"rundown" poems
Sleepless nights,
I'm drifting on my feet
Sleepless nights
These weeks repeat
Sleepless nights
Up in the early morning time
Sleepless nights
Feels strange this bed of mine
Sleepless nights
Constant stress
Sleepless nights
My whole life's a mess
Sleepless nights
I feel rundown and sick
Sleepless nights
I'm seeing insomnia tricks
Sleepless nights
Why am I so tired
Sleepless nights
These worrys keep me wired
Sleepless nights
Are every night
Sleepless nights
I wish my world was right
Sep 14, 2012
Sep 14, 2012 at 6:35 AM UTC
As I walked through the apartment door,
I did not expect anything more but comic books and video games
Scattered on the floor.
I felt like I was at a comic book store back down south.
Batman, Superman and the green guy too.
Posted on the walls for all who entered to view.
But I had no idea who the hell they were.
All I knew was that they had powers,
Till Brett gave me the rundown for about an hour.
Batman is a super-rich guy, with a fly ride.
His parents were murdered by an evil guy.
So Batman goes around knocking bad guys out.
For he won’t **** you because of how his parents went out.
Then we have Superman over to my left,
A very fast man, with an “S” on his chest.
He gets dressed in phone booths, then fly’s to save the day.
He’s got x-ray vision, yep right through your shirt.
If you turn around then it’s your skirt.
Then we have my favorite one of them all,
Green lantern with his ring of power.
Making fists and gripping things.
Anything is possible when he’s wearing that ring.
So this is all I got out of my superhero lesson,
They are all really good guys with their own little blessing.
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 6:31 PM UTC
I have come humble to seek your knowledge
With exhausted feet and weighing burden, I bear my heart
I have travelled far to arrive at the world's edge
Ready to receive what wisdom you will impart
I'll set myself cross-legged on the opposite of you
I see you peering, examining my physical entirety
With one good eye, you gaze right through
Makes me uncomfortable, if I may... But I'll hold steady
I notice you muttering but no words could be heard
Your hands hovering over a glassy globe with an ominous glow
You turn to the left, as if conversing with an invisible third
Whispering secrets that I will never learn to know
Shifting your gaze now into the crystal orb
What do you see, Wise One, in that ball of yours
You shudder upon it's touch as though it's power you absorb
Tell me, Soothsayer... What lies for me in this course?
You swiftly pull your hands behind your back
I flinch with a start at your sudden display
You bring back your hands revealing cards out of a stack
You tremble in spasms, dropping the rest leaving one for play
The card you place face down, right in front of me
You motion for me to pick it up and flip it round
I see the card bore inscriptions and ancient runes, quizzically
You ****** the card and begin chanting in odd sounds
Reciting your incantations, in a tongue I do not understand
They sound like curses rather than the answers I seek
It all ends almost as soon as it started... I can't comprehend
You then place your warm palms gently touching my cheeks
Your features softened as you stared into my sullen eyes
A connection like eternity trapped within seconds never going astray
Then you turn away to fetch a bundle roped in knots and ties
You hand it to me hastily before ushering me on my way
I am now perplexed much... What does it show?
What did you see, what does my future hold?
Please enlighten me what you've come to know
From all of that, what could you have foretold?
Bundle in hand I turn to leave your rundown shanty
As I leave, you speak in your voice, different from before
Soft yet raspy you say, *"Do not open till the end of journey"
"Open only when in house, behind closed door"*
Moon is up illuminating, as I make my way up north
Armed in hand a strange, scented, tied up bundle
Leaving with the same questions with no answers, I amble forth
Wondering if in the bundle I may find the missing pieces of the puzzle...
