"sabbatical" poems
Serendipities torrential deluge
Of dulcet applause reigning
In the divine dynasty of
Empiricisms arcane lore,
Heavens most high of heirachies
Beyond the veil
Drowning in altruistic
Reflexive salutations;
The regnant patent mutitioning
Of the waters Lethe from
Serpens poisened chalice of saints
Evoking the advent vigil of
Dusts chaldean dreams,
The sabbatical ordination
The fatal ravens annunciation
Heralding valediction
Convening betwixt and between
Gates of ivory and horn
Arraigning the apostolic conclave.
ELEETE J MUIR.
Jan 13, 2012
Jan 13, 2012 at 9:35 AM UTC
Magical cauldron apomixes connoisseur
Cephalic phantasmagoria entity obliquitous
Mystical conjurous conjugal entrepreneur
Fantasia fantastication phantasm obsequious
Amorously arduous ardent raconteur
Ephemeral translucent opulence ubiquitous
Vanity sanctimonium temerities saboteur
Intrepid verve’s intriguingly iniquitous
Sorcerous sabbatical apothegms chauffeur
Endemic veracities fortuitous elicitous
Futurity fatidics fornication kithe
Ephemeral metaphor semantics flaunts
Empirical emulation scenarios blithe
Subjunctive subliminal nostalgias haunts
Agile articulation acuities lithe
Analogizing corroborative prolificacy daunts
Alacritous tactile manipulations writhe
Numinous syntactical paradigm *****
Emanate imminent perdition tithe
Orotund jaded seal ordinand jaunts
Overt convection coercions chiaroscuro tempestuous
Apex crux axis ****** matrix torrid
Manifest objectified enamorous interstice lecherous
Spurt binge spree ***** protuberance squalid
endearingly engendering amore
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 9:51 PM UTC
It’s never easy
starting midstream,
when your joints squeak like old vinyl.
Worse to end just as you begin,
editing hope into bullet points,
buffing your portfolio like a coffin lid.
You kneel to metadata while the holy algorithm decides
if you're human enough to be blessed.
Better to read old Nabokov,
nap in your robe
(the good one with pockets),
wait for the mail like it’s 1998
when catalogs still mattered.
Let purpose dissolve, like the vitamin
you dropped in the sink.
You failed to fail,
which sounds noble
but feels more like
accidentally surviving.
So drift toward the grocery by the newsstand,
nod to the pretty barista with the knife-edge bangs,
pretend the papayas mean something.
You’re the median of middle-aged.
Your knees, both traitors.
Your dreams, reruns.
These lines limp
like your fifth attempt
to rebrand the layoff as a sabbatical.
"Don’t derail, just project
your better self on a screen."
Crop the hair, dim the lighting,
hide the existential dread
behind a well-placed emoji.
Let rhyme stutter
like a pull-string toy,
half-broken,
slightly too cheerful.
Feet unsure, eyes fogged
(by pollen, by memory, by news).
There’s no noir here,
no brooding detective,
no dame worth lighting a cigarette for.
Just this:
the echo of effort,
forms half-filled,
where even your name looks uncertain.
So let’s call it.
Let’s bury the draft,
archive the ambition,
delete the app.
End
where we never really
began.
Jul 28, 2025
Jul 28, 2025 at 10:03 PM UTC
I am the cushion that life first rests in,
The crib meticulously created layer by layer,
The soft bed of flowers, glistening like blood,
The protector of all beings, the seat of care
My love is fuelled by the silver calmness
I gently extract from the first lunar night,
When the moon emerges from its dark sabbatical,
Armed with tales it gathered from the other side
Each day, its luminosity deepens, its stories
Turn more vivid, more wrenching, more morose,
I soak it all in- the pain, the suffering, the injustice,
And colour myself, in the darkest shade of rose
My red is no ordinary red, it is the
Culmination of every sister's deep cry,
It is the crimson of anger that can only be felt,
By the cradle entrusted with preservation of life
I am full and brimming, with pangs too strong
And hues of vermilion too dark to contain,
I rock back and forth, my cot full of stories,
Twisting, flailing and writhing in pain
And then I burst out and let freely flow,
The dam I created with laments of loss and love
Painted with conversations lasting until twilight,
With my cratered friend in the skies above
Petal by petal, as I lose my form and disintegrate,
She is connected to each woman's cry that I assimilate,
Flexed at the pelvis, helpless yet so strong, she listens,
And understands the lore I sing about, every twenty-eighth.
