"racers" poems
Delilah baby I can feel the weight of you in my arms.
I can feel my k to z love for you and see how that laugh of yours makes people cry
and how that smile pierces my heart because it looks just like his did.
I can feel the sun kissing each one of our toes as we sit overlooking the grand canyon in the kaleidoscope sunset.
your spider fingers are wrapped in my hair like a plea to never be left alone
your spindle legs are all knobby kneed and pale entwined with mine.
baby he left me not you.
I was a hurricane and he loved you too much to look
afraid that one glance and he'd be head over heels reeling out of control
like you were the drug and he was the addict.
they say everything happens for a reason and you are my reason.
Delilah baby you are the here and the now of forever.
the stop sign on the corner is an obstacle for street racers but its a godsend because its just enough of a pause for me to kiss you between the eyes.
and I can't ever finish anything so this story isn't complete
and at the top of the pass where the air is clear enough if we sing loud enough maybe he will hear us and remember who he left behind.
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 12:20 PM UTC
Your commitment to me
will always be
Competing against that of Lucas
While I stand in the buff,
you want space stuff
You want sabres and jedis a’clashing
If you loved me,
as much as wookies
We’d fly just as smooth as pod racers
While I give you my heart
you’re busy hating the 1st part
I know, the prequels were ******
300 odd days
till the force’s new phase
And Solo returns in the falcon
By then I’ll be brain fried,
I’ll have gone to the dark side
I’ll be just as done as poor Greedo
Solo may have shot first
But man its the worst
always coming second to that nerf herder
Even when I’m gone
just like Alderaan
You’ll dream of Leia’s bikini
Just make like R2,
Say you love me too
And I won’t have to force choke my darling
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 11:52 PM UTC
Feeling so worthless,
Worthless,
I can't digress,
I'm just worthless.
I never take the gold,
This is getting old,
All the racers pass by,
Me,
You see,
I'm worthless.
Wish I could repress,
The fear in my chest,
That I am just worthless,
Worthless.
I'll never be there,
For all to stare,
Lifted high above,
I'll be alone,
At home,
No one there because I'm...
Worthless,
A pest,
Retreat to my nest,
Where I am more than less.
Can't escape that bar code,
Bars me to a price.
But feel free to take me for free,
Since I am a grain of rice.
Worthless.
Jun 5, 2012
Jun 5, 2012 at 8:19 PM UTC
Wrenches clanging, knuckles banging
A drop of blood
A new part here, and old part… there
A hotrod had been built!
A patchwork, mechanical, quilt
I drove past the banner that said “Welcome Race Fans”
Took a new route, behind the grandstands
And through my chipped window, I thought I could see
Some of the racers were laughing at me
I guess chalky grey primer is not to their taste
But I put my bucks mister in the right place
I chugged-popped past cars that dealers had sold
Swung into a spot, next to something old
Emerging with interest from under his hood
My neighbor said two words, he said “sounds good”
The voice on the loudspeaker tells us we’re up
Pre-staged, staged, then given the green
The line becomes blurred between man and machine
Bones become linkage
Muscle, spring
Fear, excitement
Time distorts ….
Color disappears …
Vision narrows…
Noise --- becomes music
Speed --- satisfaction
May 1, 2017
May 1, 2017 at 11:36 AM UTC
Beyond your television
Lies vast hills,
along with many jumps and much thrill
Mario jumps
Zelda swings
As Kirby swallows
Donkey kong beats,
Star fox flies ever so high
While niko goes bowling
Roman started to cry
Meta knight stares ominously
As a goomba cautiously walks
A turtle shell turns blue
While the Mario kart racers get mad too....
We all know sleeping dogs don't lie
We joined a guild during an MMO war
Where we smashed every single one of our keyboards
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 11:06 AM UTC
This isn't going to be much of a poem, just a thought; something that I was thinking about today.
