"pretension" poems
I've sat here for 21 years
Watching all this go by
People say things cliché
With pretension in their eye
I'm tired of hearing, everyday, what life is all about
Reality is getting boring, let's tune in and drop out
Have you heard the one
About the killer and the priest?
One blesses people with less and less
And one is just a thief
In "somewhere else" my mind is broken down
Reality is getting boring yet still its name resounds
There's stories everywhere you go
And all of them the same
Reductive plots and happy endings
Just under another name
I'm quiet as I sit and listen to what they all say
Reality is getting boring, maybe I'll revisit it some other day
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 3:57 PM UTC
start
set the scene...
somewhere enclosed, close and closed
like a bed
(tight, restricted like, uh, the world all around me, how fitting
now it’s political)
on a morning
and maybe the sun will be rising,
or setting−yes−to represent the ethereal dusk of my cognition,
Say I’m with someone−don’t identify whom−it’s meant to be a mystery:
unfinished, left.
it could be you
and I’ll search the dictionary
for words to make my pseudo-philosophical, imagist, absurdist poem obfuscated, esoteric,
tanquam yet favillous; beyond recognition
So that it sounds like Dr. Seuss,
that is, a Dr. Seuss that knows Althusser, Derrida and the early writings of Flaubert.
add some random enjamb-
ment. cut out the capitalizationandspacing. start a sentence;
end it. Section break
Oh, I’ll need more words, you know, to remind my peers of my intellectuality,
-out of place words that don’t actually mean anything:
Specificity or
literati
that’s good. Now, to end-
bring it to a close in one all-encompassing word:
(to be read over-dramatically)
pretension.
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 3:26 PM UTC
Looking upon this tree with its quaint pretension
Of holding the earth, a leveret, in its claws,
Or marking the texture of its living bark,
A grey sea wrinkled by the winds of years,
I understand whence this man's body comes,
In veins and fibres, the bare boughs of bone,
The trellised thicket, where the heart, that robin,
Greets with a song the seasons of the blood.
But where in meadow or mountain shall I match
The individual accent of the speech
That is the ear's familiar? To what sun attribute
The honeyed warmness of his smile?
To which of the deciduous brood is German
The angel peeping from the latticed eye?
4.9k
I’ve ordered and carried my steaming cup of brown to my table to ignore the falling snow beyond the walls of this box.
My clothes are wrong, my hair as well.
I just cut it, and everyone knows which mistakes I made.
A man sneezes and the song changes.
Better not make eye contact with anyone; I am not in their league, here at the muddy spoon cafe.
Chewing so loudly in the de-creeping silence,
these safe, polite, quiet ones.
I am the creep here. I am different.
My thighs are tense.
Hunching over the paper, arms tense and clutching a gnarled red pen--
It’s probably self-indulgent to even sign my name.
Someone’s shuffling cards.
I almost forgot.
The awkwardness I’m filled with breathes out a short sigh when I realize
--my part’s over.
“Do you know Sanskrit? Do you know what that is?”
A woman asks another.
I want to choke on the pretension
The tenseness, I adjust my leg to relieve pressure on my ankle.
Why can’t I just enjoy the snow? That’s all I really came here for-- well, and the coffee.
I hear a woman cough with an unaffected tenor, which would convey her gender to an interested party but to me carries no intonation.
I wonder if the girl I recognize from class thinks I’m following her.
I came here for coffee, sweetheart!
Is it yet too hot for me to dare a drink?
I can see it, the steam, rising out of the corner of my eye.
I haven’t looked away from my hand in twenty minutes.
“Who am I?” they may be asking myself for me.
I don’t have a clue.
They can think about that problem
for themselves
while they’re lonely
in their forties.
I’m lonely now and I hope not to live
that long.
Here, we pretend not to see each other’s faces
in the gleaming presence of steaming cups.
“I don’t want to wonder about that.”
I realize there’s nothing I even deem worth writing down.
Feb 5, 2012
Feb 5, 2012 at 4:13 AM UTC
Go, Soul, the body’s guest,
Upon a thankless errand;
Fear not to touch the best;
The truth shall be thy warrant:
Go, since I needs must die,
And give the world the lie.
Say to the court, it glows
And shines like rotten wood;
Say to the church, it shows
What’s good, and doth no good:
If church and court reply,
Then give them both the lie.
