"sidelined" poems
school starts soon
smoking joints on the weekday afternoon
in a sidelined shady
freight car, property of
Norfolk Southern
debating if this car will be
northbound or southbound
and ************ our fantasy
where we want to be taken
knowing full well maybe one of us -
(and they all looking at me)
will get out of this car and live to
see foreign places without having to
return in a body bag
we argue lazy who should go get the beer,
collect the quarters and sweaty dollar bills
and **** if I am not reappointed
leader of the beer fetching
besides it’s my
tan lab panting needing water so it’s my
responsibility and the nasty liquor store owner don’t hate me that much as the others so he’ll sell me beer without too much **** talk (some for sure)
asking where I’m laying low on a **** hot day like this one
tell him i’m getting on a train getting out of this two bit town which makes him reminisce and ask which direction
could be northbound could be southbound
hell could be west
but for sure won’t be
going eastbound
cause I seen the Atlantic and didn’t like it
too **** big and too **** cold,
too **** mean
Aug 26, 2018
Aug 26, 2018 at 1:16 PM UTC
only an idiot like me, the rain poured down, my socks were wetted, and i looked at the pavement for glory, instead i found a £10 note and imagined my right shoe on my left leg, and my left shoe on my right leg... just to prove the luck.
it came from listening to rotting christ's kata
ton daimona...
i wrote the poem on two tesco receipts
numbering them no. 1 - .4,
it made sense to just give it a narrative...
the naturally apparent lisp of greek is due to...
lies between theta (θ) and phi (φ)...
check feta cheese... it might be less morbidly fermented...
that's why the greeks have a natural lisp...
it's theta and it's phi...
in english it's like chinese.... w & r...
something's rolling something's waving,
something's trigonometric...
harrison fowd was almost jonathan woss if i care...
the chinese in english debate with chin-chin-wanker
scissors piece of paper stone good luck on the handshake:
lost the price of interest being gained for excavation
purposes of dinosaur bones and inflation via the
ptertodactyl of the extended mohawk shave...
english dicionary makes me confused...
it places theta alongside the, than... but then
it's therapy... thermometer...
too many unique examples i'd have said...
that's the lisp there... sidelined phew and engaged in phew
in byzantine...
english linguistics is filled with too many "unique" examples
of expression... coupled with the celebrity culture...
i farted and a person took hold of a *** squeeze...
how's that?! english language in summary?
pleasing on the eye... but the spelling? a burden on the tongue.
i know that slavic linguistics would make enlgish that's written
ugly...
it wouldn't be pharmacology but farmacology...
then it made sense, i stopped asking the english dicta
written down, the greek θ wasn't a couple of th & etc...
a few athenains in death metal said it like i said it... the 2nd f...
it was απηθανoν - because it was simply athens - fern fence...
and not d... defence, or anything easily acquired as a prescription
of zee wee point of german scottish.
Dec 10, 2015
Dec 10, 2015 at 7:04 PM UTC
|**“lead into gold, good into dear, mortal into immortal”
(where poems come from)”**|
you charged me
with crimes three times three,
sorcery and witchcraft and doing god’s work
plead guilty three times three
not that I was successful,
but a complex, candied marvelous failure
not in my possession, the sorcerers spell,
my dross and wordy dregs all sit sidelined,
perchance perhaps,
if you search with a leaden patience inhuman,
you might just find a minuscule golden vein there’d unmined
turning good into dear, an “anyone can do it” miracle,
when you whisper with just one kiss those forever words,
don’t be afraid, say it low and slow, I love you,
and
“I only want to be with you”
and dare it to be become dear
mortal into immortal, an order tall, for one knows his
hiding places for all too human pockmarked weak,
but having been charged and found in guilt,
no one proffered evidence but they wanted a unambiguous
unanimous verdict and proof is such an old fashioned truth notion
happy accept your accusations and since confession is
the best soul medicine, with glee, here and now reveal
how immortality is achievable
breathe poems constantly instantly throughout
the orifices in the skin cells and
pore’d orifices you were god given;
it is how we immortals communicate
with what cannot be seen,
yet drunken heard when spoke aloud
taste the poems in and on tongues you can’t comprehend,
the sounds fly skyward after infiltrating your eyes,
then you can see your own immortality anointed rising
all nonsense you plead,
indeed,
only immortals truly cherish and envy the
human ability to create
nonsense, the place
where poems come from
*******
Aug 4, 2018
Aug 4, 2018 at 2:31 PM UTC
I've been ignored and sidelined.
