding gift"
and tucked within
the jacket there
a little clipping
of her hair

a poem she'd done
when she was nine
and two more things
within the spine
a lock box number
and that key
this man, he loved
a mystery...

.@>@>@>@>@>@>@>@>@>@>@>@>@>@>@>@>@>@>@>@>@>@

Today she rides
upon the seas
and sails around
the Florida Keys
she drops her anchor
swims to shore
the waves won't scare her
anymore

and just last year
she met a guy
a salty sailor
with just one eye
he'd seen the movie
lived the book
this, not the ending
just the hook.

The doctor probed my eyes
stethoed to feel my lung
had my mouth wide prised
got rolled out my tongue!

He gave it deep long mulls
hmm was all he said
in his grip throbbed my pulse
beating fast afraid!

Hmm he muttered once again
there’s no problem specific
but for that undefined pain
that you say is making you weak!

More apparent is the darned thing
that has really blighted your face
beneath your eyes the black ring
you are counting stars I guess!

May I know what keeps you awake
why you find sleep bothersome
keep tossing on bed till daybreak
pray tell me don’t remain mum!

Poor doctor how he would ever know
best time for poeming is the night
when crystal dreams in moon glow
pour out from heart with might!

Would the deathless deep thirst
dry up my insides
from the mouth to marrow
if where you hide
becomes your home away from
home in mine?

Sleepy wind mulls over
moments lost in thought
to water's wild surrender
I walk the vagrant's path
hand in hand with nothing
I would not have let go
of my own in time.

athymia:
1. the absence of emotion; morbid impassivity.

exhibit A.
she passes through tunnels of silken sheets and wind chambers with gusts that leave trails of kisses. she lives in a dream. when their lips met for the first time, she looked into his eyes with a question and he didn't say yes to take a crash course on the beating of her heart. he took advantage of the moment, unwary of the precarious nature of his words and actions. but wide-eyed and naive she said yes, because it is a word the vulnerable mutter all too frequently with uncommon ease. they are still an entity, but unbeknownst to her lies a world of secrets she has yet to discover about him. lies. he doesn't love her, he is still confused. yet he keeps the charade going like a mastermind. if you can't have the one you love, love the one you’re with. she continues to paint daisies on the walls and on her wrists. everything is perfect.

exhibit B.
physics says that force times distance is equal to work. she's more of a science ****** than anything, and i am not talking about breaking bad in the slightest. no one wants to do anything in the dead of winter because it is as frigid as the underbelly of a monarch penguin, but she moves as fast as a monarch butterfly on her quest for his heart. she's fallen victim to one of the most powerful spells of levitation, and we wait until the efficacy of gravity strikes. we wait so she can learn her lesson, that science cannot teach you the ways of the heart, that you can have as many late night conversations, warm embraces, and clandestine glances as possible, and it could still predict naught of the future. she has yet to learn this, and she also has yet to say "i'm sorry." and this, i wait for, but i will not hold my breath.

exhibit C.
stung. she has been stung by the harbinger of indecision. she dreams of a beautiful world that carries with it the love she needs, but it is by vicious nature for her to reject others and feel dejected. she does not stare at happiness at first, but she stares at potential. pretty little potential with a ribbon on top, glimmering in the dusk. she does nothing but question it ceaselessly until it shrinks away like the wrap used to encase it. he is potential. so was that guy, and the guy before, and so on and so forth until we reach the factorial of four. she was never good at math, but she could count up all her insecurities like simple addition and simply subtracted people in her life thereafter if they made her feel the slightest of some way she thought she shouldn't. but at the end of the night she is on the cusps of complacency, twining fingers with memories that dance with her until the sun stretches awake. cheating apathy with reflection.

exhibit D.
he remembers the teasing lilt in her voice and blue ribbon she set in the back of her hair ("it's more of a cerulean, don't you think?"), and conjuring the images of her within his clouded mind is elementary biology. he places the vinyl in the record player, and plays "no surprises." not his favorite, but when he knows it was hers. he sits on his bed and the each note hits him in a different part of his body, and he keeps withdrawing from the memory bank. they're slow dancing in his room, her gentle laugh at his missteps is glitter cascading to the floor, and soon their bodies are shifting in a foreign way and he later wakes feeling the weight of starlight nestled upon his chest. then the sky turns red. not maroon or soft sunset but a flash of pure red. the hands of the clock twist to form sequences of circles, the calendar pages turn like a bestseller. he says things he doesn't mean to girls who yearn to hear them, and his hands guide their way through jungles with quicksand and a sahara with no oasis. needless to say, everything has changed. he recalls the careful penmanship on the letter she wrote, and they are standing face to face at the bus stop issuing quiet goodbyes. the record ends but the images are bright and vivid. funny how piano keys, though simply black and white, bleed thousands of audible colors. he mulls this over until he enters slumber.