Nov 13, 2018
Nov 13, 2018 at 7:43 AM UTC
Ah yes,
fresh starts,
like
fresh white sheets meeting
fresh black newspapers,
doomed to the inevitability,
groomed for the probability,
that their intersection
will be
newsprint contamination,
a black and white
condemnation,
So, a clarification:
this poem,
just like this moment,
a black and white surrogation,
a seventh day progeny
a sabbath moment,
must and will
and by definition,
be explained as an
interlocutory.^
fated to be
jubilee ended,
a pre and post
sabbatical
of but a
minute,
by law and custom,
destined to go up
in a smoking trinity of
white flame,
red wine,
and a cloud of
myrrh and salt incense.
Sigh with me.
Join in and
inhabit my eyes,
enjoy the unsullied
white blanket
of fresh snow
that humanizes my insights,
and for this moment,
share my peace,
my unedged relief that
the levees have broken
and I am awash in
waves of drifted snowflakes composed
of salt sanctified water
I may be thin and
clarified,
but my visions are still
less than limitless,
my sabbath poems
are but
momentary evaporated residuals of melted snowflakes, heretofore, salty tears, that become
rivers
that become
oceans,
upon which no
Poet-Envisionary
can truly walk,
see his tomorrows,
or even,
especially even,
his past days,
with perfect
clarity
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 10:01 AM UTC
*When nature goes silent
Not even a single leaf sways
Wind is on a sabbatical
Uncomfortable stillness prevails
Few birds heard chirping
Waiting for a response
Where is everyone hiding?
Silence pierces through
The landscape and beyond
Nature needs tending
Maybe she’s mourning
The heart is burdened
With the silent scream
Waiting for happy moments
When nature
Will again start smiling
With love and care
And a warm embrace
Nature shall awake again
From pain and grief*
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 8:50 AM UTC
Promises are made to be broken,
as a stereotype that is a mere token,
that I will leave with you,
where am I going too, that you can not be
with me?
No where and everywhere all at once,
there is much, I see I could put in poetry,
but I promised, my self, among my many selves,
that I would pull out of my computer and off of the shelves
the three stories one hundred and fifty thousand six hundred and forty two words
in total
on the whole
and add and edit and add and review, maybe change a genre, just for you a
possible future reader or critic.
There are dark unknown shadows when and where I go, where I'll stop to sleep
oh I don't know, I will travel far but maybe end up no where I know, I hear there is
a snow storm coming, best to stay indoors, which I seldom do no matter what
Ms. Nature has in store.
If I find time on my hands, don't mind the ink pains or blood stains when I do,
for it'll mean, I am bored or I miss all of you I may be gone a month or two,
I could be radical and call it a sabbatical but I still have to go to my day job, so lets
plan on meeting by March 31st, I may get a burst of inspiration and what is the
worst that could happen is I write a poem or two, read all you written, and leave
footprints and refuse behind so that you'll know "I have been" and left a mess
for you to clean
while not trying to be obscene, um I mean make a scene.
As well I have some paperwork to do, which make cost me time but if IT, I do
not do, IT will cost me more, emotional currency is more dear than bitcoin,
could you spare a few? (Emotions I mean if I run out, leaving me drained,
stuck in the DOWN spout?)
I will be listening to music while a way, Great Big Sea inspires me, anything Celtic,
Mumford and Sons, Good For Grapes, and the sound track to Les Miserables,
some classical music and the odd opera piece, no seriously I mean ODD, and then
there is all that jazz... I am really not going, I hate goodbyes, I will be writing
quite close even, Nearby.
I would blow you a kiss and say "mwahh", if you did not take that as an advance,
and if you would be so kind as to blow one my way, I will put it near to my heart
so it keeps beating away.
Feb 5, 2014
Feb 5, 2014 at 10:22 PM UTC
glide the sharpened blade
of a sacrificial knife
up and down my wrists
then up to my throbbing throat
so similar this seems
remembering her fingers
glide across my skin
as we became like the Sabbatical goat
neither her nor I
were either inside or out side
we were as Baphomet
and we did float
brush strokes, of our blood
used to paint the figure we were becoming
something worthy of worship
as our nails dug into eachothers sides
Oh, I could feel her ferocity
trying to get inside of me
Oh, though she could only follow me
as I follow her-like the moon and the tides
her soft lip, whispered something to me
up against my warm throbbing neck
as her hips continued to sway like the seas
and she said something to me that put a shake in my knees,
"I love to feel your heart beating
deep within me, like a serpent's in me
now feel mine on your lips
can you feel us?
