"slacked" poems
Money melting in a spoon,
let's shoot it into our veins.
Flashing Kardashian lights,
streaming into our brains.
Donald Trump! He's our man!
Mark Muslims is the plan!
All-you-can-eat-
Pile. It. The. **** High.
When you walk or
When you talk,
let the words squeak out
like they're between
Your thighs.
Thighs. American thighs,
Dreaming next to our Calvins.
Our slacktivism, our regurgitated ideas
spitballing out of our McDonald's mouths
into our peers' ears, distilled by years
And years of "almost-knowledge"
that we quasi-ascertained,
if we knew what that meant --
but we've been left behind!
No child left the **** behind!
We were left behind and there's no
possible way we slacked off, that we're dumb,
that we aren't the movie stars destined for
Lamborghini cars, five-star bars, designer bodies
for designer you and designer me:
the most special of the unique, the
Pearls that have been made in the
darkest parts of the sea, the darkest parts of
origin. Origin. ****** ****
American **** virginal ideals sliding around
the muck of a marketable **** fuckfest,
******* of the American mind, the
congratulations of the American ego,
the proud mother and father tears associated with
buying and lying, "trying" and frying our food,
our ideas, our friends, our neo-impressionistic
children in Jordans, skinny jeans, on tumblr:
the unknowing cousin of Fox News, surprised
by its own wit and wisdom: they're ******* twins.
Carbon copies, unknowing, unwilling, un-un-un.
The romanticism of mental illness.
The close-up of reality-tv emotion.
The manipulation taught to servers
from managers.
The manipulation taught to customers
from society.
All we care about is **** image, and ***
Self-preservation: **** Donald Trump
and **** you.
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 12:39 AM UTC
As he stepped into the ring,
Everyone his name did sing.
They wanted him to win
The title, for the commoners.
The title in his last fight.
He was out of practice,
His reflexes had slacked.
Gloves, boxers, guard, did him justice
There was something which he lacked.
Lacked in his last fight.
Before he could hear his favorite song,
Followed by the nerve-racking gong.
He had a look around
To catch a familiar sight,
Have a look at her before his last fight.
He checked the stands,
Then glanced around the ropes
And before he had given all hopes
He heard a familiar sound
Right before the first round.
Go hubby go! Punch him left and right!
She screamed with all her might.
Putting a smile on his face,
And then he boxed like an ace.
Winning the title, just for her.
The title in his last fight.
Jan 17, 2018
Jan 17, 2018 at 10:51 PM UTC
He was out in the field
Trying to earn a living
He did this every year
Nothing had ever been given
The sweat poured off his brow
Humidity was overwhelming
The Sun's rays like hammers was beating down
Being on the verge of starving was compelling
Making him work that much harder
For he was paid by the bushels he picked
Every night he gave God thanks for the farmer
For he was very fair, although very strict
The man stood up for a moment stretching out his worn out back
Sweat dripping from every pore, he took a look around
He stood there counting his blessings, not the things he lacked
He was determined not to let this poverty driven life get him down
He continually worked so very very hard, he never slacked
His eye's fell over the field that stretched out to the horizon
Through the dust and haze, beamed his beautiful smile
For in his mind he could see what use to be, the mighty herds of bison
The Indians like him just trying to carve out a lifestyle
They where also unjustly exiled
But none of that mattered, not on this sweltering day
He knelt back down to get as much work done as he could
For his children where hungry, their bellies would not get filled by the Sun's rays
He was a better, taller man kneeling in that dirt, those that knew him understood
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 12:34 PM UTC
In my nightmare, I was standing in the dark.
The wind bellowing around me, like somone screaming.
I was told to lift the mountain with my bare hands and not leave until I did so.
My insides lit up like a little sun was there, threatening to burn me up.
Sour claws of nausea rip my innards, as if they were teeth gnawing on my raw flesh, being burnt by the sun within.
Ignore it.
It will pass if I focus on the task.
That was my first mistake.
Still, dug my fingers in the ground and began to lift.
Hands began to burn and scream, sweat turned to smoke and muscle strained.
Teeth gritted, I pushed passed the pain, focused on the mountain and I.
Smoke mixed with the wind and the darkness and the screaming, bellowing through the nightmare.
The Sun burns hotter.
Mustered up every ounce of strength I could.
And I lifted.
