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softcomponent May 2014
Betwixt of any sense beyond experiment, I sat on the bed between shifts and out-whipped the bag of Concerta given to me by Matt, o'timey hard-worker-soft-souled Matt, who felt, perhaps, that I had a legitimate reason to explore this legal avenue of pharmaceutical mind-manipulation for reasons he would rather fathom in retrospect. I popped a single pill, and voilà, the legal-cocainnabinoid began to flow between my red and white blood-cells playing cops and robbers.

It is when I feel nostalgic that I feel the need to write. I remembered, at work, with all those strange everyone-elses faces gliding past (and myself annoyed at the general lack of positive reception "Hello there!" "h .. i ." is one sour-looking businessmans sultry whispered reply.. once, a woman told me 'look, I know that you are told to say hello at the door to everyone who enters, but I don't like it. I just want to shop in peace, and no, I don't need any help' and without case to what my managers could say, I somewhat-hissed-back, "if you don't want to be greeted, then perhaps you shouldn't walk into big private corporate establishments to find the books you're looking for," and she shrugged and muttered some ****-talk under her breath and glided upstairs to find a copy of Ayn Rand's Fountainhead or Machiavelli's The Prince to validate her bitter attitude, I bet, the sour witch), my time spent living in that backwater Esso suburb of Port Coquitlam back in 2011 when Occupy Wall Street was still a hungry potential, not yet bogged down in procrastinates over herbal teas and talk of chakras and enlightenment and how the typical Wall Street businessman probably never had a real ****** and hence had never truly satisfied the energies now burnt-to-crisps inside his Root Chakra or whathaveyou, where I believed I would find a better, more interesting world further from the musty-smallness of forest-drenched rain-drenched Powell River, only to discover I may be right outside my front door, but that's EXACTLY where I was, no further than right outside my front door.. I mean, for Goddaskes, I was born in Vancouver, this isn't a culturally-shocking move to New Delhi or Kathmandu--- and so on and so forth is how I once berated myself thru constant cycling thoughts of no-escape, I, a little walking hell of devils-advice and panic disorder-- the Great Big Port City of George Vancouver only succeeding in further overwhelming my already delicate attempt at false optimism thru self-voided Buddhist smalltalk as I travelled from bookstore to bookstore reading Alan Watts in shady attempts to save-myself but only digging my walking grave even deeper into the soil of feared-insanity.

Port Coquitlam itself was a small-town wearing a business suit and holding hands with an angry father forcing him to college for computer networking as it's the most economically viable market at hand.. at first, I did not see this. I saw my idolized imaginings of Vancouver (never Port Coquitlam), the shining water-reflected skyline of my past and present legacies, where my father once snorted ******* with a bohemian group of someones, and my mother tried LSD just to prove to her friends how bad it was (and lo and behold, what a terrible time she had!), all this Otherness, Strangeness, yet still Connected-- an Otherness with which I was taken, left to whisper into empty Campbell's cans so-as to speak with the city from a distance, two children growing older together 'til my inevitable return and our agreement to share costs on rent.

I returned, as planned. I returned, and found that old-best-friend hating the Homeless and loving the Rich-- spending time with the Peppy Plutocracy whilst enslaving the Middle Classes (first Letter Capitals to Assist YOU in Grasping my Anger with All Five Thumbs) and the horrors I saw in my already delicate state, all the starving addictives slouching-inching down the sides of ***** old walls, the only thing missing a smear of blood to follow their corpseish collapse, all just footnotes to history, footnotes to wealth and progress-reality, all footnotes with no shoes O my God O my Goodness and O Canada, Our Home and Native Land!

It hurt like it did, but I felt powerless and gaited. Felt like it were just as well me (*** it just as well is), I, in Vancouver.. *Great Big Port City of George Vancouver
.. saw the end-stretching-cold-legs of Nietzsche's Dead God.. those in cutthroat-black-suits armed with calculators and wives could afford private jets and yearly trips 'round our globular strangeness whilst others had to beg and berate and debate and break-down to get a crummy old bagel and a past-due mostly-empty jug of old milk and perhaps a 'side of fries with that order.'