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 4:45 AM UTC
THE TRUE STORY OF THE EASTER BUNNY
you see, way back in the 1300s, there was this man who bred rabbits, and he was dedicated to his job, so much in fact,
he would go about starting to dress up as a colourful bunny around April every year, around the full moon, and on the
evening of easter Saturday, this man, would take off in his rundown jet plane to deliver hand painted eggs, painted by himself
to all the boys and girls of this land, and if each kid was very good, he will give the one of the kids a very rare chocolate bunny
which was very hard to find in these times, every kid pushed each other over to be the chosen one for this delicious bunny, and
the man dresses all the rabbits of the land, in colourful clothes and a easter bell around their necks, to warn the foxes that
can lurk about, you see on this man’s route were 345 houses to deliver each egg to, and some of the kids were still up, and he was
nice to them, giving them 3 eggs instead of 2, you see he always over-packs, because each kid wanted to stay up for the
arrival of the easter bunny-man, as he arrived at their houses, and maybe, that is the reason why it was a nightmare to get
the kids to go to bed now, well they do go to bed, but the easter bunny-man made the kids so happy, the kids went to bed
when he left, after that he dropped in at various inns around the town to deliver the painted eggs to each patron drinking in the inns
and mind you, he had a lot of great stories to tell each patron in the inn, about his wonderful adventures. then he drove off toward
the two farms of the town, and in the 1300s, the farms housed mostly poor people, ya know people doing it tough, so to speak, and
he dropped his easter eggs to the farmers and their kids and performed a few songs for the farmers like “candyman” and a rhyme which was
easter easter what’ll we do
give an egg to me and i will give one rot you
you see i am happy to really make you
the happiest farmer this easter will produce
you see these are painted eggs, i like them yeah
the colours are beautiful, really, i swear
come on kiddies try and grab more
easter easter how are you
and he played many many more easter related songs and rhymes, and the farmers liked to call him the rabbit ******* and he had a great night
as he did this every easter saturday, and at 5 am on easter Sunday morning, he finished his route and and spent easter sunday with his family,
and whether you believe this story or not, this is how easter started in my eyes
HAPPY EASTER FELLAS
Mar 27, 2015
Mar 27, 2015 at 4:47 AM UTC
Soft and silky you cross round my neck
You smell like tinted ***
your color makes me worried
for I cannot run
You encircle
hold me down
Yet your warmth is
so confound
you bring color from my cheeks
a tribe of specks and fleets
your spindled gentle down
easily sets me down
As I slowly die
Tears rundown and fly
for the scarlet brings me to defeat
my throat scattered with ribbons
as a Red Scarf flows down
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 6:28 PM UTC
To her, silence was comforting, alcohol was numbing and loneliness was all consuming
She often times scared away her nightly slumber
Her thoughts grew louder and more chaotic with every tick of the clock
She let her past mistakes consume her
Rummaged internally for answers to her actions that led her here
Lying on a mattress which sat on the carpet of a rundown apartment
Alone
To her, silence was comforting, alcohol was numbing and loneliness was all consuming
She kept eyes open all night looking and thinking and drinking
A lot of drinking to seize the thoughts that drowned her
She traveled back in her dormant state to find events she wished had happened differently Dreamt up memories where she never walked away
Or where she refrained from saying something in an outburst of anger
She was haunted by
Everything
To her, silence was comforting, alcohol was numbing and loneliness was all consuming
Her thoughts had begun to agitate her being Transforming her mind into a whirlwind of anger and helplessness
She sat up at the edge of her mattress with the palms pressed tightly against her eyes, shaking her head in a frenzy
Her hands migrated to her hair, gathering a hand full and pulling
Eyes stung with the tears that began to surface She took hasty steps toward her counter in search of a bottle to console her for the night
The only thing that put an end to the chaos was
Alcohol
To her, silence was comforting, alcohol was numbing and loneliness was all consuming
Dec 22, 2015
Dec 22, 2015 at 6:03 PM UTC
Maybe these wonders
that float by the bed
of the wandering traveler
will ever find peace
to the rivers it washed
on the shore of tomorrow
but the train has departed
time itself frozen
in ice-trays for scalding
hot yesterdays
lollipop remnants
askew in the hallway
of this rundown shack
rewind the
disk so as to portray
all the shame felt
by this day
we say Hello..
hands waved to the sky
as rainbows descend
heaven above like wings
white as the
snow, but pure like
nothing seen before
we dance...
mixtures of speech
blend like smoothies
of strawberry finess
every stripe, every spot make
the gold seams of the dress
stars wear. year
after year it grows
to burst with
confetti they float and
we stare...
blankly each moment
is blurred
muddy images pierce the walls
drip do they fall like rain
on the ground covered in
petals and petals of flowers
so red but yellow
we hug...