I was asked if it was weird to have dated my ex, since he was 5'5, one inch shorter than I am. And you know what, I've dated professional go-kart racers, jujitsu gold medalists and kick boxers, yes, all much taller than I am, however, none of them made me feel as safe as my 5'5 hockey player did. So the answer to that question, which actually surprised me as well, is no. It was not weird. It was not anything but another relationship, with another boy, who proved to be much more than how tall he was. Height does not matter to me and I don't see it ever mattering because he made me feel just as loved as someone twice his size could have. And even though he turned out to be a complete **** head, that was not because of his small size, that was because he was, and is, a ****** person. Case closed.
By Chloe Elizabeth
Aug 28, 2015
Aug 28, 2015 at 8:29 PM UTC
City rush me
Pretty push
Did he see?
The wish on
Hard on_____
Sunday I thought
A rush of pluses +++
He won
Be on time if not - - -
Monday be
good to me
Rumors
Fantasy thoughts
I am
What I am
Not Popeye
Going day back
I need a third eye
I am
All free
Robin
Bird
From
everyone
Wait!!
Don't rush me
I love everyone______*
Newspaper's
Sunday
Daily
News
Poem
touchdown
My poem stood
With the others
I bowed ((Gladly))______
Waking up
To a Racers- mouth
Ray____ speed lover
No homework
All game
Sunday____
Candles burned
The House flamed
"Procrastinator"
I'll be back
"Destroyer-Terminator"
Coffee drug me percolator
He April fools her
Shopping Sunday
right up magnifying
dress
He is back
Not the future
Smart *** tricks
On the Escalator
He Jeremy irons out
her clothes
That's it!!!
Never rushed
on Sunday
To make
a mob hit
The call girls
Busy- tight pants
So Panicked Monday's
religiously
Hooked in
Scientology
So ****** in
Not to ever kiss
her on a
Sunday
He bunked into ((God))
Poem ritual bunk bed
Well NYC
Cabbie, he
will
never
take it
on Sunday
The big game
crazies
The flower
shops
of horror
Emptied
out with
Moms
Tiger
Lillies
Smelling
Mad Men hungover
Rush hour
Tv movie
Hangover
Jet game
Sprinkler
shower
Opening up
The door to his
apartment
Big Girly
hoarder mess
After a
long talk
night
Saturday Night
Brooklyn
The Disco Queen
bridge-sight
His Mom
is still oiling
His BMW Racecar
with
Hot fire Crisco
he
will never
be
rushed
out the door
His car
never
starts
Sunday
or a
Monday
Teased on
Tuesday
Wednesday
shes wild
Thursday
Ladies
drink
for free____
She got
her husband
to buy
her cushion
cut square
On Sunday
Do it or dare
She's
hanging
low
Times Square
Girly rough
Brooklyn
tough
Channel
blush
On Sunday
he is so
wired bushed
May 8, 2018
May 8, 2018 at 1:01 PM UTC
Here's one for the gamers
dungeon dwellers, competitors and casual players
Whether they're at home or at a friend,
footballers, car racers or dragon slayers
To the world that looks down on us
for those who's hobbies least appeal
Just because they don't understand the reason
or share the passion we feel
Gamers like acheivements
each to their own
Whether its to vanquish the opposition
build, or break their enemies throne
Is that so different
perhaps they spend a lot of time at home
But isn't playing online with their friends
a little better than just sitting alone on ones phone?
The world of gaming has evolved
and adapted so much
It's a common to see a mother aligning fruit
or a child with a flapping duck
And is it such a bad thing
if the players are actually having fun
It may not be making them better
but I can think of many worse things they could have done
They say games encourage violence
but these people are some of the kindest I've ever seen
Theft, ****** and street racing
would it not be better if these things were only done behind a computer screen?