What crushed me so much about this playing a Witness to God's Death (or, not so much a 'witness' as a relative asked to the morgue to identify the body) was my intuitive grasp that this is the poverty of the First World.. this is not as bad as it gets and on a scale of 1 to 10 this would only be a 3.. all the poor and displaced of Eastern Europe.. Moldovan families indifferent to the whims and what's taken.. someone called me a Socialist and said I would later grow out of it as 'reality' angled its rearing-ugly head to chop me smithereens like it did so mercilessly to the Poor and Irrelevant.. I looked at them and still look at people like them and think 'that is evil unsure of itself.. that is evil unaware... that is evil and evil is  evil to watch..' the Evil Act being the use of Money to purchase the world, demanding us all to pay royalties (mass royalties) for the privilege of life so afforded by them.. (the Sons and Daughters of God first stabbing their father then stabbing themselves then locking away and ignoring their young brother with cerebral palsy '*** he could never be armed with a calculator, nor wife)..

I learned, thru practice, to cope with these evils as laws-for-now. Coping did not mean tolerance, nor did coping mean agreement.. I had charged at life expecting hugs and bottles.. what I got was hugs and bottles.. all while I watched over the shoulder of whoever embraced me and saw young-others doing the same, where are the hugs and bottles..? they sank into the nether as the crowd ebbed past, ignoring the cries of pleading love, pleading love over time so traumatised as to distort this love (so inherent and implied in the Heart) into confusion, confusion into loss, and loss into hatred.. as the crowd ebbed past, the crowd ebbed past..

After 3 and a half months, I moved back home to Powell River.. the soggy ol' calm of what I already knew.. the warm arms of the rest, the warm arms of water-reflected sunsets.. and I got my hugs and bottles.

but was this really a happy ending?
ZWS Sep 2014
Getting sick of my best friends
Just want to meet some people on the surface
Everyone's a little ugly on the inside
Or maybe I'm just blind, haven't been able to look past it, it just resides

But I don't need to be picked apart by you, and I don't want to pick you apart
Because maybe we're the problem
Maybe I should stop trying and study hard and go to work
Get caught up in this dishroom small talk
Talk to her till I don't have to think anymore and
Get caught up in what could have been
Mikaila Apr 2017
I've been trying not to write to you.

I spent a lot of time alone in museums as a child.
Often it was the Museum of Fine Art in New York.
My father would teach, and I would go to the museum.
I was too young to be there by myself.
The marble floors echoed with footsteps.  
People swirled around me,
But as I was so small, nobody really saw me.
I was glad they didn't.

There was a room full of statues where the slanted ceiling was made of glass
And sometimes rain would slide down it and make them seem alive.
I burned to touch them.
Their skin
Looked soft.

I never spoke on those days.
I just looked.
Sometimes at the art,
Sometimes at the people.
Everyone had somewhere to go, it seemed,
Buzzing with murmured conversation like bees in an enormous hive
They blurred past me.
But every so often I would wander into a room
And find a stranger standing alone before a painting
Completely still and starkly different from the others, as if caught in amber
And I'd know that if I looked at the painting too
I would see a little piece of their soul there.

Maybe that was where it started,
Maybe that was how I began to look into people.
I say into-
I mean
That if you place a mirror directly across from another, the repeating reflection goes on forever,
And if the light hits it just right it creates a prism-
Hallways of mirrors all throwing shards of light and color and shadow back on one another infinitely.
I say into, and I mean that I haven't found my home yet
But I've seen little glimpses of it
Refracted in someone's eyes
Just for a second-

Only ever for a second
And only ever there.

I've been trying not to write to you.

There's something I'm looking for,
And I've been searching for it since I can remember.
It is a constant hunger in the core of me,
Deeply rooted and deeply unsatisfied.
As I grew, it grew
And bore fruit I could never stop craving
But could never be sated by.
People sense it in me, now.
I see it touch them.
Sometimes a stranger will move around me like a moth around a flame
Trying to get close enough to thaw, but not
To burn.
Sometimes, they will withdraw
And look at me with shining eyes
Like an animal which knows something with teeth
Watches.
Whatever it is,
It moves me like it moves them,
But in here is no retreating from it.