Can you feel
when our souls kiss?"
I had to hold on tighter to her
as she did to me
as we spiraled away
into certain bliss
our bodies were no more
nothing but ecstasy we became
boom, bloom, eyes like blackholes
and like nubulas, we came
and there we drifted
within what is us
I am not sure if she ever came back down
her presence now is like a winds gust
so I sit here
with this sacrificial knife
teasing my belief
in tangible life
finally, I get a smile from her
as she stands in front of the sun
an so innocently says,
"Ooh, that looks fun"
"It is,
it's better than pictures."
"Even a mirror?"
"Yes, even a mirror"
"How do you do it?"
"Just breathe, and remember."
"But, what if I bleed?"
"All the better, take a sip and remember."
"We were dead, weren't we?"
"Yes, my love, yes indeed."
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 1:14 PM UTC
It took,
one of the most beautiful sunsets,
I’ve ever seen in my life,
to get me to write again,
I’ve been taking a sabbatical from personal periodicals,
not that it was premeditated,
it was or rather is,
that I hadn’t felt motivated,
still don’t really feel inspired,
even after such a beautiful sunset,
which I watched from seat 1A,
in the front row of an aircraft,
another First Class flight,
this one shorter than most,
SFO to LAX,
been around the world but still I rep Westcoast,
the girl next to me missed the whole thing,
she was and is still fast asleep,
but the guy across from me saw it,
probably the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen,
see he’s a Navy Seal,
so I guess I don’t really know,
the Lord and He,
are the only ones that know what he’s seen,
at any rate the sunset was beautiful,
like I said one of the most beautiful I’ve ever seen,
missed the first half because my view was blocked,
by a gay couple and their cell phone screens,
jeez,
can’t we ever just have a moment with Beauty,
without having to feel like we have to capture it,
why is it the first thing most people think when they see something beautifull,
is “Oh yeah I should take a picture of this!”,
and then their interest usually only last,
as long as it takes to take that photo,
then they go back to doing whatever they were doing,
before they were interrupted with something so beautiful,
but I’ll take a Beautiful Interruption before a Mundane Day any day,
I’ve always been one for the inspiration that comes with impromptu moments,
I’ve learned to Love unconditionally Beauty in the instantaneous moments Beauty exists,
I’ve learned to be able to appreciate something without having to have the urge to own it,
lost a lat of Love before I learned that lesson,
but better late than never,
so now I write these memoirs,
to help us all act better,
because there’s always room to improve,
and that’s whey I stretch out in my yoga practice,
take moments to meditate and put it all in perspective,
because that’s the only way to stay balanced in a world off it’s axis,
see the US government shutdown today,
January 20th 2018,
and here I am on plane flying 1st class,
from San Francisco to Los Angeles,
and even though,
it’s only an hour long flight,
it was day when we took off,
and now we’re about to land and it’s night,
amazing how much can change in an hour,
sometimes an hour can change a whole life,
and I’m reminded of all of this on this airplane,
as I gaze amazed at an amazing site,
that of one of,
the most beautiful sunsets I’ve ever seen in my life,
it took,
one of the most beautiful sunsets,
I’ve ever seen in my life,
to get me to write again,
I’ve been taking a sabbatical from personal periodicals,
not that it was premeditated,
it was or rather is,
that I hadn’t felt motivated,
still don’t really feel inspired,
even after such a beautiful sunset,
which I watched from seat 1A,
in the front row of an aircraft,
another First Class flight,
this one shorter than most,
SFO to LAX,
been around the world but still I rep Westcoast…
∆ LaLux ∆
Jan 30, 2018
Jan 30, 2018 at 9:33 PM UTC
Life is a series of demands. Hurry up, perform.
Do your homework, write a paper, oh and read 300 pages,
get in those volunteer hours, grab those lab credentials.
I get busy, caught up in projects and I forget stuff
like dinnertime, peeing before it’s an emergency,
or like calling you - last night.
On vacation I’m unplugged, I’m avoiding focus,
I’m not paying attention, my mind’s wandering.
I’d want you less if it were required by law.
I imagine your huge, brown saucer eyes
exhibiting a wounded, blaming expression and I can’t.
