"spreadsheets" poems
Skyward glints,
another hint from another sun,
London runs down,
daily commute over and out.
And how the weekday work is
coming to an end,
but what do they work on whilst 5 in the evening?
Spreadsheets saved in significant folders,
word documents in for a week on Monday,
presentation notes to be written, rehearsed, re-wrote and printed?
‘Beds, beds, beds,
prime town centre property To Let’
Broken brick buildings sit, they belong
to internet auction sites and in estate agent windows.
There’s no flow in this town no more.
Whatever river of commerce that once ran through here
has moved onto, and into, another course,
oxbow lake suburb by Government force.
It rains in the North.
Jewels in the tarmac,
rings in the walls,
stars behind the factory noise,
sound hidden behind an all-car-call.
My broken skin, my broken hide,
months of thought, a hunger for home.
Far flung, further thrown,
back to the up-north-hometown,
hometown of the known.
Nov 11, 2012
Nov 11, 2012 at 12:06 PM UTC
The onion doesn't have layers
it has panels
nailed to its skin.
On occasions
he goes back to the warehouse
where he stores broken typewriters,
unfinished narratives of the campaign,
unexploded bombs.
sellotaped wires.
He audits his feelings
keeps them neatly arranged
on shelves and spreadsheets and
he examines them against the light
and is pleased with his investigations.
Jan 17, 2013
Jan 17, 2013 at 2:25 AM UTC
7/12/12 16:25pm
At what price does man find favour with God?
Down through the roiling clouds, from heavenly heights to earthly clay,
where scribes had written scrolls of doctrines;
down through old crumbling architraves, temples of cold ideals,
man spawned the Vengeful Word.
With rage of angels,
like effigies of gods, there sprang forth lords and hypocrites;
all claimed to speak for God.
Then, in the maelstrom,
came genocide of innocents, and hellfire fell like rain.
When does a tower become too tall for God?
Out of a clear blue sky came silver harbingers of doom,
where men were writing drafts and spreadsheets;
now crumbling down around them, swathed in hate-begotten fire;
spawned from a vengeful god.
No mortal angels
could save the ones who perished, caught above the line of flame;
while some below survived.
Yet, in the chaos,
sworn enemies in faith came out to save each other's fall.
At what price can man enter Paradise?
High above the minarets, the veiled dome of the sky
students look up with wistful longing;
yearning to be good radicals and cross the lines of fire
to reap heaven's reward.
Hate's vengeful angels
pretenders to the throne of God take many shapes and forms,
while moderates stay quiet;
and with their silence
give passive leave for lunatics to prate at heaven's door.
Dec 7, 2012
Dec 7, 2012 at 11:28 AM UTC
Subconsciously our minds are being taken,
by an aggressive and educational break in.
We’re taught how to use spreadsheets,
when the companies
who stole from us
use the spreadsheets
to calculate their profits.
We’re taught how to find “x”,
When we should be finding
our cultural roots,
that are covered
by the pavement
of industrialization.
We’re taught how to be consumers,
so we consume
our history
becoming the
wolves that tore
us apart.
To control our minds is
to control our land,
which was ripped from the
humility of our own hand.
Apr 4, 2017
Apr 4, 2017 at 5:23 PM UTC
Providing you survive the drive inside the suicide lane,
The inane objections of several secular seconds will both drive you insane and tame the frame of irrational sanity,
Which stripped away the man in me,
And grabbed my sleeve convincingly to lament the angry laugh of free...
Enterprise; do I comprise of many lies,
As you do?
A gift or prize; yes I surmise the former plays no voodoo.
Like the latter,
Piter pater, I ask exactly, "Do you,"
Truly
care
to know...
If existence is but chatter in a blankness with no matter,
And no welcome mat to meet the merry-minded Happy Hatter's
Dash to seek that ****** infatuation with the sadder shift of anger which,
Shook the sheets to show off that the banker is an actor,
Who washes
Shame
Away
In calm, hot showers.
What empowerment.
We underwent the chance event,
Which supplemented discontent with the rich and single one percent,
How kind it was of him to lend,
His hand,
For both of mine.
What malcontent.
We thought dissent would overthrow the circus tent,
Which represented forced consent with the oppressed by blissful fraudulence
Remaining 99 percent.
Peasants, plebeians, proletariat;
We poke the U.N. Secretariat,
To ask again,
"Are we there yet?"
"Are we there yet?"
And silence is how were always met.
We drop it, trust they won't forget,
About us, suffering cold sweats;
As we fear unwanted debt,
They won't forget,
They won't forget,
They won't forget
About us.
Yet competition takes it place,
And twists that sympathetic face,
To grab a poor man's knowledge base,
To ask him,
"What do
I gain
from assisting
The likes
Of you?"
The poor man bellows, "you're poor too!
Like those who can't afford shampoo.
You can't afford my point of view,
It risks a loss that's overdue,
And money makes you misconstrue,
Existence."