After years of aching inside, I learned to seal myself up.
It was so tiring to need all the time
On such a massive scale
To chase something I wasn't even sure existed.
If I can keep all the light out
Sometimes whatever is in there will curl in on itself and fall asleep
Dormant, like a plant beneath deep snow,
But even while it sleeps, it grows.
The world settles into a haze
And I find...
Not peace,
But at least rest.

Sometimes I stay like that for months,
Sometimes I convince myself that there is no other way to live.

But nothing is ever permanent,
And eventually someone
Takes me by surprise.

All it takes is the barest of seconds
And I am garishly exposed
And the light is harsh.
I throw up my walls, my defenses,
And huddle, praying in the dark.
But by then
I never know if I am praying to be overlooked
Or discovered.
I only know
That it's the hardest I've ever prayed,
Every time.

Days. Weeks, maybe.

The memory of light courses through me
A drumbeat
Attaching itself to the rhythm of my heart and vibrating my bones.
I struggle to contain it
And it echoes off the walls of me, pressing against my skin from the inside.
It seeps through my dreams, steady and strong,
And cracks form all over,
Pinpricks of light slicing in.

When I accept defeat it is like being rescued.

This
Is the feeling I have fought against and worshiped my whole life.
It is the feeling I have watched people run from
Wracked by fear I feel with them but cannot answer to.
It is the feeling which
Some days
Becomes so consuming that I can't eat, can't sleep, can't think.

Like any ancient deity, it demands blood.
But like any good one, it delivers salvation.

It is this... thing, this need,
Which has pushed me out into the world again every time I have decided that I am too fragile for it.
Its nourishment
Is beauty
And I am its instrument
Before I am my own.
I search, I wander.
And it has twisted me inside with pain, sometimes,
But it has also given me purpose.

Once, I stood waist deep in the sea at dusk
In the tropics
With the sun reaching red across the surface towards me
And something in me reached back.
The trees behind me shed their white flowers into the waves
And a storm broke overhead.
The water churned with drops
Lighting seared across the hot sky
Thunder rumbled through me
And I was surrounded by a world of chaos and light and fury.
Beneath me the tide tugged this way and that on the hem of my dress
Wrapping around my hips and pressing me towards the open ocean.
For the smallest moment then,
I didn't feel the twisting of need in my chest.

Since that day I have followed this strange gravity
Whenever I wake up inside.
I let it lead me anywhere, everywhere, as long as I find a moment of peace at the end.

I've followed it through London streets
Where mist hung thick in the air and turned the light from the streetlamps to floating golden dust
Dragging my hands along the rough stones of buildings in the shadows
Searching with my palms for something​ to soothe me.

I have been pulled from my bed
And out onto lonely roads made of dirt and clay
Trying to wrap my fingers around the slivers of moonlight that slant through the trees
In those moments of morning when the world holds its breath,
When the spiderwebs are still poised to catch their silvery droplets and splay out in shining galaxies on the dark, whispering grasses.

I have swallowed my hesitance and stepped into crumbling buildings
With vines snaking through their bare windows
Found the dormant hearts of them and listened to the small scuttlings without fear or judgment,
Spoken to the ghosts in their hollow language of sighs and coldness.

I have stepped to the very edges of high places
And looked straight down
Felt the complex craving that all human beings have
Which bids them fall
And let it swallow me without letting it move me.

I've looked into eyes that thrilled and terrified me with their power
And opened myself completely
Sinking to my knees.

All this in service of a feeling, which like a shining thread pulls me irresistibly onward, keeping me up nights with my futile searches, and filling me with words and art and music too intricate to make but too urgent to lock away.



I've been trying not to write to you.

It didn't work.
Mikaila Aug 2018
Blue stage lights on skin
The curve of a jaw
Eyes glittering in the dark,
Raw and human.
Something swells with the silence
A truth never spoken
Like a ****** of music only half heard,
Barely remembered but achingly lovely.
Some marriage of sweetness and savagery
Courses beneath the shadows of this place,
An intimate wound
It scrapes at the hollow parts of hearts and lungs
Demanding
Purchase,
Demanding breath-
Famished in its brevity.
It is made here and it dies here,
Witnessed, at least, if not inhabited.
Every other face- white as bone and as hard-
Stares, blank,
And they do not understand
But sometimes,
They feel.