For many, its more than just a game
and can lead to some desperation
But people need to know the limits
and play in moderation
For some
it's to do things they wouldn't normally do or say on a daily basis
A couch potato wanting to explore the world
avoid boredom, keep their mind from stasis
To feel the breeze of a challenge
drive a fast car or
sword-fight,
maybe even do some parkour
Whether they want to skydive
or skate over a hill
To be able to do something dangerous
without having to sign a medical bill
We all have our reasons
some play casually while others play to vent
E-gaming has become so popular
now hosting world tournaments and many gaming event
This is how we are
so please let us be
Our motives are like captured birds
are we are just setting them free
Whether you want to be a princess
or guardian of a banana tree
You can do whatever you want
just follow your dream
People will always be different
this is just another sub-culture; like fans of a band
But we are the gamers
and by this title proudly we stand
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 5:02 AM UTC
Big Four Railroad
In the past a little one had an interest in this story and one of the racers and the longest freight train
The race team was in the living room and their story was being read from the paper mother clueless
We laughed and snickered about our secret that old engineer was proud of us we were not vain
Down the hill we sped past Bino’s station across Jackson the B&O; he was high balling we had to pour it
On between the two tracks he was closing the gap he had nothing to lose but his pride for us it was
Curtains the long black limo a one way ride we streaked the line fifteen feet to spare we just stopped
And turned what a salutation from the engineer half hanging out the widow of that great engine his
Balled fist a shaking you sons with the deafening roar of that train so close we didn’t get to hear the rest
And the train carried him on down the track so Jerry and Larry and the other guy continued on to the
Swimming pool pleased with our speed we forgot about it until on the front of the paper in the bottom
corner it read three Pana youths out run train I guess the old engineer cooled off as he sailed on down
The track we didn’t know he talked to the tower as he passed so we didn’t get first prize or a blue
Ribbon but in a small way we entered into the great and wonderful tales of train lore along with Jessie
and Frank I told you when in trouble I had three actions fight talk or run that day the running won the
Day for these three amigos this memory was triggered by that same old paper this time it was talking
About the Amtrak detour I remember those passengers all those years ago setting there in their seats
flying through our town and the hook and the mail sack from the tower where that old bakery could be
smelled all night all the way out at the park as we watched tables for old F.S. Refinery I’m glad we didn’t
race a passenger train or this would be a hamburger story enjoy G.H.
Jan 8, 2012
Jan 8, 2012 at 11:53 PM UTC
You, Me and the Pink Panther
Also the Mouse in the nest
Eating rubber ***** and drinking chlorine.
Write your Message on the water
And the Moon will tell me
Or let the gravity show me.
The music is tired,
It wants to rest on a glacier
The Perfume is stinking
And the Ink is dying a sad death
Beauty is only history
and time is a mere thought
French is 7=6
And We are floating in a space YET TO BE FOUND
Darkness is made up of too much light
Feelings are Mad Cats now
Now Blood is not Holy
Mistakes are Teachers
And the Computers are tired
They Need a Saridon
Faith now doubts its existence
Leisure can't find time
Colors mean an ugly shade
And Freedom is within narrow confines
Right is now measured by the Wrong
Tears have no place to fall
Words have NO MEANING AT ALL
SENSITIVITY is 'the' disease of Heart
Where Life means a tiring Break
And another child is blessed with Life of Pain
All Undefined shall now die
Motives are the modern vowels
The Crowd is lonely
The World has got pimples
Girls have become Pungent
And Conscious is in Coma
Life crawls under the shadow of past
And Hope for the Future
No One Lives for Today
Mushrooms and cannibals have become Friends
Selling Potato & Mutton Soup
All Needles are telling a lie
The Evil has got Hemophilia
Pride is at the mercy of Shame
Depth is triflingly shallow
The unsaid is still waiting to be heard
While the Expression is feeling Stifled
Blind is the Sight
Dreams are no longer fantasy long
And Deceit is the Common Salt
Happiness is rocking against Triangles
Now Headaches can be tasted
And Sorrows have a Flavor
Money is Dumb, Dumb, Dumb
Love will be born only after death
Only the Weeds on the Graves are Thinking
Chocolates are biting the children
The Heat is turning White
Crosses have become circles
The Roads seem to have lost their way
The Rat-Racers are wandering in the Labyrinth
Its Only Exit being Locked
Silence is beginning to make Noise
And the Earth is planning a Rescue from Humans
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 12:36 PM UTC
LAST night a January wind was ripping at the shingles
over our house and whistling a wolf song under the
eaves.