And if existence is but chatter in a blankness with no matter,
And no welcome mat to meet the merry-minded Happy Hatter's
Dash to seek that ****** infatuation with the sadder shift of anger which,
Shook the sheets to show off that the banker is an actor;
He forgot the human aspect should always be the biggest factor,
On his spreadsheets as he calculates productivity's next chapter;
What empowerment.
We underwent the chance event,
Which supplemented discontent with the rich and single one percent,
How kind it was of him to lend,
His hand,
For both of mine.
This isn't right.
I question fines,
And wonder, where's the kindness?
What happened to our kindred spirits?
Did we leave all that behind us?
Is money truly all we want,
And happiness put second?
The future is unwritten,
So follow me;
Expect resistance.
Oct 3, 2011
Oct 3, 2011 at 3:46 PM UTC
Misty Morning, tunnel exit
Radio blaring. Yet more Brexit
Shipyards looming in the mist
Coffee. Top of this checklist
Distantly spied, Golden Arches glisten
Dumbly calling those who listen
Desperate homeless huddled outside
Callous addiction stealing his pride
Inside the feckless locals gather
Of nameless baby dads they caw & blather
No sign of insight, syns nor points
Weight of burgers on their joints
Red-eyed middle management jostle for WiFi
Ketchup spilt upon his tie
Spreadsheets, targets, bonuses forgotten
Awareness at last. This lunch is rotten
Light bursting inside his head
Realising how easily he's been led
A new day. A Golden New Dawn
A middle-management minion reborn
Now with joy. Now with flourish
New skills, his mind does nourish
Never Stop. Ignore what they say
And make this day. Make this day. Make this the day.
Apr 16, 2019
Apr 16, 2019 at 6:40 AM UTC
Alex 2 breathes, stacks and unstacks papers, distantly
Alex 1, front cubicle, coughs, clicks his mouse
Eddie pulls out his drawer, pushes it back in, clicks his mouse
Alex 2, yes two Alex's, saunters up to the coffee machine
Alex 1, head down, clacking his keyboard
Mouse clicks, keyboard clicks, electricity
Monitors glow, fluorescents never flicker
Alex 1 opens a new file, two clicks of the mouse
Eddie sips his coffee, puts it down, clicks
New folder, new file, new data
Data entry, spreadsheets
Alex 1 asks did you get the email
Alex 2 has his coffee, his white shirt, under the fluorescents
Statics noise, static, mouse clicks, keyboard
Every new click, new file, new data, new folder
Data in, data out, file, click, the static electronics
Alex 2 clicks, files, new folder, new deal, new data
Eddie clears his throat, softly, the static noise, flickers,
Every new love story is a tragedy
Alex 2 opens a new folder, inputs data, spreadsheets
Numbers in, Eddie clicks his mouse twice rapidly
Stale effluvia coffee, static noise, electric light
Alex 1 sniffles, clears his throat, the clock ticks softly
Eddie opens a new file, the electric screen reflects his fixed eyes
Alex 2 sips his coffee, opens a file, clicks, keyboard clacks
Stasis, complete stasis, electricity, nodes, linear graphs
Numbers input, data, new file, file transfer
Every old tragedy is a ghost story
Alex 2 sips his coffee, breathes, clears his throat, data
Spreadsheets, monitors, electricity, static, data input, output
Every ghost story is infinite
Alex 1 gets up for a new coffee
Eddie inputs data, spreadsheet, file, new folder
Electric lights, stasis, data, file, click, file, input exp..
Oct 18, 2020
Oct 18, 2020 at 10:21 PM UTC
I've tried to record
The way your name falls out of my mouth
When I drop glass onto the floor
Like my mothers list of forbidden words
In spreadsheets
Counting with fingers and letters
Every time I pass a red pushpin in a map
Of where you told me
"You're so young and immature"
Like a compliment traced with
Sobriety and melatonin
I've picked up pencils
That end up in pieces
After scrawling your dialogues
Onto "it's your own fault" paper
I've scrubbed myself raw
With people who wont
Look me in the eyes anymore
With your goodbye words
With the flashbacks of
Your hands manifesting
The uncharted areas
Of my brittle hips
How my ****** syllables were
Dinner party jokes
There's nothing that can hurt
A god of power
And business suits
Someone who's never told no
Holds a child
In a way that erases the thought of comfort
And now
I lack the maturity to refuse requests
And you tell me
I'd make a good corpse
At a funeral catered towards
Twenty-nine year old men
Who never learned the difference
Between property and personality
And my promises
Tighten around my throat
Gratefully
Like your hands
Fostering the
Aurora Borealis of love
In a way that
Makes me choke on
The things you've shown me
The things you've ruined for me
The words I will never get back
And I sit
With you surrounding me
In and out of every crevice of my body
You've claimed for yourself
Helpless
And defeated
Like a child
Just how you like me
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 6:12 PM UTC
I woke up on Tuesday and I was older by the calendar and the law and I said “hey that’s grand”. When I woke up on Tuesday I was also older by the symbolism and I sat wide-eyed between suitjackets on the 7:45, coffee half-down and a brand new watch on the left-wrist. I made spreadsheets. I shook hands. I was The City when I took my first swallow on the rooftop. I couldn’t see the Empire through the cold-May-fog but I could see it in the mirror and on his knuckles and in his eyes. When I woke up on Wednesday I made more spreadsheets. I made more coffee. Then I was home early and Connecticut again. But Friday was the best ******* day. The sun beat me to good-morning and my favorite gone friend ate a gyro with me and another chugalugged to 42nd street on the bright red leather across the aisle. My favorite hand to touch was there for the second drink too, and I loved my job because I admitted that I hated it, and that’s okay. And he was there again on the cusp of days, and he’s there now still between my ears, and Friday melted to the next good-morning and I’m here now, city-drunk and sky-drunk and goddamn-I’m-so-lucky- and wine-drunk, and dizzy on the rooftops I’m imagining are better than the ones I rule, and Sunday’s coming and I will sleep for ages and hey that’s grand.