Fairy lights
The trees glow and fade
Shadows stretch long, reaching for feet that scuttle back
Afraid to let light soak them
Because here it has substance.
Others bathe in it
Nourished
Faces bared to the blue and the red
Upturned as to rain after a long and bitter drought.
They know it as water
Hold it as water- it slides away from them,
A thought half formed, a memory half loved
A step toward
God
That falls into a stumble.

I am always afraid that nobody treasures this place.
Always sad, somehow, to suspect that many don’t.
They say the magic will fade with time.
They do not know magic.

Hands, gentle,
The hands of a stranger
But known, known as water
As light.
Contained within one fragile touch, the idea that hands are not weapons
The cautious testing of fingers against flesh
Innocent, a connection between beings
Who were born of blood and will turn to dust within seconds
And who only just now have become aware
That their palms are miracles.

Safety- a contract,
A careful consent  
To reveal,
To be vulnerable for a moment-
If the moment is scripted and choreographed,
The bow and curtsy of a dance both partners know,
The permission a mask gives
To tell the truth.

It is eyes which cut deep, not hands
Wounds that last for years
Resurfacing as prayer.
Silent in the mirror of another's eyes,
A vision of what we could be
If we shed our disguises as Ordinary People and rose to our forgotten grace,
If we let others in not as lovers or as owners but as fragments of the soul we all share.

That loneliness- the grief of contact- crescendos in the corners of this place.
It is loud
Louder than music,
Louder than shouts and screams.
It grows by the moment, reaching its fingers along the walls behind footsteps, digging its heels into the fragile fabric of whispers, wrapping its ghostly arms around shoulders and tracing collarbones with cold tenderness.
It is the grief of closeness, and the grief of isolation.
It breathes here, unsmothered by the roar of subway cars, the murmur of smalltalk, or the burn of a liquor that tastes like forgetting.
This is the feeling of remembering, of being, of a truth long lost but not quite gone-
Something far away enough to be painful
But close enough to be
Unsettling.

That is why people laugh here
Why they grab what is not theirs
Why they run.
That is why they shut the door and don’t return, content to float above the surface,
Desperate to,
Terrified that if they sink even an inch
They will fall forever into themselves
And, groping for an edge
Find none.
(Terrified to realize
In becoming endless
That they always have been.)
They turn away, and call it nonsense,
Begging to remain small inside.

Not me.
I could sew my heart into the shadows of this place and not be close enough to the world it holds.
Instead I press my palms against the walls, hoping to take some of it with me each day when I leave.

They say the magic will fade with time.

They do not know magic.
Finn Parker Apr 2018
I don't know how to act when women are involved
The world doesn't want my kind to begin with
Lack of significant motivation to get anything done
My wife thinks I think God is real
I'd find out if God is real
My voice is too nasally
I waste my wife's money
I can't figure out how to be normal
My dad is an alcoholic
I'm an alcoholic
I burden everyone I'm around
I seek attention
I don't want attention
That embarrassing thing I did in third grade
That embarrassing thing I did in fifth grade
That embarrassing thing I did in sixth grade
I cheated on my wife
I made another girl think I really loved her
I made another girl think we could run away together
Then I ran away without her
Blasphemy
I don't have a real job
I think I'm better at everything than I am
I think I'm superior to most everyone
I don't know what it feels like to be happy
I like futa
I cheat at my own goals
My family would be ashamed
My brother is a hikikamori and it's my fault
I scold him for it
I steal from family
I cannot empathize
I put down others to feel better
I do not want to live
I am self destructive
But not enough to count
I wear a mask around everyone
Except when I have a few beers
I listen to teenage girl scene music
I play garbage video games
I hate people who are like myself
No one cares
I lie to my spouse
I fantasize about her friends
I like cringy memes
I like memes
I think highly enough of memes to add them to this list
I prey on vulnerable women
By acting hopeless
I really am hopeless though
I seek approval in my writing
And I pretend I'm good at it
I'm too analytical
I play games no one cares about
I say things that aren't funny
I say things that aren't funny enough
And I laugh way too hard sometimes
I don't know how to keep a relationship going
And I can't make smalltalk with a straight face
I am a walking contradiction
I agree with both sides
I agree with neither side
I just want to be difficult
I insist on things that simply aren't true
And above all else I still think I'm going to heaven
Please help
kaylene- mary Jan 2015
Your arteries are like correlations
Possessing fragments of my brightest moments
Protruding right against your skin
And an abundance of my darkest thoughts
Crawling viciously through your lungs
Infecting your every breath
Just to fill the empty spaces
Between the blood that pulses through your veins
And the twisted bones that keep you straight