Tell potentates, they live
Acting by others’ action;
Not loved unless they give,
Not strong but by a faction.
If potentates reply,
Give potentates the lie.
Tell men of high condition,
That manage the estate,
Their purpose is ambition,
Their practice only hate:
And if they once reply,
Then give them all the lie.
Tell them that brave it most,
They beg for more by spending,
Who, in their greatest cost,
Seek nothing but commending.
And if they make reply,
Then give them all the lie.
Tell zeal it wants devotion;
Tell love it is but lust;
Tell time it is but motion;
Tell flesh it is but dust:
And wish them not reply,
For thou must give the lie.
Tell age it daily wasteth;
Tell honour how it alters;
Tell beauty how she blasteth;
Tell favour how it falters:
And as they shall reply,
Give every one the lie.
Tell wit how much it wrangles
In tickle points of niceness;
Tell wisdom she entangles
Herself in overwiseness:
And when they do reply,
Straight give them both the lie.
Tell physic of her boldness;
Tell skill it is pretension;
Tell charity of coldness;
Tell law it is contention:
And as they do reply,
So give them still the lie.
Tell fortune of her blindness;
Tell nature of decay;
Tell friendship of unkindness;
Tell justice of delay:
And if they will reply,
Then give them all the lie.
Tell arts they have no soundness,
But vary by esteeming;
Tell schools they want profoundness,
And stand too much on seeming:
If arts and schools reply,
Give arts and schools the lie.
Tell faith it’s fled the city;
Tell how the country erreth;
Tell manhood shakes off pity
And virtue least preferreth:
And if they do reply,
Spare not to give the lie.
So when thou hast, as I
Commanded thee, done blabbing—
Although to give the lie
Deserves no less than stabbing—
Stab at thee he that will,
No stab the soul can ****
3.5k
Nostalgia
is a poor excuse
for ignorance
yet it pervades
with a tenacity
stemming from fabricated desire
for the smell of ****
we're told
is roses
and it's blasphemous
to question potential "isms"
lurking behind the veil
of Saturday morning cartoons
and black and white family sitcoms.
Yet by the time the sonic *** organs
have lain into us with repressed emotion,
the holy spirit has spilled its ***** in the dirt
to traverse onward floating apparition
out of the room and down the hall
closer towards progress.
and we are left reeling
stumbling into the hallway
buttoning our blouses
and yanking at our zippers
wondering what could cause
such great haste
and we follow blindly
in the wake of the first high
or we turn backwards
and plunge into fading bricolage
as a means to cope
with the rapid and fleeting ***********
of the electric eye
in its shape-shifting pylons and appendages
getting smaller in the naked eye
and gargantuan in the mind.
Clutching our *******
in great amorous heaves
of lust
or donning our father's clothes
in a mask of artifice
and enlightened cultural pretension.
Moaning for the days of youth a week ago,
the epoch squeezed in the space between thumbs,
looking for treasures in the trash
craving something tangible
in an increasingly intangible world.
The semblance of touch lost on a generation
who knows only of emotion through hieroglyphics
and never through direct sensation.
So we dig through the toy boxes
and leave Generation X puzzled
as we dig into their records
in Guns n Roses T-shirts
and high waisted jeans.
We're just looking for an immaculate conception of something palpable.
Oct 25, 2016
Oct 25, 2016 at 10:26 AM UTC
Striped carnation (refusal):
I have long since discovered that the fires
in me were never going away.
The heaviness, from refusal
to spit the ashes.
Queen Anne’s lace (fantasy):
I thought you put out the fire last night
but you weren’t there.
Willow herb (pretension):
How long have you been gone?
I told myself as many lies as I could handle
but none of them ever worked.
Scabiosa (unfortunate love):
We’ve built enough bridges to take us nowhere–
tell me again what we’ve become:
trembling hands,
trying not to spill blood on what was left.
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 9:33 PM UTC
A baby from Burundi sits next to me today.
He coos and drinks and swallows his mother’s milk.
His father speaks Swahili. Smiles, tells me that his last son
Is going to grow old in Rochester, NY,
Where I sit in a white-walled waiting room, watching
Mothers drag their babies by the armpits to be weighed.
A boy with braided beads holds up four fingers and tells me he is five.
He is too skinny. His pants are sagging and his iron is low.
His mother takes his vegetable checks, stuffs them into the back pocket of her jeans.