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 12:50 AM UTC
I am just your average sinner,
sly glances say, I am second chance, time around .
I spin mediocre wildest-dreams
in rundown hope hotels
I am just a pretty sinner with a
dusty trail of lust
like green pollen in my wake.
A vehicle of possibility
to all the places we can drive our devils,
with cocktails and vague musician
who lean back on wooden chairs, against walls of fading paint.
with tables for sins
to be laid out like Thanksgiving.
My sins are neon signs in yellowed rooms,
My sins are rusted cans kicked in old beach towns.
My sins are hot pavement under cracked rubber tires rumbling above.
My back arched in a prayer to the sky.
The rise of my hipbones like majestic mountains.
My sins leak from my eyes. First one, then another.
Down, Down they fall
I fall to my knees.
They fall and I curse them for leaving me too.
I fall to my knees like the traveler who has journeyed too long,
On my knees and I kiss the dirt of home.
I am humbled and groveling...within my sinning.
And I pray a much louder prayer. I am a much humbler servant, with much to forgive.
I wear my sins like a raincoat to keep me dry from all the
good intention and 'well-deserved!' that might be coming my way.
I twist my sin into a paper flower and wear it in my sinful hair next to my sinful eyes by my sinful mind.
I am just your average sinner
Dreaming of living a better life someday.
Praying to be a better me, someday.
Someday is a funny place to live
With towering hopes
and skyscraping desires scratching at its sterile walls.
No, not for me.
I am just your average sinner...
with extraordinary sins.
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 9:04 PM UTC
Empty. Vacant. Broken. Useless.
The ways to describe
the rust-covered, abandoned
Ferris wheel.
What it really is is lost.
Lost. Soulless. Helpless.
Standing alone in a rundown theme park,
standing as only a memory.
Its purpose has drifted away,
detached itself from the body,
leaving only its ghost to suffer
and watch as life goes on without it.
The wind guides it into the familiar rotation,
reminding it of what it once was.
The slow, eerie creaks of its movement
cry out in the empty skies;
its echoes dancing through the park.
It screams, “I am unloved!”
“I’m lost! I’m scared!”
“I don’t want to be forgotten!”
So the wheel keeps turning,
Holding on to whatever is left of its
Empty, soulless life.
Oct 1, 2012
Oct 1, 2012 at 7:16 PM UTC
I’ve had this red heart shaped locket
for 12 years now.
I got it as a gumball prize
at a rundown Chinese restaurant
(maybe in Germantown?)
A lot of the paint has chipped off
and the tiny keys to it are long gone.
What shows beneath the paint
is shinny tin.
When I was a tacky teen
I would wear it clasped around my
neck imitating Sid but not
knowing it.
I always wanted someone to give me
something like this
but I impatiently jumped the gun and
cranked the dial of the machine
myself,
and the tiny Valentine rolled out.
(SINCERELY, YOURS TRULY)
No sentiment to share.
Now I’m nearly 30
and it hangs on my key chain,
a teenaged 50 cent memory
amongst adult responsibility.
If you see me standing crossed arm at a show,
and spy my red locket,
know that I’m an advocate of
living in the past,
and harboring silly passions.
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 1:24 PM UTC
A man who cannot dream
is a man without a woman,
like someone thinking of a tractor,
the loss of a limb, the bequest
of a brass bed, a rundown plantation,
a large white house with a black
dinner bell but no supper,
a wayfarer going nowhere,
a vanished explorer
sometimes lost in his own room.