Heaved the heavy mountain up to the Heavens.
The pain shook through my body until.
Finally the mountain and earth separated and the void between is quickly filled with air.
The weight pass from my hands to my shoulder.
I had done it.
At last almost Atlas-like.
Standing there, mountain remaining on shoulder.
But now what?
The sun still burned, hotter than ever, that blasted furnace.
And in the moment, my attention did lapsed and my body slacked, prelude to the collapse.
What was I thinking?
The wind screamed around me and I began to shake in the dark.
A fake Atlas, with the weight on his shoulder unbearable.
The pressure was too much, too heavy, and too late to do anything.
And the sun burns on.
I want to run to the nearest pier and jump, to disappear beneath the waves.
Stop the burning, end the atrophy of my muscles.
I’ve done unhappy deeds and now I want the most human of needs.
The end to my pain.
That’s the truth.
I yearn for it.
The sun burns still
I let go of the weight and allow gravity to do its job.
Flattened as the mountain was reunited with the earth.
Thought I could carry the world on my shoulder, but I am no Atlas.
I can't even carry a mountain.
I tried and look where I am now.
I am shattered.
Brittle bones becomes broken and turn to dust.
I have given all I got, thrown in the lot.
Soon my skin will rust and rot away.
Soon there will be nothing left to sustain such a fire but the sole desire for rest.
The sun within continues to burn me.
Until I am nothing but smoke, bellowing in the wind.
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 4:44 AM UTC
i was drowning in your galaxies of blue.
blue so pale- like your e y e s
when i swore i could feel them on me but
you weren't there.
i was drowning in your galaxies
in which the stars would shine
shine bright / bright light / bright white light / pale bright white light-
not like printer paper in the sun
more like the pigment of your skin
in the moonlight.
i didn't mind. drowning didn't seem
so bad.
because even though i felt awful and sad, i
also felt loved,
and that was so very pretty to me
as a poet. as a lonely star amidst
constellations.
you almost said the "l" word
a total of (probably) seven times in the five
long-short months that
we were almost lovers.
i actually said the "l" word
a total of five times.
twice as a half joke, hoping you'd pick up
where i slacked in clarity but never
in sincerity
and three times (thrice) in my goodbye
in which i beheld these self-evident truths:
that the almost (always almost) meant
that we could never be lovers
and i thought that i'd prefer us to be nothing to each
other but maybe friends.
(maybe, maybe, maybes make me want to wish on stars
but not the ones in your eyes)
and although time flies
i'm still somehow drowning in your galaxies
of blue.
and i wonder if its killing me
slowly
as your stars blink
and i'm gone
when they open their eyes.
almost.
Oct 3, 2016
Oct 3, 2016 at 9:13 PM UTC
Nestled in a pencil case
And snuggled up in fluff
There snoozed a tiny pirate man
Of legendary stuff
He'd spied the hidden secrets
And trod the haunted shore
Blu-tack Beard the buccaneer
Scourge of the open floor
He stole a shoe-box galleon
And sailed the carpet blue
With pencil mast and paper sails
And crayons as his crew
They forayed on the crooked tiles
And crested every ridge
Blu-tack Beard the scallywag
The raider of the fridge
When moored up in the kitchen
With all his crew around
The captain showed to one and all
A treasure map he'd found
It bore a chart of distant parts
And quite a course it plot
It pointed to the bathroom lands
And tip-ex marked the spot
They crammed the hold with cornflakes
To feed them on their trip
They pulled hard on the piece of string
And weighed the paperclip
The crew they dragged their boat aloft
On neatly woven hairs
Blu-tack Beard the privateer
Surmounter of the stairs
They heaved their vessel restlessly
Atop the final brow
The crayon pirates caught their breath
And leaned against her bow
Then scaled tiny ladders
And each took to their post
Blu-tack Beard was at the helm
And watched the foreign coast
Through countless minutes voyaging
There loomed the bathroom door
They slacked the sail and went below
And each took to an oar
They pulled a mighty rhythm
Till their waxy arms were numb
And Blu-tack Beard the plunderer
Was beater of the drum
But though they pried in every nook
And each last inch of grout
They skirted round the skirting board
They tapped each silver spout
Illusive was their bounty
And they grew ever the crueller
They took their skipper angrily
And made him walk the ruler
He landed glum and ruefully
Amid the ***** socks
He heard the merry spiteful sound
Of laughing, taunting mocks
And saw the sight of mutiny
With waxen little smiles
Blu-tack Beard the cast-away
Alone among the tiles
He commandeered a washing cloth
And weaved himself a rope
He scaled the dreaded washstand
And stole a bar of soap
He carved himself a coracle
And set his sights on home
Blu-tack Beard the wanderer
Awash amid the foam
He slithered down the stairwell
And landed with a plan
For warmer climes and restfulness
A cocktail and a tan
And so he met his final port
Right then did he retire
Blu-tack Beard the pensioner
Of the warm spot near the fire
Feb 22, 2014
Feb 22, 2014 at 4:33 PM UTC
It's been a while,
since I've thought about killing myself.