Denied freedom of expression.
Due to poverty, I was laughed at.
I was hurt, broken, and fought against.
Like a bicycle, I kept my balance to keep moving.
Then I won.
I’M THE STONE THE BUILDER REFUSED who’s………..
Passion didn’t come without suffering.
I strived not to be noticed.
I strived for my absence to be felt.
My intention wasn’t waiting for the storm to pass.
The intention was to dance in the rain.
Kneeling before God gave him ability to stand before anyone.
I’M THE STONE THE BUILDER REFUSED whom against all odds:
Forge without questioning.
Loved without condition.
Cared for people without expectations.
Gave without any sparing.
Shared without pretending.
I'm the same stone that turned to be the corner stone.
Jul 6, 2018
Jul 6, 2018 at 3:01 PM UTC
the narrative does not cling to classicalism of stating whether the pronoun usage is either singular or plural or both to allow an armchair of expression; after all... there's enough for us to bypass the classical philosophical debate about subject and object, simply investigating pronoun usage in relation to singularity or pluralism.
there’s a theory where poetry came from,
one read: cleopatra wanted to hear sweet-nothings
calibrating a razor with a viper’s kiss...
another read: she báthory?
she báthory? she the one that turned milk into blood?
she can burn in hell.
i thought we were un-dialectical in the realms of concern?
no... you see... poetry came from punctuated-impressionism...
or a fear of it... punctuation of course, not from the impressionism...
poets fear punctuation...
give them a semi-colon
and
they
treat
it
like a sidelined line of verse.
this is poetry in mathematical equations:
i had a pear(,)
it was a spare(.)
i had a care for traffic(-)
so i missed( )
the expressions and started using an obelisk to quarter up the mammoth
into chop suey...
poets simple say: next line! when prose says next paragraph
and the prized execution of the 100m sprint . . . (.)
that’s universal alpha romeo with alfa bravo charlie delta (echo)...
come on in the u-turn... give us a smile......... :),
poets says... i need breathing space
without sentenced timing of silence, for the toad to feed inspiration
and envy!
no wonder you came with the alpha - zulu
alphabet given that you used ɪɡ and zoʊ...
so tell me... where’s this copernican west upside down
(this heliocentric west with east being the big bang)?!
i'd swear the thing stopped orbiting in circles
and a thing that's on it's thought started to become
orbital... a fashion sense of the 60s 70s 80s 90s repeated -
that's right, the whole thing became heliocentric
and we became narcissists instead of solipsists
in the geocentric system of worked-up plagiarism
with adequate excuses.)
it's here it the poets apprehensive of punctuation symbology
and instead writing "sparingly,"
to write, e.g.:
i
hate
this
love
affair
claimed
to
be
the
world...
i
rather
chisel
chequers
into
geometry
of
x4
90º.
makes sense poets begot fear of
punctuation and not grammar, they
serviced to explore nothing else,
leaving grammar open long enough to *****
mathematics in... remember...
poets are firstly concerned with punctuation...
secondly with grammar...
philosophy for poets is grammar;
**** i'm um um so drunk i'll need to revise.
Oct 30, 2015
Oct 30, 2015 at 9:27 PM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
It’s a steep hill to climb
But I’ll climb it anyway
Hoping I might make it
To the top one day
It’s a steep hill to climb
But I’m in for the long haul
I’m heading for the top
Even if I have to crawl
It’s a steep hill to climb
But I’m climbing every inch
I won’t be sidelined
I’m not sitting on a bench
It’s a steep hill to climb
There ain’t no doubt
But there’s a way to the top
That I’ve figured out
It’s a steep hill to climb
Yet I’m not discouraged
All it takes on my part
Is a little courage
It’s a steep hill to climb
But I’m climbing every inch
I won’t be sidelined
I’m not sitting on a bench
It’s a steep hill to climb
But I’m not dropping out
Getting to the top
Is what I’m all about
It’s a steep hill to climb
But don’t expect me to be gone
I’m too ****** determined
Not to carry on
It’s a steep hill to climb
But I have to do it
Despite the obstacles
And you and I both knew it
Cedric McClester, Copyright (c) 2016. All rights reserved.