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 7:50 AM UTC
Sometimes you might find me,
in a back alley, throwing up my guts,
in explosions, of green and orange.
Sometimes you might find me,
in a rundown apartment, with a ceiling fan
that arcs crookedly, hitting the ceiling in
explosions of drywall and poverty
Sometimes you might find me,
in a sunny park, scribbling lines in a
worn, tattered notebook,
in explosions, of ink and passion
Sometimes you might find me,
outlined in chalk, battered, bruised, ******
in explosions of red and abuse.
Sometimes you might find me,
standing beside you, walking with
and guiding you in explosions of
anger
and
I told you so's.
Feb 21, 2011
Feb 21, 2011 at 9:58 AM UTC
Up and down,
I've been letdown.
Will I drown,
In this horrid nightgown?
For I am only a clown,
Fallen face down.
They tell me to slowdown,
For I am the talk of the town.
I've achieved great renown,
My name has gone around,
My name a common noun.
Upon my head sits a crown,
In my voice a funny lown.
The earth has turned to a deep mud brown,
The grass has gone from my hometown.
I can't help but frown,
I begin to countdown.
Lost in this wedding gown,
My body so rundown.
I want to leave this small devastating ghost town.
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 1:25 PM UTC
I grew up in here,
been here my whole life,
nothing better
really...
just isn't, the air’s...
just a tad sweeter than anywhere else.
It’s the water, or the hills... But who am I,
I haven’t seem far beyond my window,
I wish I could roam endless alone
In the forests, then, I’d capture
each ounce of daylight
like fireflies
in a bottle.
But now it seems,
here in this rundown castle,
Night is the only thing I treasure.
When the castle quiets I can hear the hills speak,
I feel
the ground breathing. I know not to listen to nobody about nothing anymore,
Cause
the earth and the trees, they’ve been here the longest,
we stand around,
thinking...
good...
cause we know something, but if theres one thing I know,
its that knowing ain't nothing.
I can’t wait for England, to see the world,
I feel like learning
though it hasn’t helped yet,
anyway,
I’m alone in this mind, this world is me, and I know nothing of it.
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 4:59 AM UTC
I travel trough the heavy rain
I sit lonesome on a lonely train
I play blues
These days are grey, these nights are blue
my mind keeps coming back to you
I play the blues
I travel with desire
Past houses lit on fire
I play jazz
Windows lit by sundown
My train-seat old and rundown
I play jazz
Rainbow roads in colored blurr
Pretty little towns I'm sure
I play swing
Past mirror waves and open sky
My stomach tingles, wonder why I
Play swing
***** feet on ***** train
Skin so white I see my veins
I play punk
Impatient taps and flickering lights
Soon the day will turn to night
I play punk
Head in the clouds, mind at ease
Longing for the morning breeze
I play Pink Floyd
Memories hanging from branches
Passengers sharing brief glances
I play Pink Floyd
I'm coming home, I'm on my way, but I travel still...
I travel not by force... yet not by will
Music of choise as soundtrack to the silent film
beyond the windowsill
May 30, 2017
May 30, 2017 at 9:56 AM UTC
The last drops have been swallowed,
And the last vestiges
Of post-wage labor
Libationary sorrow
Swagger slowly off
Into the night
Across cracked pavement
Like slugs after rain.
I pick up the chemtrail
Left by my father
And follow it to
A makeshift master suite
Wedged between a
Rundown groundskeeper
Shed and the unkempt
Wilderness beside the
Desolate bike path
In rural Seekonk.
The rest of this comatose
Town in this overdosed
Commonwealth
Are separated
By enough trees
And undergrowth
And small
Night creatures
Calling to each other
In the dark
That they can't hear
The nightly
Rattle of .38
Rounds my father
Sends flying into the trees.
The pistol was my
Grandfather's,
Brought over from France
In 1947.
My father cries
As he pulls the trigger
Over and over
Sporatically,
Like a Sung Tong,
His eyes wild,
Darting side to side
In milky blue trails
Back and forth
And up and down
Across the dark
Chasms of his
Eye sockets.