The craters in your wrists
Hold masquerades of celebratory pain
Where crisp and lifeless voices
Hum out screams of your trauma
Like meaningless smalltalk
As if you were a resemblance of the weather
Just another galactic disaster
While their idle hands of Devils play
Scrape knives along your spine
And feast formally from your flesh
You make my hormones rush, baby, and I can make you laugh with recycled clever-sounding comments while you uphold decent conversation on your end.
You dress in a way that makes me notice the curves of your upper thigh and angles of your wrists.  We have so many platonic(?) tickle wars and pillows fights.  My arm goes around your neck when watching a movie at a friend’s, but I let it hover over the cushion of the couch.  Let’s not be hasty here.
Come on, baby, let’s kiss during a casual conversation outside the high school one day, and from there feel obligated to date for a one-to-three month period.
I want to hold your hand in the hallway, but not in front of girls I find particularly attractive.
I want to publicly display our lust affection in moderately meaningful situations.  Like lunch.
I want to say “I love you,” because I feel like it’s the right thing to do.
Come on, baby, let’s go see three action movies and a romantic comedy in the span of our relationship.  Let’ s have a single dinner out to Olive Garden, and not get dessert.  Let’s bake cookies at your house afterwards, and have your mom and dad step in every few minutes to check on us.
I want your dad to make smalltalk with me, baby.  I want to give concise answers, and keep the conversation to a minimum.  I want to have a weird ****** tension with your mom, and act cooler than I am to your little brother.
Let’s just kiss for far longer than necessary, until our lips become chapped our cheeks sopping wet.  I want to undo your bra with both hands (and a little aid), and feel your snowy *******.  I want to **** on your ******* for the first time, and be inexplicably disappointed from the experience.
Baby, let me put my fingers in you and focus on the wrong places.  I want to use our mouths, and have you give up halfway through and make me finish on my belly.  Baby, let’s be make a mess due to our discomfort with our own ****** interaction.
Sleep with me, baby.  Let’s do it.  I want to give you the best six minutes of your life, finish early, and be apologetic, yet still confused over how good I was.  I want you to smile politely and kiss my cheek afterwards.
Let’s break up, baby.  This isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.  Let’s make a mess of our clique and make them pick sides.  Let us oversympathize with our standpoint, baby.  I want to hate you for no reason.  And I want to cry over what seems like everything.
Baby, I want to reconcile and have an uncomfortable friendship.  I want us to date other people, and feel weird about it.  I want one of us to be single down the line, and in the middle of a casual conversation, kiss you, and then I want to do it with you again.
I want to be somewhat improved from last time, but not great by any means.
I want to make our friendship more rocky than ever before, baby, and be far more interested in doing it again than you.
I want to make a friendship impossible.
Let’s do it, baby.
Hey, are you ticklish?
© David Clifford Turner, 2010

For more scrawls, head to: www.ramblingbastard.blogspot.com
Brujo Alligatore Dec 2015
As I'm sure you'll understand,
Normal smalltalk and normal hopes sickened him.

And like we freaks often do,
He cut his chains with dope.

Just like free video games are the most expensive
And like nuclear weapons keep us safe,
Too much of exactly what he was looking for turned him hard blue and cold.
Leigh Mar 2015
When the day squares off neatly:
No flex in the coating.
No chips or cracks,
Nothing to catch in my breath;
Why do I find myself here,
Where a smile grates?  

When I connect to the grid:
Fumble through smalltalk,
Have a pint or two,
And learn my place (in that order);
Why do I find myself here,
Where the panic waits?

When Spring cuts the chill:
A simmering sun inhales the frost.
Fog retreats to regroup
As stoats skitter across busy back-roads.
Why do I find myself here,
Where pressure propagates?