I sat in a leather rocker and read to a six-year-old girl
the Browning poem, Childe Roland to the Dark
Tower Came.
And her eyes had the haze of autumn hills and it was
beautiful to her and she could not understand.
A man is crossing. a big prairie, says the poem, and
nothing happens--and he goes on and on--and it's
all lonesome and empty and nobody home.
And he goes on and on--and nothing happens--and he
comes on a horse's skull, dry bones of a dead horse--
and you know more than ever it's all lonesome and
empty and nobody home.
And the man raises a horn to his lips and blows--he
fixes a proud neck and forehead toward the empty
sky and the empty land--and blows one last wonder-
cry.
And as the shuttling automatic memory of man clicks
off its results willy-nilly and inevitable as the snick
of a mouse-trap or the trajectory of a 42-centimetre
projectile,
I flash to the form of a man to his hips in snow drifts
of Manitoba and Minnesota--in the sled derby run
from Winnipeg to Minneapolis.
He is beaten in the race the first day out of Winnipeg--
the lead dog is eaten by four team mates--and the
man goes on and on--running while the other racers
ride, running while the other racers sleep--
Lost in a blizzard twenty-four hours, repeating a circle
of travel hour after hour--fighting the dogs who
dig holes in the snow and whimper for sleep--
pushing on--running and walking five hundred
miles to the end of the race--almost a winner--one
toe frozen, feet blistered and frost-bitten.
And I know why a thousand young men of the North-
west meet him in the finishing miles and yell cheers
--I know why judges of the race call him a winner
and give him a special prize even though he is a
loser.
I know he kept under his shirt and around his thudding
heart amid the blizzards of five hundred miles that
one last wonder-cry of Childe Roland--and I told
the six year old girl about it.
And while the January wind was ripping at the shingles
and whistling a wolf song under the eaves, her eyes
had the haze of autumn hills and it was beautiful
to her and she could not understand.
2.3k
Running the gauntlet down Midchester Road,
A veritable suburb of Gleethorpes City,
You pass a line of house-castles
Of the well to do.
But don’t be fooled
By what you see,
For I know someone
Who lives there.
And he will tell you,
Of bountiful gardens
Stripped bare
And concreted over
So that families can park their fleets
Of expensive cars.
See those conservatory extensions
And widened pavements.
A lady poses,
Doing her best
To emulate the Kardashians.
Money attracts
No end of thugs
And dodgy dealers:
Swarming parasitic wasps
Around the honey ***
Nights of drunken revellers
From the local pub:
Swaying from trees
And kicking cans about.
Boy racers tearing down the road,
Music systems booming
With a mindless
Moronic drumming.
“Where has reality gone?” asks
My despairing friend.
They have their money
Their riches,
Expensive toys
But few of them are Happy.
What happened to “Goodness” and virtue
And dreams of Utopia?
Where are the heroes
Inventors and creators?
Instead we have a world of celebrity,
In which true talent – even genius
Is ignored and undervalued.
“Where are we going?” my friend exclaims.
Things get worse and worse,
The world all in reverse.
For it’s “Unreal City”,
Far from pretty.
So have a think,
Don’t let yourself sink
Even further into the mire.
Just get real,
You know the deal,
It’s you I’m trying to inspire.
Paul Butters
© PB 2\8\2019
(with help from a bloke who lives in such a place. Same town as me).