She strolled into the house of the holy.
Face filled with misery.
Drops down on her humble knees.
Begging forgiveness.
From one who is not there.

So,
How can one be convinced
That meeting and greeting at the end of her world.
Her maker will be met.
A hand-shaker maybe to welcome her in.
As if business meeting almost begins.
Discuss over coffee,
Mortal sins.

Mulls over who loses.
And who in hell wins.
Who drinks from the famous half full up cup.
Perceiving, believing that nobody knows.
Is heaven a rumour?
For heaven she weeps!

This is just a poem...just a bundle of words.
Words come when I'm tired and I don't want to waste them!

By ladylivvi1

© 2014 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

Time floats with the dust
And hangs in our silence,
Mulls in our laughter,
Hides our reliance
On trust.
Oh say it if you must;
We can watch the
Metal rust
On our support beams,
Grow old and
Talk of dreams
Unattained nostalgically
But it seems
Like we'll always be
Stardust
Blown together
On a gust of chance.
And if it's true,
Let's entrance
Ourselves in
Harmonic wanderlust.

I can feel you in my fingers,
my muscles remember having you
in my arms.
I live on little miracles,
like when we think of each other
at the same time.
My rumbling mind mulls over
every sign until I shush it
with a sigh.
I rub my tired eyes and tell myself,
        "Go to sleep!"
I listen half the time,
half the time I eat.
While I rummage through the kitchen
I imagine you singing
in the living room,
your velvet voice
laying soft on my heart.

Nathan, aka Nateive Son, will probably make a point with me, come to think on't, cuz--



(sonnet #MMMMMMDCCCLXVII)


Yes, Shakespeare whileas fiddles seem t'avail
This warming chance to simply breathe; a sense
Not warranted of carefree joy's pretense
Half waltzes like these soft blue skies' detail
Mulls spring ere time, as if the thrilling scale
Of higher temps could waken for intents
The daffodils yet buried 'neath snow's dense
But melting whiter coverlid gone stale.
Piano too, for strings, ere that sweet tour
Of cherished lines is quite sufficient through
Long use is't?  How Will inks his love 'til we're
'Non prey to  black ink's breath just as he knew
We aught to be and swore was so, though's poor.
These frore hours we trudge through know what 'gain too?

08Jan18a

Marjorie mulls the passing man and fly
The marriage window has gone by
Her hair lies dank n' grey in sobern grief
Her clothes befit a teenage thief

Rejection is a common theme
Daily survival is the daily dream
She plays with beads and hears the chime
The grandfather clock, true keeper of time

She smiles when asked to play the part
Of successful daughter, mother and heart
But reality bites when she is inept
Losing in life she always accepts

I've had people ask before,
"What was that scar from?"
then a,
"Why did you do it?"

Why,
why,
why,
why,
why?

That question mulls itself
over and over
in my mind like a mantra,
until my brain becomes dizzy.

Why did I?  
Why am I?

To feel?  
To distract?
To numb?

I have no direct answer,
only a question for their question.

Then, I realize
this might be the only thing
I am completely unsure of
about myself.

Brooding and misunderstood, draped in dark clothing with a bright red scarf. A splash of color for what no one understands. Walking in fear of sharp objects and not embracing children, the frustrated writer mulls the life that has been chosen. Not a carpenter, or a painter, but a writer of prose. A tortured soul that literally hungers for understanding!. Not able to relate to the normal world without painting drastic pictures of reality through the blood letting of words from a bitter pen. The poet loathes the existence that has been chosen. Not able to find joy, the red scarf the only emblem of another life, but no one can understand the symbolism, is it for cheer or Crimson for blood and want to commit suicide. Only another tortured soul can understand the pain a brooding dark poet feels.

Yet another someone else decides suicide is significant,
In some manner and mulls over the materiality and innocence,
That would wander away while pending the process,
Some scalpel, shotgun, or Saturday night special to scrap the stress,
Together till Doomsday take trifling tribes to the terminal trial,
The end is inevitable so make off the supplemental mile,