What the little **** needs is two percent milk, she says,
Her gold hoops fluttering.
Her son struggles with the small wooden chair he is carrying.
It drags along the carpet, hitting the high spots, and his tiny biceps flinch.
He sits, facing me, while a name is called. And another.
Another woman’s son hands me a book and waits.
He is watching my face and I watch his mother kiss her boyfriend in the first row seats.
He tucks his chin to his chest when I ask his name. Whispers, tells me Jayden.
First page. What color is Elmo, Jayden?
Shoulders shrugging. His lower lip, puckered out and innocent.
What color is he, Jayden?
The color of Jayden’s skin slaps me across the heart when he says he doesn’t know.
He was born in Rochester, NY,
With trash bags and Burger King wrappers wrapped around the fence
That separates his house from the street on which he will grow old
Too soon.
He starts kindergarten in the fall and I tell him Elmo is red, like his t-shirt.
Like his mother’s fingernails.
Like the tomatoes and bell peppers and beets he has never seen.
A girl who went to my High School carries in her youngest child
Who is old enough to walk, but wobbles.
She calls her daughter “thunder-thighs” instead of Jazmyne
And strips off her shoes. Her belt. Her gold bracelets.
The scale says Jazmyne is too heavy for food assistance.
The state says her mother isn’t poor enough for welfare.
The girl I used to know leaves without her daughter’s shoes or the food checks she came for.
In conversations of pretension
We talk about first and third world.
Pretend that America is the land of second chances
Where a baby from Burundi can grow old in cashmere sweaters,
Even when his parents couldn’t pay.
The father who speaks Swahili looks at his shiny watch and his family’s vegetable checks.
Smiles. Tells me his last son is going to grow old and full
In Rochester, NY.
Jun 10, 2010
Jun 10, 2010 at 12:51 PM UTC
a toast to the gods of self preservation
twenty one with plenty coming
allowing to pound sounds within
the crown aroused voided a founders of it’s bruises
spells hold the fold, I’m coasting with the best
resting in the east so I sleep with blinds low
the comfort zone is far from solitude
my molecules have aptitude to channel Jupiter
seatbelts are useless wastes of matter, excuse me
just a minute so you can miss me with that individuality
your calloused grip on reality impairs the singularity
old school, gold noose, silver lined diamonds
Jesus pieces reaped the seeds that teach your blind lids
came back with scabbed knuckled and heart scars
hustled the portal of pretension ever so ethereally
inner synthesis purged the day the plague hit
on the courts or the graves, you name the slaves
the game slayed the day the chains changed hands
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 2:20 PM UTC
billboard's calligraph --
past the haze of Manila infested
by car sprawls and belching machines.
magnanimous treatise of tarpaulins,
people chin-up asking God
with askance
something like this
"o god make this bearable
like a mound of fresh fruits
from ****** labour."
maniacal sensurround:
earth-shattering frequency
of footsteps trampling the mouth
of monolith shadows - the peak
of this quake is our complete silence.
rain's catharsis in effect
sousing us in the blood of unreal light.
this diastolic shrinkage
jamming the beat of constricting vessels.
the adrenaline surges
within the dermis of this pretension.
a collective of tired beings heeding
the recherché of voice metamorphosing
into form, a dagger-butterfly
paring us skin to bone, cranial
to visceral, soul to nothing -
catapult of a trajectory spit
plummeting in eased-up pace
from Taft Avenue flyover
to a subjugated wagon of scraps
and empty wine bottles.
today's paper reads:
"Palace hits hiring
of **** dancers"
fancying to fall right in the
spanked curved of this
insatiate melodrama - something
prayer could not save from
this land's mutinous ignominy.
we resume to fulfill our madness,
hundreds of tack-headed people
rolling down the streets of Makati,
drenched with rain's trilling aftermath.
squinting to look at
no sun, only the grieving of skyscrape,
thumbing down unidentified objects
in the depth of loose pockets,
desperate for home.