Maybe my perception is warped.

It's sometimes warmer here,
(where a smile grates).
It's sometimes safer here,
(where the panic waits).
It's sometimes easier here,
(where pressure propagates).

Maybe I'll stay a while.
........

Still getting the hang of dealing with my anxiety.



...........
Maja Klit Feb 2016
De er indspiste som selvpillede rejer
Elsker konkurrenten som de hader sig selv
Katalysatoren for deres eksistens
er udelukkelsen af andre eksistentialister

Laver en kollektiv udskillelse
når de bruger mainstreamkulturen som værktøj til succes
Deres skjulte agendaer er ikke for blotte øjne
selvom flokdyrsinstinkterne sitrer gennem deres røde skæl.

Påtaget inkompetente sociale kompetencer
smalltalk er for de prætentiøse
De kløgtige rejer vil ikke undervurderes
for fiskenettene undslipper de altid
Ralph Albors Apr 2014
Three years ago, I got the nerve to say "hi",
And the usual smalltalk followed.
The how-are-yous and what's-ups
Lead us to the wonderful friendship we now have.

But a year and a half later, I started noticing something.
I didn't just appreciate her as a friend anymore:
I had started to love her, for who she was;
I fell in love with all of her, every single detail.

How could I ruin such a friendship, though?
If I said anything, I could have jeopardized everything.
So I kept silent, watching her go from lover to lover,
Unsatisfied, hurt, unloved, heartbroken.

I offered her advice, and helped her through.
I was her psychologist and her paramedic.
And I took on the task to mend her heart
Every single time another person broke it.

When I got the courage to tell her, she told me she felt likewise.
Funny thing is we never got anywhere beyond a few words.
She said she was doubting herself, and I accepted that,
Because what could I do other than support her.

Our friendship became cold, as Medusa's victims.
She stopped talking and texting, leaving a hole in me.
All that time spent mending her,
and now that I was in need of myself, I was absent.

"Everything" was fixed after a few months,
But I was still hurt, broken-hearted.
I still offer her advice on how to gain other guys' love,
While I keep burying myself in the hole I dug.

But at least I learned my lesson:
Never fall in love with your best friend.
This is yet another old poem I found while cleaning my room. Enjoy!
AW Feb 2015
You called again last night
As you have
Every night before,
And I felt your hand brush against mine
As if it slithered through the aging wires
Of our telephones;
Despite the countless miles
Between us
To feel the warmth of my love
Once more.

Did no one think to tell you,
Darling,
That my love has since gone cold?
Did they think to tell you that the miles have become
But mere symbols
Of the distance between my heart and yours?
Did no one bother reminding you,
Lover,
That your hand touched many others
In the dead of the night
When it promised to come home to mine
And that I cannot help but wonder
If those hands miss yours,
Like mine before them,
Even when I knew about what you did?

You asked if we could talk
And I couldn’t help but remember that
Seven months ago I made that plea my own;
This time,
For you,
It’s nothing more than borrowed words.

I say we forget the smalltalk,
Sweetheart;
The pointless conversation about our mothers and
The way you can never decide between a striped
And a plaid shirt.
Forget about the weather, and
My love of the stars
Because you never really cared for them anyway
And I want to know how it felt
To walk away from
The person you pretended to love.

I want to know if you boasted
When you told everyone
About the silly little girl back home;
The one who jumped at her own shadow,
Or the one that didn’t recognize the girl in the mirror
Looking back at her,
And even the girl you made feel worthwhile
Despite her visions of never quite being good enough
For the world she so desperately wanted to love.

I want to know if you told them about
Every fear;
Every flaw that I have ever dared to wear
Because it seemed that nothing else could fit quite right
And it’s easier anyway to settle with
Draping insecurity across your back
When you find that confidence just doesn’t come in your size.

I want to know if you thought of me,
Honey,
When you took her out to tea and
She always chose my favourite.
Or if you ever thought that maybe you shouldn’t
Take her to bed with you.
Not because you’re afraid that I might find out
But because three hours away I was dreaming about you
And how could you let yourself become
One of my greatest nightmares?