Aug 2, 2019
Aug 2, 2019 at 6:01 AM UTC
If you take a left at the pier
I promise you wont be disappoint
in the amount of sights and sounds
The lights meld with watery waves
who crash upon aged wood
Singing softly to organisms dwelling atop
the crushed salt breathes into your heart
a pit-pat only talented songstress could imitate
- Id go with you if I could
but I'm growing tired and old
my skin is flaked and aged
So begin your journey down the road
and take a left
at the merry old pier
filled with old memories that will fill your ears
Ill meet you soon but not in this way,
In the sands of the waves and the flashing lights
in the salted incrustations atop wooded planks
on the polished boats of greedy racers,
there you will hear my voice as it carries in the wind
pit-pat patterns that only your heart could create
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 3:45 PM UTC
Mile after mile
the endless motorway
spews out its metal contortions
hum your V6 engine
rock with impatience
under branded lime-green
sun strip protectors
brimming with breeders
of brooding black BMWs
7-seater convertible prowess
gleaming off-roaders
go faster striped boy-racers
silver slick steamroller Range Rovers
revving executive supremacy
nestled annoyingly
behind a Grand Jeep Cherokee
all stop in motion
by a pedestrian button
for a little old lady
with shopping,
And me.
So many people
in so many cars
gas guzzling
un-muzzled bulldogs
drooling to be first
the excesses of acceleration
the freedom to roam
to gloat or to garner
well you can all stay in line
with the press of a button
and a finger like mine
Moses in green spandex
parts the Metal Sea
for a little old lady
with shopping,
And me.
Nov 30, 2012
Nov 30, 2012 at 11:15 AM UTC
My poems, where are they from?
Westerner.
An appellation, of the 'hood of my nation,
Customary identity association,
But not one that springs to mind,
When they inquire, as they do,
Hey man, tell us about your "self."
But there is no deniability,
At least three hundred years,
That my father was aware,
Europe to America,
Westward ** the seeds sown.
From the banks of the Lippe,
Ocean crossing to NYC,
From the Krakow Ghetto
To the shores of the
Manhattan Indian Reservation,
By the banks of the grandest river Hudson,
They journeyed, they sojourned,
Staying for awhile, scattering across the Midwest,
"Coming to America."
Yet out West,
I am an Easterner,
My hometown teams,
In the East Division,
And this schizophrenia
Is non-problematical.
But where are my poems from?
I have studied the time zones,.
The AM's and the PM's.
I know when I deliver this to you,
If the sun is rising or setting,
Whether to greet you with
नमस्कार or magandang umaga,
Greet you with a "Good Sabbath!"
Or an Insh'Allah...
But where are my poems from?
Bog of technical definitions,
Matters not, my poems have no
Passport to be stamped,
The Customs lines they cross are the
Customs of mine and yours.
The are both immigrant and emigre,
Experienced, well travelled, they familiar
With the right satellites to
Grace thy welcoming space.
Tap dance, recitations of evasions,
Answer the question man,
But where are my poems from?
You tell the when, the how but not the
Where.
We can't wait much longer,
The inbox heavy with homework,
Your poems to love, like and take.
Don't you see?
They, born in the West,
For lack of a better answer,
Clock and setting sun racers,
Surfing the Atlantic, Indian,
Circumnavigating the Pacific Isles,
Is just the course they take
When out my window sent.
But is that your answer,
Their path, to the single quest,
From the West, is that the best
Answer you can equivocate,
Where do they come from?
**No.
Obviously,
They come from you...**
Oct 26, 2013
Oct 26, 2013 at 6:42 AM UTC
There's a Tale of hare
named Bugs, wisecracking
Brooklyn speedster
who raced against
a Tortoise green.
Mercedes grey speeding
along, distancing
a schlepping spect,
a North Face jacket
on fruitcake's trek.
4000 fast
and sleek.
8 slow
and green.
Neither racers strangely
notice that child
born on dented stripes,
warning bumps
by side road way.
Is life a sacred race?
Marriage sacrament
a finishing face?
Dying memories trace
a cove and net
lacing U and who?
What's up Doc?
Eating healthy,
eating carrots?
I hear your voice
who's love does bare.
False Saffron leiter
extort and retorts weiter!
Komisch verwaltung
Schwartz holzteer
baiting babies to finish fear.
A cartoon film
skipping and tear
telling a child's tale
reel ending here.
Feb 16, 2013
Feb 16, 2013 at 7:23 AM UTC
I came, and I went there.
I went there and came.
I furnished my money, my loving and fame.