May 18, 2016
May 18, 2016 at 6:21 AM UTC
My eyes smell sleepy, he, refusing to depart,
But there is coffee on the nightstand,
The odor, infiltrating the dozy brain's heart.
Annoyed with each other,
They shout and fight
Like teenage siblings Commissioners at the SEC,
Arguing over bathroom monopolization,
The tongue stays sidelined, feigning net neutrality.
The bed smells empty,
For the **** has crowed,
Yogi David commands your presence
At Saturday morning Eight O'clock yoga services.
To get to his Sinai on time,
Early departure, an FAA requirement,
Car, ferry and foot you will deploy,
In the winter, special skis and snowshoes,
That blessed by his mantra,
Enable you to walk on water.
In the kitchen there is sisterly conversation,
Yes, puttering and muttering and discussing,
Sister's grown child texting, he's making the pilgrimage
To see Mama, alone, unexpectedly,
Six hours driving.
Friends and countryman,
That is how you spell t-r-o-u-b-l-e
Sleepy master dwarf refuses to concede,
Says when kitchen noises retreat,
Back to him you will supplicate,
They (the other dwarfs and body parts),
Have a big convention to better communicate..
Departure comes without a kiss,
But not without complaint,
She always says I love you first,
Which is natural,
She being a girl.
Now the bladder starts to whiny~chatter,
What about me, what about me,
Don't you love me, and me rhymes with P!
While the stomach quietly snores
Have been well-fed
but a few hours before,
He dreams of some more....macadamia crusted s'mores...
I could verse you more,
No problem that's for sure,
But you got the point:
The morning smells.
Jul 6, 2013
Jul 6, 2013 at 7:18 AM UTC
(i see) two scions dance in traffic: sun and moon,
sky and stars; God’s two heirs
dancing in traffic as if they weren’t demigods but
small maya birds - transfixed
mortals, fighting to keep away from the blinding
might their status affords them.
as His children their world and its light is for their taking,
of which they can feed - or not:
they go on instead like hungry wolves, next to I, rising
(sidelined, falling) flagging down jeeps
in the thick of the Vinzons Hall jeepney stop. They bark loud
and cheerily to keep idle; from unravelling
their wax-worn strings. They are birds guided by concrete routes,
those yearning to feel its bleakness
in each syllable creeping up their gold-and-marble throats:
the soft choke of exhaust smoke
and the rosiness of their gaunt in the face of all-knowing fate:
that of snatching from death
a world not theirs. They declare: “Perseus we are not, and
Janus we choose.” They shuttlling
commuters obscure and without fuss and without end
to and fro, where they come
they spit on the universe in baggy basketball shorts
Dec 4, 2016
Dec 4, 2016 at 10:42 AM UTC
Mischievous; somewhere in between wayward and exasperating.
Expectations are aggravating;
When acceptance seems heavy in contrast to escaping.
Restraint and avoidance lacks tactics;
Both now seem increasingly attractive.
At once a beguiled captive; an observant idiot.
In correspondence, I've inadequate presence.
An incessantly sidelined wallflower.
An unintentionally shrinking violet.
Nov 19, 2012
Nov 19, 2012 at 2:48 AM UTC
Eleanor stepped from the rear platform of the caboose as they were sidelined to let a freight
Pass she mused how she loved freight trains how romantic they were the gust of night air from the
Passing train that and the sound the train made was intoxicating she too was a piece of heaven she only
Had a blanket wrapped around her body just above her breast her blonde hair was wet it had deep
Comb lines she presented the highest qualities of womanhood freshness innocence a wild freedom a
Tenderness her face expressed a look of longing a yearning the call that commanded wonder she picked
Up the natural richness from the golden sunset as they traveled west the silver stream that was wide in
The river they ran alongside for many miles this night it had been her bathing pool bemusement and
Wistfulness came from her eyes and played on her face there to was a sadness a mystery that spoke of
Pain she was travelling with a music troupe on the cheap she stated to stroll in the dark up the length of
The train first she encountered the only Spanish man in the group he was setting with his back against
The train on the rail at first quiet and thoughtful was his tune you visualized walking down the dark quiet
Street of a Spanish village then he increased with a fastness you could hear Olay the scene quickly
Changed to the famed bull fight in the great arena he played slow and softly making you feel the
Tenseness as the great Matador faced the great beast the first pass was letter perfect the grace the cape
Moved in a half circle then he spoke Toro the bull charged but in the blink of an eye the Matador saw
The bull turn his head with those massive horns it caught him in the side and then the terror of a human
Doll being tossed and stomped the cadence of the guitar told it all the day would go to the bull glory and
Honor would go to the dead Matador she continued to walk as the guitar sound faded only to be picked
Up by the sound of a rich trumpet it pierced the sweet night the distant pine seemed to sway in
Appreciation the lone Coyote not to be out done howled his plaintive cry to the magnetic moon the
Expanse of the dark southwest night was the fulfilling and telling of the tale many ghost rose that night
Native American people always on the move in their nomadic way the wild mustang were real they
Stood grazing in the lush grass just across the river Eleanor with her rich creamy skin seemed as a dream
Passing between them made perfection call out from a night train
Jul 9, 2013
Jul 9, 2013 at 3:41 PM UTC
.