Maybe there’s a biological explanation, yes, that’s it,
I’m missing an enzyme, I have a glandular disorder
that prevents long distance relationships from working.
No, not work - It can’t be work - it should be exciting.
Is it a crime to want some time off from pressure?
I’m not asking for a pony.
Just a sabbatical couple of weeks away from obligations.
I felt so guilty that I went to Karen (Lisa’s mom) about it.
We talked for over an hour, she’s so smart, I love her.
She reminded me about the recent lockdowns
and how years of skyping and remote learning
might affect (dull-down) a long distance romance.
I told her what you said, about my sinatra psyche
and she said although I seem absurdly secure,
I’m probably still figuring things out - and that’s ok.
There’s really no substitute for talking to a mom.
I called you - and left a message - I hope you understand.
I turned my phone off - for now.
Dec 29, 2022
Dec 29, 2022 at 7:15 AM UTC
This hammock is my God Spot
It is stretched between two trees
And I always seem to learn a lot
As it bounces in the breeze.
As I sway I pray and listen
For God's calling in the wind
And perhaps he will send a vision
Forgiving me for all the times I've sinned.
My hammock is a double wide
In fact it has to be
For Jesus and I sit side-by-side
Held up for God's great love for me.
Forget about all your worry
And dwell in the presence of our Lord
There is no need to be in a hurry
When sabbatical has such great reward.
I take down down my hammock and shake out the sand
Then begin the journey home
But the Spirit does not let go of my hand
In case I stumble as I roam.
And I will think back on my spiritual vacation
And let my mind play dot-to-dot
As I wait in anticipation
For the next visit with my God Spot.
Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 3:29 PM UTC
Maximal tactics, i'm moving diagonal
fast attack, mad like a rabid animal
I can scramble em and eat em up like a cannibal
silence of the lambs, you can call me hannibal
factual master of blasting the practical
grammatical fractions that act like a manual
brashly cast and I smash like a radical
glad to put a badass on a lasting sabbatical
I hit with a fist and it's fit for the mystical
put **** in the britches of the illiterate pitiful
I get physical on the brittle when condition is critical
on a mission to finish putting rips in the typical
Dec 31, 2014
Dec 31, 2014 at 2:59 PM UTC
Please leave your message after the tone, though I’ll probably never get back to you.
Gaffer, Phil here, can you drive a car with three wheels.
Paul, Sheryl, I’m leaving you for a Canadian lumberjack, don’t try and talk me out of it.
Gaffer, Micky here, that bird Tasmin you hooked me up with, she wants to try the buddha position, what the hell is it.
Gaffer, Phil, I’ve been arrested, ******* fifty quid in the license, you ********
Paul, Sheryl, you would just let me go off with a Lumberjack, you *******
Mr Gaffney, do you know you’re entitled to five thousand pounds for that accident you had three years ago. Phone us.
Paul, Linda here, I’ve left Tony, can I crash at yours for a few days.
Paul, Nurse Jackie here at the Psychiatric hospital, just an update from the doctor, he’s still in two minds.
Gaffer, Phil here, can you come and bail me out.
Paul, Sheryl, I’ve dumped the Lumberjack, going out with Hans now, my soul mate.
Paul, Tracy down at the STD clinic, your tests are clear, and no, I don’t want to celebrate with you.
Gaffer, Micky, that Tamsin's a guy, what the hell is wrong with you.
Gaffer, Phil, are you coming or what.
Paul, Linda, We’re going to give it another go.
Paul, Sheryl here, I’m giving you one more chance, I could have my pick of guys, why the hell I picked you only god knows, I’m coming round now.
Paul, This is the sunshine retreat holiday company, your immediate sabbatical is now ready when you are.
Paul, nurse Jackie here at the Psychiatric hospital, is the doctor at yours.
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 9:45 AM UTC
For the second time in March we have snow
Could someone please wake spring from her slumber
She should be here by now fighting the good fight, wiping clean the wintersmiths frosty drawings
Last year she had tucked him away
She had read him his bedtime story
Last year we had seventeen, this year we have merely two
How he must be laughing, running amok through the hills and the valleys
Turning everything white with a wave of his hand
But where is she? Even he must miss her so, even he must be longing to dance
Still it is not his place to question
He can only do what is in him to do
With a sigh he exhales a bitter northerly wind and coats the confused daffodil with a jacket of ice
Then off he goes dancing alone
Spinning wildy through the towns like a leaf in a web
Stopping only to place his hands on those foolish enough to leave flesh exposed
Maybe she has forsaken us
Maybe she has resigned her post
Like when the last ice age hit and she took a sabbatical
I hope she has just slept in
Or maybe she is just getting ready for the grandest of entries
Yes let us hope she is just sorting through her vast collection of colourful dresses
Because if she does not appear and dance the dance of seasons change
If she doesn't take the wintersmith by the hand and sing him softly to sleep
Then that giant golden skinned adonis of a man summer will not come!