Oct 2, 2015
Oct 2, 2015 at 12:39 AM UTC
He touched our hands
But unconcernedly this famous man
And would not look us in the eye
For fear of contact or what might be worse, connection
And we could hardly blame him, for after all
He had each day been singled out for close inspection
By ones like us, in awe of his celebrity
Circled in the shade of his perfection
Hoping for the star-dust sprinkle of acuity
Or sparkling eyes, admission to his inner cult and clan
He wore blue jeans
And scuffed sneakers as a badge of proof
Of his coolness and unconcern
While we his audience with concealed attention
Enviously eyed his hairy confidence, unconsciously
Imitating in each phrase that low convention
Made small adjustments to our store-bought suits and ties
And nodded several times in bright pretension
Made small amendments to our smiles and lies
Flicked photo-phones in pursuit of custom and routine
He gave a speech
A flippant interview, this famous creature
A well tossed phrase, a rounded cliche
Poured forth like brandy in a glass, convivial
Or apple cider-ed vinegar in pewter mugs
A sardonically French-accented phrase habitual
Well humored, heavy lidded with testosterone
At interlocutor women with the pens and pads
Delivered in a low and purring monotone
For all the world as lovers, each to each
He stretched a smile
A modulated shift of teeth and beard
"Genius? Not I" with deprecation
"My shallow intellect, so poor and so ephemeral"
Delivered in a tone that mocked inclusion
While we assumed an elegance, unintentional
A nonchalance that shields the wide charades
Unmoving in our breathless, but conventional
Genuflection to the the notion that pervades
Our addictive appetite now sated. For a while.
He kissed their cheeks
And stroked their arms, with sensuous ambivalence
But absently, as if he cared so little
In his farewell. 'A bientot' he said and 'Au revoir'
And slipped away amongst the moving Milan crowds
Creative and creator, irredeemably a star
With, in his wake the smiling scriveners staring
At his retreating back in Stark excitement
In the middle of the circling and squaring, at
The alpha-wolfic effigy. The Shepherd and his sheep.
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 6:46 AM UTC
In to my eyes she longingly gazes,
for a long moment, disarmingly smiles,
as if I am her first teen age lover
broken in to her room,unawares
and did naughty things,like snatching kisses.
her dad would definitely scold her mother
for permitting such nonsense
without his prior approval,
now that all got wrong, she is perplexed,
what would the people think of her
if they find out all about this?
Her lips I kiss ever so tenderly
to prove that I am still a green horn
in matters of amour, callow and clumsy to boot,
I join in her pretension that we just had
our first vanilla ice cream together,
when we bumped in to each other by chance.
Now the scene changes, she signals
like in one of those school dramas she shone well,
in my ears she whispers, now the coy Indian bride,
who never take liberties without
prior parental approval,
"I just wanted to cheat myself,
for this once, isn't it the last chance
forget for the time being that
we just had an arranged marriage"
Feb 21, 2016
Feb 21, 2016 at 8:45 AM UTC
cracked out
humble with heaps of pride
braggadocio Pinocchio
I haven’t slept in days
so watch the hours turn into haze
blown out of barely open windows
hide me from the world
I’m making a pristine machine - unbreakable
foreseeable as a weapon of poor taste
chasing wasted with chasers
are you shaking?
only with excitement
rage
hunger
My dad says get a job, get an education
so I chose a dead vocation with no hopes of vacations
and everybody is talking about the future as if it exists
it only exists in clenched fists and endless lists
of all the wrong turns you made on the journey
from then to now
I’m eating sacred cow meat - medium rare please
coming up with ways to scare these dumb ******* kids away from apathy
to put the shield over their hearts and the rifle in their hands
but wah wah nobody understands blah blah blah
shut the **** up for once
act like you actually have a pair of *****
even if you don’t
back in the day when we used to rob neighborhood garages of beer
and played with pills like candy
nobody threw tantrums about how unfair it all is
so you think the world owes you something?
the only thing it owes you is one death
so why are you wasting all of our time with your I could have saved the world
cry baby ********
I’m looking for slutty girls
pearl necklace on her checklist
so I can slam her on page verse
me versus the world, right?
left out by all the cool kids
drinking boohoo flavored kool-aid
so I made myself a parody of pretension
cunning, coming, ***********
you are the joke so I guess that makes me a punchline
I’m running sprints from the baseline until I’m throwing up the right choices
so continue with all of that angsty impotent sadness
so long as you stay out of my part of town
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 1:31 PM UTC
****** Bag in sunglasses
donned indoors where
fluorescent sunlight cannot justify
the obfuscation of haughty eyes
so the visage is one
of pure pretension
and cockiness,
dichotomized
as self-assuredness
and the colloquial term for the phallus,
a literal ****
(I see him strongly in the memory of a high school field trip returning home school bus late night he sits sideways back to the window head leaning back sunglasses donned smug grin I rendered him the vessel and the scape goat bearing my burning hatred for the inflated ego wrapped in an undesirable chic I deem deplorable, hate hate hate)
Smug grin,
I wrote this poem from a bean bag
in the corner of the library third floor
whilst wearing sunglasses and
a taste of irony
on callous lips
twisted in an invisible sneer.