When the chambers
Of his firearm
Run dry he fills them
From the box
He took from my basement,
In his old house,
Where he stockpiled
Ammunition for
Twenty two years.
I've learned to stand east
Of my father when
I make the visits
Expected of children
When their parents
Are old and trapped
In the recesses of
Their insanity
Or nursing home
Or empty nest,
Because he always
Aims west.
I wait for tonight's
Box to be empty,
Then slowly walk
To where my father
Is huddled,
Clutching the pistol
Like a teddy bear.
He is breathing heavy,
And has **** himself.
He hears me coming,
Turns, and smiles
Upon recognition.
"I got em good mikey,
Got good, not taking
My land from ME
Mickey, never going
Blow south,
See it?"
I pull the pistol I've
Brought from my waistband,
The one my father,
Gregory Bishop,
Gave me on my
Eighteenth birthday.
The weight in my hand
Is deafening,
The illegal ivory
Is seamless
And cold against
My palm.
I raise my arm,
Aim,
And pull the trigger.
Oct 5, 2012
Oct 5, 2012 at 5:28 PM UTC
Puffing profoundly on an old bone pipe.sat the old woman on rickety stool. A white tendril seeking altitude from schorching embers.
A wafting spirit casting errant admonishment.
Dusty footpath of a million footfalls all on missions of redemption lovelorn weeping allotments of anguish,pain and hope.FULLSTOP.
At sunbeaten,rainbleached risers three in number.
Splitpea fragrance wafting to greet.
Maybe collards too.
"What can I do for ?" But having asked,she already.knew.
To.walk.out to.the.shack.was.a.profound procession.
Made by many,owned by.few
Seeking solace from.the.witches brew.
"You need.a.poultace ?
Cast a spell for.you. ?
Fix it so.she.never leave you ?
Aint nothin.much.that.I.cant do.
Gonna fix.it.for.you.
Ramshackle rundown house of dreams,nightmares and stalking horses.
Beads and potions.come back lotions. Love notions out the window.like startled ratbats.
The little shack of sorrows.
Old time mystic.sitting on a stool.
Jingle pennies in pockets.
Yonder comes nother fool
Jan 4, 2014
Jan 4, 2014 at 9:02 AM UTC
Welcome to drown town
A grey place that always holds me down
With helping hands by the local clowns
If it’s not them, it’s my mental health
But enough about that, let’s explore around
This god awful rundown town
Do you see the lady breaking down?
Crying for help, realising she has truly lost herself
What about the boy riding the bike?
Fourteen years old, feels naked without a knife
How about the gang dressed in Nike?
Whites, browns or E’s
They have the vices you desperately need
But between you and me
I like getting ****** under a tree
Alone with my thoughts about life
Can’t really see myself living past 25
I scream to God about how much I want to survive
But I am chained to my mistakes and that is no lie
So enjoy your stay in my sweet hometown
Sooner or later you’ll forget yourself
In my own personal hell, drown town
Nov 27, 2019
Nov 27, 2019 at 10:37 AM UTC
13 years ago
that Magnolia tree hovered over my yard.
it cast such a shadow
that everything underneath was always so cool.
the flowers were so beautiful;
the purest white to the palest pink.
when the sun was at a certain angle
the tree looked magical.
5 years ago the tree split in half.
back then
the grass was so much greener.
i don't mean the metaphor
the feeling of thin lucious grass running through my toes
always amazed me.
the grass is dead now.
we used to love the rain.
we would run up
and play in the middle of the street.
until the thunder cracked
and we'd race back home,
laughing the whole way.
I'm terrified of storms now.
you used to be able to hear kids playing.
you could drive through any neighborhood at any time of day during the spring and summer.
there would be kids outside.
playing baseball, rundown, release, soccer-
riding bikes, scooters, skateboards, go karts-
jumping on pogo sticks, trampolines, and over ropes.
even at night
we would go out
trying to catch lightening bugs.
we're inside on our phones now.
the trees going to school.