Almost a year probably...
Today though,
I was awoken to my mother yelling at me for taking off a ring,
and leaving it at my grandmothers.
This ring may or may not be lost now.
And now I am sure I have lost another ring for the exact same reason.
Because of the shower and a dislike for wearing jewelry in the shower.
I also don't like cleaning my room.
It's a pain.
It's my space.
Let it be a wreck.
I did do the few things in college I said I would never do.
I slacked off. I goofed off. I messed up.
So my mother took her anger and just spewed everything she thought of me.
I'm not saying she's not a fit mother.
But,
It changes things when you know how people see you.
Selfish.
Slob.
Narcissistic.
Most everything else, implied.
Those words, are quotes.
Though at the end, I woke up searching for lost items.
Realizing found attributes, that I would have never put together.
My messy room is a direct relationship to my own self worth.
"Slobbish" attributes mean that you think low of yourself, and are selfish.
So all you teenage boys, sorry to think you're self worth is low as well.
Forgetting a ring and not rushing to get it because you just felt it would be safe.
Selfish.
Selfish.
That one I still don't understand.
She kept asking, why I took it off.
And I always take it off when I get ready.
So if you ever take off an important ring for any reason, and leave it somewhere,
thinking it will be safe.
Selfish.
And because I'm a dramatic one,
once my mother left for the day.
I thought
*If I'm so selfish, I'll just **** myself*
If I'm so selfish, I can just die.
Because at the end of the day, suicided is the most selfish act you can commit.
I'm not saying I'm going to do it.
I'm to lazy.
That takes effort.
It would mean I cared about what was said.
But...
Obviously I can't.
Right?
Selfish,
Self Centered,
No Self Worth,
Slob,
Ignorant.
So yes,
It's been a while since I thought about suicide.
But since I'm selfish...
Should I think of it more?
Since it's been a while...
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 1:19 PM UTC
614
In falling Timbers buried—
There breathed a Man—
Outside—the spades—were plying—
The Lungs—within—
Could He—know—they sought Him—
Could They—know—He breathed—
Horrid Sand Partition—
Neither—could be heard—
Never slacked the Diggers—
But when Spades had done—
Oh, Reward of Anguish,
It was dying—Then—
Many Things—are fruitless—
’Tis a Baffling Earth—
But there is no Gratitude
Like the Grace—of Death—
1.5k
What are the lessons of today?
Are they informed by vague
hungry phantoms, jaw-slacked, who burr
on the tongue, that singular
nothingness before an itch
shows? The truths which form beneath
your skin are those which would
find more knowledge in some other
knowing mouth, ready for
digestion. Have you travelled
far today, pilgrim? Have your
feet insisted anything
of worth upon the forest floor,
or drawn up the simple
truths already buried there?
Did you subject yourself to rain
for miles of wandering
only to come out again
as the clouds hurried to
hide their shame behind the
hills? Have you been
troubled by the whims of
the broken twig, the taxation
of the wind's shanty breath?
Take off your blindfold and watch
as I give you a wave
from a shadow you nearly
tripped over. Give over your heart
to me and my land.
What have you learnt today, pilgrim?
