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Curt A Rivard Sr Nov 2012
(Scene 1)

Everything was all in slow motion after getting the call
Preparing myself for what it is I will witness next
Suddenly I find myself slowing my walk to a crawl.
I read it over and over through the graphic text
Precised detailed instructions with vivid accounts
Chapter nineteen was written in words that were perplexed.
In the protective cushion of my mind
A hidden secret that is buried deep starts to come alive
Am I awake or am I am asleep?
So confused for I'm beginning to think,
When I dream is it real and when I'm awake is it a dream?
I now feel something starting to trickle and secrete inside me
In the base of my skull I feel the pain.
A pine cone shaped gland is now convulsing and quivering
It causes me to dream at night and it always showed me the truth
It gave upon me the gift of prophesy
and all the answers to life's many mysteries
also in my transformation it turned me into a clever soothsayer.
Why me, why was I plagued?
I know it will happen for the last time in my life
A pleasant and peaceful journey it will take me
As soon as I give up the fight and race through the dark tunnel heading to the light.
An imaginary horror movie now begins to play
Given me visions of what I will see before the end of the day.
I know where I am going; I know what I am going to pick up
Yes I have a clue on just what I am getting into.
A dog whistles sound I hear the constant ringing in my ears
I always see the vapors around my face
Drifting like smoke in my peripheral sight I see them all dance.
I'm I hearing voices in my head or am I going insane?
In an instant blink I am catapulted into a cold room
Thirty nine bags deep in there frozen slumber they laid
No matching numbers with tags could be found
Through another set of double doors I enter
Exposing another four all sprawled out on silver tables.
My eyes now become fixed on the bizarre hollow sight
Of the one's with the harvest of their spongy matter.
Absorbing all the sights and smells
I now found what I came looking for
In a rush to see what’s in my grab bag
I race now to get him out the door
and to stop stepping on with my new shoes,
All the blood that is upon the floor.

To be continued.......

(SirCARSr. 10-24-12)
This phase is the slowest phase a slow dance song
could pattern itself with.
Not all but those souls darkening inside every
rooms after work is religiously cursing
that this is not everything should be.
We have plans:

Heroically-precised plans of an idealist when
he’s drunk and has to wake up at six in the
next morning and turn himself back into
a realist so he wouldn’t be expecting
something great to come.
The best part of it was he is and he was
an idealist at some point, not too frequent and
not so often.
And tonight he didn’t make much difference to you,
to me and to those poor kids the government couldn’t
handle but he thinks about it sometimes; about the difference
between how “he can’t do it but thinks of doing it” and
“enormous profits can do it but doesn’t even bother
thinking about it.”

So averagely unreliable he can’t be good at something
anyone would appreciate or at least make money
out of but he’s still there and sometimes
he’s a she. Doesn’t make any difference whether
a he or a she but their lives are meaningful
as a party lover’s or a narcissist who breathes
through attention that will never be filled.
...

They climb walls too.
They watch.
They sometimes write their
butts off.
They live.
They matter.
They are your belittled fans.
They were beautiful cosmic beings of space,
humbled enough to place themselves
down here and forgetfully
regret it and they still live.
...

I don’t know. Maybe this phase is just
so disappointing, I try to make something
inspirational about it and yeah, I failed.
Shevek Appleyard Jun 2020
indecisive, precised
on nothing that matters
to block out the natter chatter
that keeps ideas shattered

one step forward
and five steps back
ignoring is rewarding with a slap

growing weary and dreary
feeling short of time
I struggle to remember
that my mind is mine

longing to be involved
not feel mistaken
alone in contemplation
vicious circle situations

unsettled on repeat
my eyes can't see
I have the ability
to run from this free

doubts and outs
what has come from my mouth?
again and again
competing with friends
fantasies of enemies
far-fetched theories
smoked and smeary

my spontaneity stretched
my confidence confiscated
always on edge  
opportunities wasted

fretful precision
anxious decisions
imitates and animates
knife sharp and fast
convincing and sneering
you are an outcast
Lolaoye Mar 2017
My beauty is undefined, ugly to be precised
With scares from reject and fails
Hoping to unleash the real identity of love  
A dream fake to be real
Sacks of pain inside I felt
Me and death real pals from hell

— The End —