I drank and I piddled, I piddled and sang,
a song for Bukowski, for Bukowski I sang.
The low-lifes and hustlers,
the ****** and the cops.
The ***** in the bottle,
the dives and the flops.
The racers and wasters,
living on luck.
For all of the chasers,
I now raise a cup.
A song for Bukowski, for Bukowski a song.
A song for Bukowski, Bukowski so long.
Nov 3, 2010
Nov 3, 2010 at 3:23 PM UTC
He drives with flair..
millionaire billionaire
and such people
on money's stack
all the time behind his back
he drives those racers and pursuers..
the chauffeur.
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 10:32 AM UTC
15th of April 2013
26 miles, 10,000 strong,
Ready at last after months of practice,
To test their endurance.
Proud family members, straining to see Johnny or jill run by.
Or to cheer on the wheel chair racers.
The Boston marathon,
Patriots day,
Flags flying
from the many countries represented.
People of every variety, old, young,
Each beautiful in their endeavor.
Most just trying to beat there own time
And be able to say
“ I ran the Boston Marathon”
Well-wishers bound the route,
On both sides of the road.
Hands holding out water bottles for the runners,
Other Hands applauding
Enjoying the day’s excitement.
“It’s another gorgeous day, here in Boston
For the 80th Boston Marathon”
Comment the watching newscasters.
The women start first, then the men
The Africans, tall and thin make the first rank of runners.
At heartbreak hill no one is surprised at the leaders.
Then the leader crosses the finish line.
First second third and so on.
Did you better your time?
Some, as they cross the finish line,
are so exhausted they just stand staring ahead.
Wondering how their bodies could have given so much,
while paramedics gently guide them to the medical tent
The crowd, amassed at the finish line, applauds
As one by one and in clusters of two and three
Runners reach for the finish line.
Suddenly there is a kind of wompf,
It’s an alien sound that doesn’t belong here,
Out of place with the laughter and the joy.
Then screams replace the joy and there’s a second explosion.
People are stunned, this can’t be happening here in Boston.
A cloud of smoke rises from behind the watchers
Flags billow then fall,
A South African flag, a Thai flag, one from Kenya
Why would any one want to hurt these athletes
Their waiting friends and families?
The sickness of this action so unfathomable
In one moment
Changing a day of joy and celebration
To a day of death and mutilation
Did these sick people mean to **** that 8 year old boy
Who’d come just to see his dad run?
Did they mean to carve off the legs of a that woman
Lying in pain on the stretcher,
Did they mean to bring down a 78 year old who had almost
Almost made it to the finish line.
Perhaps for the last time?
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 2:37 PM UTC
little robbie rat he just long to be
riding on a motorbike in the isle of man TT
he bought himself a bike set of on his way
to the isle of man in time for racing day.
robbie he lined up on excited as can be
his time had come to race the isle of man tt
robbie he set of using all his skill
flying round the bends gave him such a thrill.
as the finish neared he gave his bike a blast
all the other racers robbie he flew past
passed the finish line robbie he had won
he enjoyed his day and had so much fun.
holding up his trophy for every one to see
he was very happy and very proud was he
and wont forget the day at the isle of man TT
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 10:53 AM UTC
Ring-ring
Hear the bell? Understand
the meaning? Are you on
edge? Gotta move? Gotta
jet? Get where your going,
before the next one comes
round?
Ring-ring
The gates are open but
where does this go? You
don't know, you don't
care, but you know the
feeling of get up and go,
to run like a chicken with
its head cut off
The maze is our whole
life, our whole purpose,
everything we do
Ring-ring
ring-Ring
Your days are winding down
and your "friends" and "family"
and "teachers" and "employers"
and all the "people" who you
thought loved you is bearing
down,
telling you
"go, go, go"
when all you can think is
"no, no, no"
We are at the starting lines
of our dreams
(of our lives)
Ring-ring
A pistol goes off at birth
and we sprint away
Bodies litter the track
as you run faster, faster
Ring-ring
Times up
Ding
A different sound
Have you made it on the pedestal?