Jun 17, 2013
Jun 17, 2013 at 4:20 PM UTC
*concerning anti-kantian lexicon completion to understand the notion of a priori (it's a niche interest... c. bukowski explains it better in the book tales of ordinary madness in the chapter titled **** and kant and a happy home... well, not really, if he knew german i’d say that he was truly defining a priori, learning a language rather than unconsciously acquiring one from the first word mama or whatever toddlers say first when they mastered the bladder and **** muscles, which are oddly designed to be consciously / forcefully trained because they're crafted as slacked... weird), let’s say that’s about as much relevant to me as is this scenario:*
an actress about to perform the monologue script
of not i, prior to performance and at the stage
of memorisation asks samuel (beckett): ‘what does this mean?
this one line? it’s bothersome for my conscience,
my sense of meaning and direction, what does it mean?’
then ol’ samuel tells her: ‘back up, bets and back up,
it’s the most self-conscious eventuality of all vague attempts
to stand outside of oneself within the scaffold of using
language - this dismemberment beginning with extracting
thought for the senses to see hear and feel, writing...
this morphing of the substance we consider thought without ethos, ethics,
choices, looking at the zeitgeist... but honestly?
i haven’t got the foggiest idea... i wrote it because i wrote it,
the desired intentions are reserved for those desiring to read it
and leave it.’
like the famous p.s. of human history written by moses on sinai,
the melting of ice enveloping britain and elsewhere up north,
formerly known as the ice age causing flooding elsewhere...
and that metaphor of: lions gazelles... two-by-two, two-by-two
being a metaphor for monogamy... whereas the harems of other
animals like walruses was obviously avoided
and gave us islamic polygamy (added to the fact
that people refer to themselves via the zodiac...
taurus... scorpio... capricorn... or the chinese calendar...
dragons tigers pigs rats and monkeys etc.);
otherwise known as hermeneutics - extraction of meaning
from very concise texts... very very concise texts
which, if taken literally... leave you as quickly as they came,
and make you specialise in geology or biology instead.
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 9:25 AM UTC
Girl
I was brought into this world
Covered in my own mother’s blood.
Soaked and glistening
Under the florescent lights.
Red dripping onto the linoleum floor.
Metallic scent intermingling with antiseptic.
My vocal cords were the first things to come in.
My screams battled my mother’s.
My screams shattered the doctor’s ear drums.
Years passed and I learned how to be quiet.
Years passed and I stretched.
I was a bulb planted in a field.
I was tended to the same way the girl next to me was,
But I didn’t grow quite right.
Fire
I swallow hot coals
Like some swallow gum.
They stick to my insides for 7 years.
For years I was convinced I was water.
Fluid and easy.
Fluctuating between a trickle and a storm.
But now I realize
I am fire.
Flames like tongues enter my slacked jaw.
There is no easy way to handle me.
Myth
When I was a child
My father would read the Book of Revelation to me.
While most little girls got
Goodnight moon, goodnight stars.
I got the ***** of Babylon.
I was built by stories.
Armored with words dripping from
Ancient people’s lips.
By the time I was nine I could
Recount the abduction of Persephone
In less than twelve seconds.
Because of Persephone
I will not eat pomegranate seeds.
Skin
Do not be fooled by the softness of my skin
Or the white of my pigment.
I am not a diamond, I am not a ruby.
I am flesh, I am human.
I am wrapped in a body that loves me
And I will love it back.
Dec 27, 2014
Dec 27, 2014 at 4:27 PM UTC
I'm shakin' hands with the trees,
High-fiving their leaves,
leaving both of us silly and genuinely pleased.
and by 'both' I mean ten.
We were wrestling zen-
Buddha pinned, nearly sinned
till he slacked, touched my back, bought a drink for my friend-
I'm remembering now what I couldn't then.
Aug 11, 2011
Aug 11, 2011 at 11:49 PM UTC
Remember Wyoming?
Those two days find their way to me, and it always seems so vibrant.
How it hurt to breathe with the constant cigarette smoke in our mouths,
and how hard it was to light one in the windy cough of the night.
I remember us and the others drinking some tea,
and seeing myself in its ingredients.
I remember looking in the splintered mirror for half an hour,
exploring the wonderful fluke of my face.
I remember feeling every ***** of you in the prickly light of night.
The desert howled at us and we howled back, not caring if our sounds would slap the others in the face.
When we stumbled back in afterwards, the space was silent.
Someone took something and they heard their own voice,
but they didn’t like that echoing clatter.
Their hands were over their ears; they writhed on the floor like their skin was a size too small.
It was then I realized that our cabin had no windows or doors, but just gaping indigo gashes,
and I felt so defenseless against the angry emptiness of those American wastes.
Eventually his body slacked, indicating that he was stuck in himself once again.