Without her he will not appear
Without her beauty we will not feel the warmth of his love
Oh someone please wake spring from her slumber
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 5:49 AM UTC
**The author of my favorite book would’ve never said ‘favorite’
He does talk about sacrifice and really deep things
And that word can’t explain any of it.
He says we always choose what we can’t have and cry over it
But now all that just sounds like a pop song about a pretty girl
With flaxen hair and long –long legs figuring out her way
I wish my tale was more cinematic, but it is dry as hell.
Today is no better than yesterday
Just a different shade of sickly blue
I deliberately keep avoiding the context of love
Because it’s so basal and we’ve refined tastes
Or so I think
I know little boys don’t think that much and
Little girls are told good girls don’t play with fire
Wretched, needy begging bowl of a soul
Invested too much on a gambler’s lucky streak
Now I’ve woken up to an endless sabbatical from relevance
I hold on to a smile
One that remains long after it’s gone
Like the sudden flicker of street lights in a rainy day
Doesn’t make a big deal about itself
And eyes that don’t melt concrete or anything but
Eyes that could make a cold-blooded killer cry
And they hoodwinked me
Perhaps we’re naked in heaven
To make up for all the deception in our lifetime.**
Mar 12, 2015
Mar 12, 2015 at 12:33 AM UTC
There is a crack down my center
diremption black-balling an existential ease
The Moon knows who I am
sighing my name in her bending light
beaming to my tattered rim
Oh, lustrous bulb emblazoned in elevation
a sister to mine
she dangles in confidence
companionless, wandering among stars
and ever-changing, ricochet
between lunar phases evasive
Her metallic optimism calls to my insomniac iris, but
our stunning single source of light
does possess a polar
of two, where
a potent cynicism sleeps soundly
out of view, in
darkness everlasting
Pale in her weariness is she
scaling east to west, but
sabbatical she is not
for methodical hands protest in sway
But what would come of us if The Moon came
crashing
down?
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 9:01 AM UTC
Hello happy hour!
I see you're now reduced
to fifteen minutes of
soft drinks and
smiling depression:
simper and wine.
check that...Sprite.
But I'll drink to
nagging doubt anyway.
Cars are now a kick.
Who knew gridlock
could offer such joyride:
the drive home each day
my ******** sabbatical.
I wrote 3 letters the other day
(the handwritten, paper kind)
and feel a little
like Jane Austen.
I think she'd like Dr. Pepper,
but not Mr. Pibb.
Too foppish.
Then there's this:
the wax and wane
of life between the bed
and the couch.
There's six degrees
of separation
through the five layers
of this reusable face mask.
Speaking of masks:
"one for the money,
two for the show,
three to make ready
and four to go."
And somehow I know
I will never breathe it in
that way again.
Random curtain calls:
I'm so starved for someone
to talk to; the mail lady
had me at "hello."
I offered her a soda.
Mail order catalogs are king.
The Saturday Night Special
from the burglar alarm brochure
was my final good buy.
Aug 29, 2020
Aug 29, 2020 at 1:03 AM UTC
Off to Chicago for a week
I'll try to check in, now and then
off to Chicago to take a peak
of places and things I've not seen
A minor hiatus, holiday
wandering museums and things
a short escape, a get away
having a minor fling
Spending the week not burning
the heat in Texas is bad
cooling in the windy city
history there, to be had
Fear not my silence
or the absence of my lines
missing all my nonsense
well, maybe you might
just this time
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 8:03 AM UTC
My thoughts run sprints
My mind won't slow down
But when pen's put to paper
No phrases can be found
I knock on their door
But the words won't come out
Locked in their room
They just laze and pout
Inspiration's still here
But my muse has gone mute
Its stubborn vow of silence
Renders my thoughts moot
It's not mere writer's block
I'd say it's more radical
My poetry has decided
To take a sabbatical
Dec 8, 2018
Dec 8, 2018 at 5:32 PM UTC
i find myself using this red string as an excuse, a muse, something to abuse. i used to pull it tight around my wrists and lose it in rosy verticals. it hurt until the pull choked and made it numb, numb until it wasn’t there and if it isn’t there than it isn’t a problem. it’s once in a while, it’s periodical. i snapped back lying on my floor without a pulse, stood up and threw away the rusty blades. sabbatical.