Raising his hand
moving from the desk
as spitballs fly
and notes are passed
*Chasing his tale
in make believe endings
with a princess in pink
draped on his arm*
snickers and snorts bellow
his train of thought
traveling off track temporarily,
temporarily
*Dancing at midnight
drifting the seasons
on a feather boa mattress
pearlescent skin and fingers*
silence gathers around
heavy breaths float
eyes squint, trying to focus
not his, theirs
*Drawbridge openings explored
present tense heartbeats
sundown desires drip
saturating the scabbard*
Homework is sidelined
jealous boys, intrigued girls
as curiosity peaks and biology
is not just a subject anymore
*at the front of the classroom
writing in black chalk
so the rest of the class
cannot see*
but he can
oh he can
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 11:28 AM UTC
Of splendid thrones of gold
or treasures manifold
Of jewelled caskets
or lavish banquets
Of Emirs and rajahs
Of Sultan and Shahs
Of kings and queens
Of rulers and emperors
Of sparkling crowns
or flowing gowns
Of their subservient stewards and obedient pages
Of their stalwart squires and servile knaves
Of poor humble, docile minions
who tended to regal pavilions
And obeisantly carried royal palanquins
Oh and some were real life harlequins
Of castles and palaces
of abounding gold and silver
in ostentatious regal splendour
The sidelined fanning maids in waiting
Yet to me only one thing worth noticing
The minstrels who came to sing
from afar for the queen and king
For I'd rather be a poetess for kings
so to my tunes swayed a kingdom
than I be the king of mere subjects
and be filled with regal boredom!
So I could join ranks of
troubadours
and sing for the king
some folklores.
Dec 7, 2017
Dec 7, 2017 at 3:37 AM UTC
Each cause is lost,
drowned in satellite waves of radio,
buried somewhere behind
the crystal gleam of the plasma screen.
My love and I sat sidelined,
watched all our friends
aim to be different in all the same ways,
the standardization of the soul,
it's unclear if anyone can cut the seams.
Try,
we will.
Die,
we will.
Trudging through the barren wasteland
of busted marble statues,
bleeding artistic antiquity.
Starving stray dogs,
just her and me.
The vultures will circle,
the sirens will sing pop songs,
teenagers will be settling divorces,
and our heads will scream, carniverous, cancerous.
Try,
we will.
Die,
we will.
But with my love's hand in mind,
I feel no fright staring in the eyes of night.
I only dream of what beauty
we've already buried,
of what lives,
that never got lived.
Nov 22, 2010
Nov 22, 2010 at 10:23 AM UTC
She's always walking through,
no claws ever get to sink into,
I'm sidelined, foaming, chomping at the bit,
buying bouquets and greeting grins,
there seem to always be too many others around,
we could sneak into the bathroom-discover what the fuss is about,
I remember you dressed all in black,
the second time we collided-- it was the funeral of my tact,
I hope to sweat the summertime to smithereens,
with you, my distant venom queen,
if it happens--what luck,
if not-what the ****
We sway to stolen melodies in hazy suburban cities,
we fight tooth and nail for the upper hand of witty,
looting,
shooting,
moving in opposite directions in the name of discovery,
do you want to learn revelry?
I do, I do, I do.
Feb 6, 2011
Feb 6, 2011 at 6:27 PM UTC
I’ll bring you the moon
and the stars will come down for you tonight.
I hope that you will show up soon,
but I don’t see one trace of light.
I’m at dead end ruin,
I guess I should’ve made a right.
Bound to pop just like a balloon,
no need to apply strength or might.