We stayed inside for the rest of the night, keeping our eyes away from the spaces in the walls.
We huddled together, me and you, on the concrete floor, and tried to keep the fire going.
I remember someone through in that Aldous Huxley novel, and I thought it was a waste.
I, for one, always liked the ending, with the feet rotating like Columbia Mall’s carousel.
But I’m sure you’d beg to differ.
The next morning we and the others shook ourselves awake, and shambled our way into the Dodge.
I sat in the flatbed, and as we hollered down the highway,
I watched a single cloud slip across the sky at the same rate we were driving,
and lied on my side for those 8 hours; the cloud looked like a tired blur.
But when we arrived outside Omaha, and everyone and you jumped out to ****
I realized that the cloud I thought was still must’ve flew about seven hundred miles.
It could’ve fooled me.
And then you kissed me on the cheek and took a Camel out of my pocket,
skipping into the soda shop like a child, two days younger.
Apr 9, 2010
Apr 9, 2010 at 1:50 PM UTC
Round 1:
MIND " You can't be doing this to me again. Falling for another person, a person who's not worth it. You may think the heart has healed but I swear every inch of this Body Hasn't, I'm tired of these tears of the cries really its ******* me over, I don't have the strength to numb your heart once you decide to do this again, for once follow me, please"
THE HEART
" No matter what happens if you follow the mind you'll be hurting knowing they aren't yours and they could never be"
Round 2:
Mind: "Allow me to remind you of what last happened. At night you cried yourself to sleep or drugged yourself. You woke up and your surroundings were dark. You slacked off your studies and resorted to drink your **** away. Remember when mummy first caught you? Remember the look of pain and fear that she gave you? You became what haunted her most nights."
Heart: "I'm sorry. I'm hurting you but what can I do? If I push these emotions away then I'm just hurting you more. I don't know what you want me to do"
Round 3
Mind: "I'm done fighting. What the heart wants is what it gets. I'm tired and still in shock from the last event. What makes you so sure we'll survive the next one?"
Heart: " Life consists of pain. Can we just enjoy the sweet moment before they turn sour?"
Conclusion:...
Dec 15, 2014
Dec 15, 2014 at 1:30 AM UTC
There is one time when the body pauses
The dazzling placid late night
Inside a concealed crisp castle
There is a slacked thrown of pose
One trivial light flickers softly
Beside a firm restful coffin
Now I lay me down to sleep
A phrase heard through life
Happens in the reality of this moment
Stripping cloth from the frosted vision
Once again becoming true natural
The chilled air surrounds the body
Seeping in the lowered soul
Laying ever so still on a lush plank
A quicksand of memories as the body sinks
The light now slender
Nothing but the somber knights
They cover a chattered body
Leaving a sense of protection and warmth
Are the eyes open or closed?
A thought lucidly pounding in the brain
The sense of smell is the true friend
At this sudden listless time
Only supple crystals shift the nose
Tingling the starved fragile hairs
Face cannot be wiped
The body is made of oppressed stone
The arms weighted to a pull
Tied down by tickled silk shackles
The legs a block of endless heavy
The body is no more a vital vessel
But an anchored hard shell
Although the fleshy mind stays alert
Thoughts, dreams, emotions
Marinating in a skulled ***
Fusing together to make a dream
An intense deep sleep
In the world of non reality
Jun 15, 2010
Jun 15, 2010 at 6:50 AM UTC
You walked in.
Shocked of course,
What mother wouldn't be?
Even a step mother at that.
But still, you left.
Closed the door behind you
After you shook my hand
"My name is Sam"
"Nice to meet you."
I wish you had said something.
Said you don't allow ****** in your house.
Told me to get out and never come back.
Forbade him to ever see me again.
Screamed at him for bringing me here.
But you didn't. You just, left.
Didn't you see?
See the way I jumped across the room
The first moment his grip on my arm slacked.
How his calloused fingers dug into my wrist.
The tears, brimming in my black lined eyes.
How my muscles, barely there, strained to pull away.
"Don't make me do that don't make me do that don't make me do that."
I just wanted to go home
Didn't you see?
Jun 9, 2017
Jun 9, 2017 at 12:34 AM UTC
TinMan down
Frowned
On the ground
What happened
Didn't happen
But the brown
Turned to BLACK
Slacked into lack.