I'm in the stands
watching fools with ****** hands
and feet run in circles
Once
I was down with you
Thinking
"Go, go, go"
But realized
"No, no, no"
Where are we going?
To what end?
For what purpose?
I looked up from my dusty shoes
And saw the audience that had always encircled us
I saw old racers clamber up into the stands
And realized
"That's the where,
why waste my life trying to be recognized,
when I can just jump up
(in my youth)
and enjoy this
"prize"
without the
"effort"
May 3, 2010
May 3, 2010 at 5:18 PM UTC
this is death
this is the black
of the black and white
this is the sound after the last song
this is the racetrack after the racers have left
this is the pencil resting next to a finished
masterpiece
this is your feet
this is your hand
this is your sweat
this is your face
this is your tired rest
this is your comforting grasp
this is your release
this is you
this is a book sealed shut with the eons of never being opened
this is a mind sealed shut with the steel locks keeping the eons
out
this is you in your greatest moment
this is you in your worst moment
you’ve already done the best thing in your life
you did it yesterday as you sat on the toilet,
or as you laid in bed sick,
or you read a book,
or you kept a secret,
or you told a secret
you will never be as good as you were a moment ago
and this will continue for the entirety of your life
but you never faultier
you well never fail
you will grow greater and greater every minute
even as your better self slips away into the past
this is your feet worn to the bone
this is your hand dirtied with time
this is your sweat hot with your effort
this is your face smiling in regret
this is the bird flying home to its nest
this is the car that drives past an accident
this is the artist laughing for the first time
in years
this is the white
of the black and white
this is life
Mar 28, 2011
Mar 28, 2011 at 2:58 PM UTC
Ring-ring
Hear the bell? Understand
the meaning? Are you on
edge? Gotta move? Gotta
jet? Get where your going,
before the next one comes
round?
Ring-ring
The gates are open but
where does this go? You
don't know, you don't
care, but you know the
feeling of get up and go,
to run like a chicken with
its head cut off
The maze is our whole
life, our whole purpose,
everything we do
Ring-ring
ring-Ring
Your days are winding down
and your "friends" and "family"
and "teachers" and "employers"
and all the "people" who you
thought loved you is bearing
down,
telling you
"go, go, go"
when all you can think is
"no, no, no"
We are at the starting lines
of our dreams
(of our lives)
Ring-ring
A pistol goes off at birth
and we sprint away
Bodies litter the track
as you run faster, faster
Ring-ring
Times up
Ding
A different sound
Have you made it on the pedestal?
I'm in the stands
watching fools with ****** hands
and feet run in circles
Once
I was down with you
Thinking
"Go, go, go"
But realized
"No, no, no"
Where are we going?
To what end?
For what purpose?
I looked up from my dusty shoes
And saw the audience that had always encircled us
I saw old racers clamber up into the stands
And realized
"That's the where,
why waste my life trying to be recognized,
when I can just jump up
(in my youth)
and enjoy this
"prize"
without the
"effort"
May 3, 2010
May 3, 2010 at 5:18 PM UTC
*let me tell you a story...
There was this little girl..
who lived in her own dreams..
sometimes she smiled...
but no one saw her dimples..
because.. there were no dimples...
because.. no one saw her smile..
no one saw how beautiful her heart was...
she was in some wonderland...
she wanted to runaway from there..
There was this little boy..
who dreamed of himself a hero..
he lived in his comic books..
a world that seemed real...
he goes from place to place...
from Gotham city to even Krypton..
he can run..he can fly..
he lived without a mask in his face...
There was this small town...
far away from street racers and hookers..
a small town..where...
everyone knew everyone..
people meet each other
and greet each other..
a town full of love and no hatred...
a town where nothing was complicated..
Time is time..it went on and on..
this little girl thought about this boy..
and this boy thought about this girl
neither the girl met the boy..
nor the boy met the girl...
and town remained the same town...
nothing changed.....
and that persistence is known as life..
because...
lives end but.. life has no end.
*
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 12:45 PM UTC