Oct 17, 2016
Oct 17, 2016 at 7:50 PM UTC
I'll take it back to those dark dim light streets and start again.
I'll never look back over my cold shoulder. There is now static in the midst. Like the final curtain call of a tragic happy ending. Deranged by this false pretension that you have embedded into my beautiful flaws. Lost in my own Dark morgue holding a ciggerate in my hand. Every drag closer to my dead line, but more bliss than dying next to a harlot, liar, and trader.
Baby why couldn't of you of just trusted my word? Now just look at this mess. Your beautiful mess. My disaster. My best gentlemen suit now ruined. I can wash out the stains of regret, but not the blood on your filthy hands that isn't your own. Set the trial. Prosecute the guilty. **** the false idols and beat the cheeks of the ignorant.
Your a addict for those tall tale accusations that feed your hunger. Like the deep belly of the beast that is never satisfied. Seeking the image of your face to destroy, but your faceless to my devine perspective of a fake object I once looked up too.
Set the trial. Prosecute the guilty. **** the false idols and beat the cheeks of the ignorant.
Your beautiful mess.
My disaster.
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 10:03 PM UTC
The carpenter in one glance
undresses the house
with his eyes.
She, a Victorian dame
of voluptuous frame
in faded, ragged dress
seems to blush
at his appraisal.
He yearns to explore
intimate spaces,
strip her pretension,
commit filthy acts
hammering skillfully
with strange pleasure,
the work of hands,
attention to detail,
rubbing sweet oils
her inner beauty revealed.
It will end in soft strokes
a thoughtful cleanup
leaving an afterglow
of rejuvenation.
Her timbers moan
with anticipation.
Mar 28, 2017
Mar 28, 2017 at 4:01 PM UTC
I will cultivate thee,
With my Herculean word spree.
Pour my divine rhyme,
Into your truncated mind.
So profound, so intellectual, how can this be?
Revere me! Revere me!
Apr 1, 2010
Apr 1, 2010 at 11:47 AM UTC
Self-cut ginger locks that ooze pretension
pontificating so bluntly about "Cinema"
He buys Sociology textbooks at GoodWill,
TL;DR,
but they look good on a dusty shelf
don't they?
Mocking potential reactions to his
apparent ignorance.
A stoner who has never been high,
An existentialist who has never known what it is to die
A stargazer who has never seen the sky,
Highly expectant yet always refuses to try.
Ridicules what he doesn't understand
Taste so bland,
could swear he was conceived by the
FDA in a public school kitchen.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 2:53 PM UTC
We weren't merely talking business;
her eyes said something else,
I strained my ears.Listened.
Soliloquy.Whispers.Fluttering eyes.
("Need to bring her around and sign the contract")
She is silent, eyes on papers
"wind on the waters..................
rustle of the leaves" mind sings,
I got it now, no doubt, we are attracted!
i am now a man with a heart that sizzles,
"she is of course a cut above the rest,
a fine mind, amazing number cruncher,
not to forget that pert posterior,
she makes me melt, I cannot be a hard nut"
my thought train stops to her whistle,
a lovely smile, as if to say
"Things would start to move
between us, when this is over"
A man and a woman,
both, business intentions, in mind's focus,
when together such a long time could
decide upon a course of action,
but i hear a buzz in my ears--
we seem to sway in a charged atmosphere
all i could think is this; "our business
doesn't reach anywhere.."
When--
every obstacle fell and crashed,
relaxing **** sniffing each other, like dogs,
in the cozy confines, of her hotel suite,
she said, the reason for the obstacles,
was pretension-
she had the need to feel in total control,
(till attraction, made the difference)
"Man and woman role reversal"
"I understand" I said.Executive privilege;
she is the senior and she deserved to feel good!
decorum in business deals must be kept.