i found myself using this red string as an excuse, a muse, something to abuse. when you choose to bruise cause you have nothing left to lose. the soldier who made it out with everything intact except for what’s in his head, but that blood runs clear so they ignore it instead.
i almost used this red string as a noose. but now i’m playing double-dutch, catching fishing lines and throwing beams of orange and blues. sing me a song, porcelain. you taught me how to swim.
Nov 13, 2012
Nov 13, 2012 at 12:19 AM UTC
“the voice of poetry in the conversation of mankind.”
<>
“Even nowadays, most of us have speeches from plays and films jangling around our heads, alongside things that have actually been said. Both contribute to what Michael Oakeshott called “the voice of poetry in the conversation of mankind.” Whether in verse or prose, there are some fictional speeches that, once heard, cannot be unheard. You find that you live with them.”
~from~
Things Worth Remembering: Nothing Is Lost Forever
By Douglas Murray 9/8/24
<>
the quote grabs the throat, a two handed grip,
but gentling, to ensure it does not go forgot,
or to the bottom the pile, or just another
never truly born, or premature to die,
guised as a drafty passing breeze,
a tickle too fickle, impersistent,
to be a poem unto itself
my thots impure, for I see, I believe,
that poetry is the conversation in all
we do have,
those that lyric wax when
one of the five big guys,
jive, sensory excited, the whiff, taste,
licks the visionary
of the need to be a completed
exegesis, a work to be telling
told
but I am old, my powers weaken daily,
the resistance training recommended,
by brain muscle, fiercer resisted
so reach for the quill,
blue lined sheet,
a cute puppy looking paper,
up for the “surprise” treat
just for extending a paw,
these humans so ease pleased,
you see,
here comes a poem
bout
poetry being bout every any,
even, the great creator struggling
to put out fresh daily,
new & improved work,
after a six day historic period,
that demanded a poem-alll-day entity,
entitled as a sabbatical day
of rest.
Here I too rest as well,
too many conversations need starting,
fires requiring verbal refueling,
and my own voice hearing a,
“get up, get out of bed,
drag a comb across your head,”
talk, and plant those newly fallen acorns,
**and let the conversations produce
giant oak trees,
and
a plenitude of poems**
9/9/24
Dec 4, 2024
Dec 4, 2024 at 2:09 PM UTC
Hello hello,
Welcome to the show
Good luck getting through the impossible to get through MO
One long typo
A hypocritical, defeatist manifesto
More stupid than ******
Misplaced gusto,
SUP BRO?!
Possible becomes unreachable then unthinkable
Undeniable failure is sure to follow
First name familiar with the mental hospital
A revolving door install
Biggest chart right up toward the front of the file being that it's alphabetical
A tragic life, only ironically comical
Spine stained yellow
Same as the teeth, thanks Marlboro
A nose incased in a thick brown crust on the face, smack dab in the middle
Cornered with a dunce cap and a little bit of spittle
Condition has always been critical
I do take it personal
Can't show, can't let them know it hurts even a little
A forgettable imbecile with a needless purpose and a fleeting soul
Held accountable but it's not balanced or rational
Equal? I guess maybe, but not equal to anything favorable
Decent into madness unavoidable
Some of you are only here for the spectacle
Swerling around the bottom of the toilet bowl
Forced sabbatical
Out of sight, out of mind so I've band all travel
Departure and arrival
Business and commercial
An attempt at better has been abysmal
Wouldn't have made it past the pilot if it were a show
You would just know it was shiit though from the overflow
"You've made your choice" but not by choice, it's never that simple
©2024
Jan 31, 2024
Jan 31, 2024 at 6:35 PM UTC
My mind was on holiday
It couldn't quite take me far enough away
To escape your moral decay
I was always lured with bait
It took a decade to turn to hate
I'm sorry I left the party
I gazed into your eyes and saw tomorrow
Only time will tell
If I broke the spell
It's not easy to leave you
In your rendition of hell
May 24, 2017
May 24, 2017 at 5:15 PM UTC