I want to know if your heart broke,
Even a little,
When you saw me crying at
The place where we first met;
The place where I first told you I loved you;
The place where I finally let go of your hand
And in it’s place I put my own.

You’ll call again tomorrow,
Darling,
In a drunken haze your heart will whisper my name
As clumsily as your mouth does.
I’ll feel your hand brush against mine;
I always do,
And while your voice echoes through the aging wires
Of our telephones,
Whispering tentative absurdities, like
“For old times’ sake”
Or
“I never meant for us to be like this.”
I’ll find the strength to pull away my hand
And put down the phone.
You see,
No more do I long for the touch of a ghost
Or the words of a boy who loved me even less than
I could ever love myself.
~ A.W.

Seven months later, and I finally understand why you only ever miss me when you're drunk.
Kujo Dec 2014
smalltalk says it's a nice day, though it is cold
i loathe the bright clear sky
it's blindingly honest
i've got to squint my eyes

and it reminds me of you
smallhands Jul 2014
lose yourself in the taste of
fierce freedom in your mouth
yell from the rooftops
how we feel
isn't just another morsel of smalltalk

-c.j.
Haley Harrison Aug 2020
You have me reduced to dust again;

signed my death sentence with an invisible pen.

Why were you there? I wasn't prepared

to pretend I'm cool and that I never cared.


Surprise attack: you called my name,

from behind my back, suddenly you came.

Your lips are moving, but my mind is one-track,

I was getting over you, why are you back?

But you have no clue - do you, my dear? -

Just what you do to me whenever you're near.

I maintain a facade of smalltalk mundane,

smile to you brightly to stifle the pain.

You're mildly bored, looking over your shoulder,

Polite yet detached, like ice, but colder.

An ice sickle stabbing into my heart,

cruelly careless, as I fall apart.

Then she calls you over - you have to go -

there are more people to which to say hello.

Who is she? I dare not ask,

Barely maintaining a carefree mask.

I have no right; like a homeless vagabond,

I bid you goodnight, as you go beyond

my sight, trailing a red-stringed bond.
01.06.2019.

(for S.)

"The red string of fate, as it is called in Asian culture, is a legend of an invisible red thread, connecting two people who are destined to meet, regardless of time, place, or circumstances. This magical cord may stretch or tangle, but never break."
wolf Aug 2018
the drain
of the poisoned mundane
ordinary torture
and normal insane
drowning in smalltalk
who will find
life again

be trained
for their true faith campaign
do not lean on your limbs
do not yank on your chain
be adored by the ones
who your love  
can't pertain

refrain
free yourself from all blame
spread your heart ever thinner
until murmur remains
plunge your head ever deeper
into cold
heavy waves

and be reigned.
Red Aug 2018
I am no innocent being
guilty am I of emotionless touch
strategically avoiding attachment
reducing myself to an object of lust

I ****** the ones I loathe the most
****** movements and tasteless smalltalk
faces blur together in a sea of one night stands
blocked phone calls and shameful morning walks

but the system has failed its creator
his hard shell was reflective of mine
confident I'd hate him the way I hate myself
I pursued him like I pursued cheap wine

a foolish underestimation found me in his bed
tender words and careful hands
my personal affectionate antichrist
played a game worse than my plans

I fell in love with a boy just like me
so much so he told me to shut the door when I leave
John Bartholomew Mar 2023
200 million years since the last lot were here
AD,BC, not applicable
No religeon to now fear
For Earth has been through its toughest of showers
From the cosmos to the ice frosts
It slowly rebuilds its supernatural powers
As life as we once knew it
Steadily grows again from the ground
A third phenomenon now raises its heartbeaten head
To see what planet is left to be compound
What God of universal proportion could make this reoccur
Are they bored in their place of work
Twiddling their thumbs
Calculating their sums
Prodding with a fork, ideas of whats next, but mainly smalltalk
But something is now slowly growing
A breed to outdo the previous they had sewing
Life as they know it has a fresh new face
Something truly phenominal
To inherit this Earth and put life back in its place
Until that day
We continue to **** this planet of everything it has
Down to its very last natural fibre
From its oil and its wind and down to the sea
A home of now I could not, unfortunately, describe her

JJB
#saveourplanet

— The End —