So don’t try to stray
it will never be through,
you can’t run away,
she’s not done with you.
Climb out from the dark,
but take a break before you tire.
I thought that I did feel a spark
but realized that I’m on fire.
I’m ash; my body is an urn,
I beg to be spread and to be set free.
So blindingly bright you burn
but there’s no complaints from me.
So don’t try to stray,
it’s something you can’t do,
you can’t run away,
she’s not done with you.
Every night and day,
one thing rings true,
sidelined and kept at bay,
it’s just déjà vu.
You know I have nothing left to lose
but I’d still give all of my nothing over to you.
Out of options but there’s only one thing that I’d choose,
the only thing I know, but still a mystery lacking a clue.
Think of how beautiful life could be
and all of the colours that could come from grey.
Just take a single step towards me
and I’ll carry us both the rest of the way.
I won’t try to stray,
you know I’m stuck like glue,
I’ll never run away,
I’ll follow it through.
There’s nothing else to say,
one divided by two,
and come what may,
it’s all déjà vu.
I’ll keep my distance
but dream of you nightly.
But in this instance
you just shine so brightly.
Oct 7, 2019
Oct 7, 2019 at 9:29 AM UTC
taking government loans, parental guidelines
and flashy dress-skirts made this life unfact
and unfiction. Lost in the disabled returns on
tax dividends, the world kept calling your name.
“Rise up and be born with me, brother” Pablo
Neruda inclined-- *“Give me your hand from the deep
Zone seeded by your sorrow.”* it all it all it all ached,
an abyss of patience with nothing-- a droplet of sidelined
coffee given sentience with ingestion-- all the banal all
the mundane all the flowing rock-face moments so
presented by society-- in my heart of hearts, in my mind
of minds, in my eye of eyes, in my neck of necks, I found pain....
the ache of achey betrayal and the ache of achey loss. In this
pain we find repreive from Pollyanna-- reprieve from the false
Gods of Evil, the Devil Within your Ex-Girlfriend-- the reason
she let his ******** inside. Through all the latency-- through
starving streetless sleepless evenings-turned-to-nights I could
see death within the sliver of a flashlight beam.. telling me to
take the life or leave the life but never in-between-- telling me
the pain was part and parcel to the ecstasy of faith and resurrection--
screaming “FLATLINED IF YOU WANT, FASTLINED IN YOU
WANT, SIDELINED IF YOU WANT, STREETLIGHT IF YOU
WANT” and throughout this evil and this darkness and this nothing
-but-a-flashlight-beam, I hear Neruda--
“Rise up and be born with me, brother.”
Sep 5, 2014
Sep 5, 2014 at 6:40 PM UTC
Sometimes depression can make you
feel like a
taxidermied animal,
all numbly stuffed full of cotton,
forever glassy wide-eyed and expressionless,
sidelined hanging on a wall,
unable to engage and be a part of,
dumbly stared at,
strangely mute.
Dec 13, 2013
Dec 13, 2013 at 1:51 AM UTC
in the dialectical continuum, as on the chat show
under the name of loose women
you get to see the phenomenon that
is third party dialectics, i.e.
someone reads an almost anonymous person’s opinion
and you get this safety net where no one
is really responsible for the origin of the discussion, since
the person giving the opinion is not engaged in dialogue,
so the surgeons of the tongue hotly discuss a thin-air
opinion of someone unable to provide a follow-up,
so whatever opinions are given, the third party isn’t there...
hence you get this strange dialectical continuum
where only more opinions are uttered and any memorable truths
are sidelined to the scientific quarter of the human mind
where everything from toothpaste to suntan lotion is
given the thumbs up undisputed like a caesar’s whim
with gladiators for the thumbs-down.
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 8:48 AM UTC
Tea with the drifters
lifting lids on the kids there and
they're all on the skids there,
the dossers and tossers,the pikeys
and grifters,
all with the same name and
sidelined,
blindside of the game,
and with nothing
to choose between see or be seen
we don't see.
We don't see the lean one,the tall one,
the
skinny and the short one,the young or
the old one,
the one with the dream gone but
we all see the hands out,
all fear the question,
(could that be me?)
'spare any change guv for a hot cup of tea?'
On a Sunday for some when we pray and give thanks,
there are some that work hard in the local food banks.
It is to them we should pray and not to some God of the day
who disappears at will.