We reversed roles
and felt more elated (we thought)
too little to do
when you properly decide, to divide responsibilities
(even in bed)
The deal was done,
she put her seal,
and outside the protocol,
a parting kiss and an invite:
Is it to be Venice?
( or Brazil?)
Sep 22, 2012
Sep 22, 2012 at 5:33 PM UTC
her strive for attention
deprives her actual intention
and she thrives off tension
but she feels alive with this pretension
and what I've failed to mention
its her contrive for perfection…of love
Jul 5, 2012
Jul 5, 2012 at 2:52 PM UTC
We all try to keep away something from prying eyes,
Something we always hide, pretending to be nice,
We make other's opinions our priority, ours go for a sacrifice,
And no one can exist freely here , there is always a price.
We think we are civilized, in every way, we are better behaved,
And we assume that we are the best, the reason humanity is saved,
We don't realize, that due to our doings, the path of evil is already getting paved,
The truth is, we are indeed humane monsters, and destruction is what , by us, is craved.
We might have been angels, guiding others, helping them to grow ,
But, we choose the darker side, the seeds of evilness is what we sow,
We might have avoided the wars, the battles, the endless bitter rows,
Yet, we ignored the consequences, and the devil inside us, now keeps us on our toes.
Even though we serve the devils inside us with limitless devotion,
The angels stay on our side, support us, as they are a Divine creation,
They slowly whisper to our conscience,"Let there be, inside you , no friction!"
The real you, is the loving spiritual being, that humane monster is all but a delusion.
Let us not hide the loving, caring and affectionate being , behind the masks,
And always remember, creating , not destroying the path of love, is our task,
The stream of affection and divinity is right beneath us, let yourself, in it bask,
Get rid of that humane monster, and let us live without fear or pretension, and survive till the very last.
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 1:07 PM UTC
Written not to thine appraisal accord;
Words that aim to torch the infernal loom,
Seeking the world of sorcery and sword
Unconfined to thine astringent courtroom.
Methinks thy hackles must surely be raised
For hours laboured, tempering such sleight...
Yet adamant this pen, wielder unfazed
Mirrors many thou haplessly indict.
Scholars of insight construed only thee-
So feebly traced was this artistic lie;
A labyrinth from which my muse soars free.
Minoan mentor, dare not I deny:
It may be an Icarian Ascension,
But stands it staunchly, lacking pretension.
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 6:32 AM UTC
You were like the abnormally warm days of winter that make me wish for spring before its time. Self-assuredly you spoke with a confidence that was beyond your years, yet without an air of pretension. Your words painted dreams of a future just beyond your grasp, while I was still attempting to sketch the bare outlines of mine. You knew what you wanted from life, and you pursued it. For a while I thought that was me, but I was wrong. The way you looked at me seemed completely different. It was as if I was the first sunset or flower or snowflake you had ever seen. I felt intimately precious, and that terrified me. I tried to hide my feelings with a heavy coating of indifference. But you saw right through my façade; you always did. Because you were too old for me, too experienced, too wise. And I was too much for you. Though you were never mine, you will remain my sonnet of mistakes.
Jul 8, 2013
Jul 8, 2013 at 11:17 PM UTC
Her backbone is a long stretch of American western highway
I trace my fingers eastbound/westbound across the slats of her ribs
pressed against the skin ready to pop
She left southside Midlothian Virginia as soon as she was old enough to make her own bad decisions
sick of being looked at
eyes grading like the big fat red D's stamped on her math homework
She left by foot
bus
plain
train
that grey jetta with the scratch down the passenger side from where she parked too close to that ugly Subaru
she left me
but she needed to breathe some air that wasn't stale with mediocre pretension and the frat house odor of stale beer and sawdust
so run wild
fly free
may your lips utter cliches without fear of derision
go make your life an incredible story
beautiful
ugly
hard to look at
can't look away
make your life a story
and I'll record it
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 9:25 AM UTC
We sit in tightly crafted boxes by day
forcing our feral souls to be still.
When we leave our daytime offices
for larger, comfier coffins,
the same spirit we once stifled
rips off its chains of productivity
in favor of a rarefied air full of possibility.
As we soar without any pretension of advancement
we forget that other life that appears with an overly punctual sun.
Through no fault of their own, we fault these day to day doldrums
through bleary red eyes while the true culprit of freedom
waits amongst the thermals until the night breaths anew.
Jul 13, 2013
Jul 13, 2013 at 7:39 PM UTC