God were they something.
they lined the road,
every tree was the exact same
but something about there being so many in one place
could take your breath away.
2 years ago the road and trees were destroyed
I wish things never changed
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 12:46 AM UTC
cigarette smoke hung heavy in the air
slow and steady like time was waiting
for him to catch up
with weathered leather jacket and rough unshaven jaw
bright eyes that couldn't have been more
distant than ever
he's been gone since
bitter resentment
blind nostalgia for the old gal he used to have
she didn't know
commitments and conferences kept her away
her future secured with a pinch of surety
like a caterpillar in a cocoon
ready to bat its wings away
while he had his walking around aimlessly
struggling to find permanence in anything
convinced himself that he was free and footloose
but satisfaction all short-lived
mostly found late at night in rundown motels and crowded bars
it's hard to keep your eyes open
when missed opportunities close in on you
he's drowning in a sea of disappointment
or was it the liquor?
everyone calls him No-Hope and he thinks so too
but still he wouldn't let go
and be carried away in the current
like the rest of the faceless, countless No-Hopes like him
Dec 6, 2012
Dec 6, 2012 at 9:28 AM UTC
Disheartened
The Dutch tourists have left
and last year’s cherries
hang unpicked as do almond nuts
that are also full of worms,
and who says the grass isn’t sweet?
The sun is a yellow ring
on a blind sky,
disillusioned.
As a 30 watt bulb in a room
with faded wallpaper,
at a rundown hotel
which calls itself Bellevue;
last stop before sleeping rough.
Nothing is more abject
then an out of season tourist town,
worried shopkeepers and tarts
even the flowers are grey;
except for a couple of retired seagulls,
birds have flown to Africa
and will not return
before the rain stops falling.
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 5:35 AM UTC
Sometimes you feel like a flower in a glass vase
decorating the center of a booth in a rundown diner
surrounded by coffee cup stains and burger grease
and accompanied by a hundred wearied faces
that come and pass, blurs in the middle of the night,
the fluorescent light of a single bulb that slowly burns out
the only shining source, mucky water your one food supply,
alone, carefully shriveling away forgotten, but other times
you're the diner, the trusty booth, a shimmering light
on a otherwise cavernous, empty road
in the middle of nowhere, a guardian,
always there waiting to help the exhausted
on their journey, wherever that may be.
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 10:20 PM UTC
The past is a rundown motel that hasn’t had any visitors in a while but yet you try and stay.
You know the walls are molding and the ceiling has long since caved in but here you are
Residing in a bed with the springs pricking all over your body,
Numbing you to reality.
You cling on to when the room smelled of fresh paint and it wasn’t so dark.
In fact, you can even almost see the sun peeking through the window as if it was yesterday.
But yesterday,
Was many years ago.
The rust,
The damp air,
The rot,
It takes over Yesterday.
Overgrown weeds and musk cover the floor,
Yet,
You still walk barefoot as if it was the carpet that was once there.
You checked in to this marvelous moment not even thinking it could turn into a place.
A place that you began to frequently visit even if the people that lived with you there have no longer occupied the space since,
Well,
Yesterday, it seems.
You sink lower into those springs,
Unaware of your broken bones and puncture wounds because you decided to live in that moment,
Instead of walking out the door at the first sign of flickering lights.
When you knew,
Deep down,
Staying wasn’t an option,
But revisiting became a habit.
Only if it was Yesterday.
Oct 5, 2020
Oct 5, 2020 at 2:29 AM UTC
She looks at mirror
Cannot understand
What she’s become
Never queen her entire life
She glances out alley window
Into 4am darkness
Feeling tragic ending
To accidental romance
Premeditated ******
In Chicago in bitter winter
In rundown diner kitchen
Haphazardly displayed
Sharp shiny axe
Above doorway
White lit sign with red lettering
That spells TIXE
Jan 6, 2013
Jan 6, 2013 at 11:17 PM UTC