And I'm sure God will forgive me for saying this system is *****
it ain't right,
someone's skimming the cream
someone's stealing the dream and
all we'll have left is
the night.
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 4:20 AM UTC
the magpie's machine gun shattering croak.
i too would have wished it,
if the damage was unintentional
the two of them would
have taken me to a hospital,
instead... they took me home...
and that was the end of the near-death experience,
but as one old man said:
what guarantee do i have to have fallen
and later not be bound by a wheelchair?
none, i said, three stiletto dances later,
i'm seeing a wheelchair-bound youth
giving a rap tat tat lingo western motto
'boots on the ground boots on the ground
so we can print our stupid opinions
as if they're morals' dance...
but then i was walking into the woods
with a migrating cloud of crow...
a migration of messerschmitts...
and into the forest, sat on a wooden stump
waiting for the owl's call...
but i left the forest before the night came.
*what sort of power is this, a power that cannot
reach me, but requires a passiveness, a permission
to only enact choices like abraham's choice
to circumcise himself and then later circumcise
isaah (translated as a need to sacrifice with death)
to disapproval, because it mentioned
circumcision, like: an unsheathed sword.
so what power is there, if power is riddled with
bureaucracy and muddled, and chaotic, and in
quicksand? before it rises, it falls, like an weak dough
that is baked for pita bread rather than bloomer bread
of working yeast? what power is that, if the power
is merely a sidelined chronology of passed-on
responsibilities? democracy is but an idle fancy
that breeds lost young men and exploitative old
perverts... the old men should be enshrined with
making decisions, but in a democracy they're deviating
into thoughts about ******** and ***** extinction...
if you dare educate children you also dare to
not educate old men, and for that reason, you're at
your weakest.*
Feb 20, 2016
Feb 20, 2016 at 2:31 AM UTC
*Tongues of flame ravenously lick
Every inch of her and everything in contact
With her is lit aflame and maybe that’s quite impolitic
As it’s inconveniencing with a tendency to distract.
Well, as beings fidget and squirm in impassioned
Ecstasy she nonchalantly goes about her business
In slow haste completely indifferent to the ‘fashioned’
Whirlpool of raging emotion she’s stirred in acute finesse
Qualities that constitute an ensemble of a femme fatale
Most of her actions defy most established forms of rationale
And presumably, she could have gone through the rigmarole
Of dressing up she’s certain she’ll slay heart and soul
A splash of color and valor
And discretion’s sidelined, she glows with glamour.*
Jun 11, 2016
Jun 11, 2016 at 3:05 AM UTC
Before I took a seat I closed the door. Trying desperately to make a good first impression, refusing the offer of a hot drink
there's always later assuming this goes according to plan. My name called, greeted by a luke warm smile "Daniel"
Rhetorical questions always get me, do I answer or avoid? I never know anyway. Extending my hand reluctantly "Yes and you must be"
my enemy for the next ten minutes. "An informal interview followed by any questions you may have says he reassuringly" Leading me back through
the shop. This his shining kingdom and he the smiling tyrant. Forty hours a week with over time allowed you could be very happy here
working and smiling or something.
The interview is a slow roast, the mid day sun slipping through half cracked a window, I engage in eye contact a neccesary evil apparently.
Ive been up for days reading every interview technique known to man.
I could tell you all about body language or just how much I need too sleep.
Its always the subtle distractions that steal a tired mind.
Nice tie blue tie green tie I cant tell,
I remain fixated untill
"Any questions" of course I reply.
"When can I start and when will I hear back from you"
all the while secretly asking myself when will the already
sidelined enthusiasm I have for you diminish entirely
Mar 19, 2013
Mar 19, 2013 at 8:31 AM UTC
In the streets of manipulations,
simplest questions
unanswered in the virtual dimensions,
found no directions.
Monkeys all the way
slaying each other in the name
of the so-called glory of success,
with ugly evil smiles
or with beautiful deception.
Some shed tears of joy
while some others remain annoyed,
for those who drown
and for those who rise above.
Hearts and brains are sidelined
and devils spirits rule.
Are they lost or are they confused?
Looking at what they do,
Angels mourn them too.
Walking alone on those streets,
Running tired through the pathway,
Dark and dusted,
Happiness busted
Singing the requiem,
They call it The Alley of Dreams!
Jul 10, 2018
Jul 10, 2018 at 8:17 AM UTC