Feelings reeling
Heart burst
Like glass
Splintered into ash
Nomad crawling
Sprawling
Couldn't feel the grass.
Can't count minutes
Thru hours
Stretched to DAYS
The silence of no contact
Howling in the wind
Stillness so BLACK
Cutting like a knife.
Nomad finally mounting
Getting to his knees
13 DAYS no contact
To black to see the sun
A crack of light
Screaming
Beaming
Like music
Mona Lisa breathing
Chuckling
Teasing
Nomad to his feet
Hearing a heart beat
Seeing the moon's silvery glow
It all begin to flow
13 days of Black
Absolutely no contact
Worse than dead
Nomadic shook his head
Mona Lisa said
Honey, come to bed.
Jul 31, 2015
Jul 31, 2015 at 10:13 PM UTC
In loose terms
in slacked mouth lies
in stretching truths
spider web fine
unfit for consumption
lines and grievances
I write with tongue in cheek
firmly held away from teeth
bared in a grimace
oh we have begun.
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 2:32 AM UTC
all i want to be in life is a bit of colonel tavington;
i executed loosing my mother
tongue and when i gripped
the new diacritic i earned a famous colonial greed,
even though i was lied to,
because polish diacritic was there in ś
while english was yorkshire nudist blank slacked
so i had to go back to augustus looking over my shoulder
utilising the d but not the ∂ like chiseling a v for a u in marble
to question the existence of parabolas easier.
i mean, i like that arrogant frown and i’ll admit it
unabashed into liking it, i want that ******* twinning
to pop that corn into popcorn for goo awe ah of the cinema goers.
i can be silent throughout the day,
but at night i lose the lazy drunk and soak the soap in carbonated
and bubble the words out: vengeance! thrill the jaw to munch on un-edible edibles! crack the bone **** the marrow!
all i want to be in life is a bit of colonel tavington,
very few sentiments for being loved and loved in private,
loved i can handle but only in the public domain
as prime antagonist.
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 8:03 AM UTC
THE ANGRY WATERS
that recoiled and threatened a tsunami
lie placid now, bacalmed and still
as shiny as a glass topped dining table
THE HOWLING WINDS
that longed to be a hurricane
have settled into zephyrs and soft breezes
that barely riff the petals of the autumn roses
THE RAGING THUNDER
that tried so hard to break the windows
has rolled on and is nothing but a distant echo
that recedes as fast as memories of childbirth pain
THE VICIOUS RAIN
that threatened to go flooding
has slacked off into a gentle winter mist
that wraps the dawning sun in silken haloes
THE VOLCANIC FLAMES
that lept across the sky as lightning
have danced across the hills to other valleys
leaving only ozone to mark where they have been
AND I AM SPARED AND WHOLE
Unwounded and unscarred
Undamaged by their passing
Unscathed in places that should bleed
And safe in who I plan to be
At last the God of Hope
Has noticed me
And offered me
His hand to take
And walk into
Tomorrow.
ljm
Dec 27, 2017
Dec 27, 2017 at 10:09 AM UTC
wind
blows,
curtians
fluttered,
flapped.
truth,
fiction
muttered,
the breeze
slacked.
rain
falls,
panes
close.
Soft
rhythmic
in
art
iculate
riddles,
droplets
stream,
tapped
memory
flows.
Con
den
sa
tion
dampens
sill,
time
drifts,
I
remain
still.
grey
grey
gazing,
hyp
not
ical.
rain
rain,
go
away
come
again
some
other
day.
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 4:41 PM UTC
All alone
The seed was sewn
The **** has grown
Close to the bone
I've been dethroned
Turned to sandstone
Watch me crumble
Everything I bumble
So very humble
Everything I fumble
I just mumble
My thoughts are jumbled
My mind is cracked
There's no coming back
I'm afraid I slacked
So much I lack
A joker not a jack
A punch in the back
No wings, can't fly
Only look at the sky
Soulless eyes
Slowly dies
No tears to cry
Into the pan to fry
Jan 21, 2016
Jan 21, 2016 at 12:15 AM UTC
He sought to break
What he could not shake in its fury
He sought to beat
What he could not fight at its strongest
He slacked when time slept
In its weakest moment
He forgot to fix the cracks on his happiness,
To ruin the battle of his sorrow,
To beat the taunting teeth of hardship
He watched as champions
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) 2014
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 2:27 PM UTC