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 9:04 PM UTC
i’ve always been on a
mission to reinvent myself
a mission expressed through
spreadsheets, guitars
powerpoints, paintbrushes
fabric, calculator buttons
bright colors of yarn
coffee and flowers
smiles at strangers
and always words
here and there
then and again
i’ve found myself satisfied
with who i found myself
to be at the end
of the week
i thought things were
on the upswing
thought that i had
almost made it
for two months this year
i was satisfied
with fifty six hour work weeks
and the bright blue blanket
forming under my fingers
the feeling of hope
brewing when i looked in
my bank account and thought
about him
about the home
that wasn’t ours yet but
would be soon
and then it began
to crumble
a brick or two at
a time until a whole
piece of the picture
tumbled out
and my weeks were reduced
to thirty five hours and
a crippling sense of
impending disaster
even though everything else
was still looking up
now that i have a
bit of extra time i find
myself low on motivation
and wondering
if it’s time to build
a new version of myself
but i’ve reinvented myself
so many times
i don’t have the energy
to do it again
i just want to
exist
just want to fall
asleep in bed at the
end of the day and
not wake up in the morning
wanting to sleep
for the rest of the day
to enjoy moving
my body
the way the
seasons change
and how the stars
look at night
i’ve always been good
at staying
you just keep doing
what you’ve been doing
let your routines pull
you along with them
but now i’m learning
the art of leaving
and i’m finding its not
as hard as i thought it was
in fact you might
even think
of it as almost
freeing
the leaving
behind of what’s
gotten too
familiar
the option to
reinvent
past leavings
have hurt
left me reeling
on cold floors
fighting to get air
into my lungs
but this time
the leaving is
quiet
barely noticeable
in the chilly
morning dew
as i let myself
slip away
under the gray sky
that hasn’t yet
realized it’s hanging
over a lost town
and i don’t feel pain
only the slightest
twinge of
bittersweet nostalgia
i’m not going
to reinvent myself
this time
i’m going to
exist
and somewhere
along the line
i think maybe
it’s myself
that i’ll find
Jun 8, 2019
Jun 8, 2019 at 12:29 AM UTC
this perpetual pattern. a thousand spreadsheets of the thing, draped unceremoniously about the furnishings of my mind. digits and symbols tapped into a machine to keep every schtick continually whirring. rare concessions of dumbfounded dazzle, no time or place for wonder. untidy notes, impure thoughts, callings from the mud--the whole deal, and yet i still hold my fancies. with careful introductions i can shut the monster down. it has dreams of its own, collected in dust, and when the time comes to sit out defeat they unfold in my lap like grotesque paper flowers
Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 5:37 PM UTC
for Wallace Stevens
1.
Just as my fingers on these keys
Make data, so the self-same sounds
Of a CEO’s fingers make me a data, too.
Thus it is the spirit that feels,
Here in this cubicle, desiring—through
Excel spreadsheets, email, a deadline—
Itself.
2.
In the pale glow of a Xerox machine
The body stood.
It sought
The hum of Nature,
But, finding only synthetics,
Sighed with demur,
So barren grew its mood.
3.
They wondered why the invisible child wept
In a security without which Death’s adept;
It could not say,
So convinced were they,
Safety was the dream of a Happiness that slept.
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 4:01 PM UTC
"ehem"
we all hear it
the voice of the once-feeble boy
whom we always assumed would
end up in some shabby office job
typing away schedules and making spreadsheets
avoiding fellow humans and drinking coffee– black
the voice that seemed so small to us then
now seems impossibilly loud–
ridiculously honest, and tragically sad
and no trace of anger or shame
or anything that bears resemblance to
the last picture of the boy
you carry in your minds
important people, marked by name-tags
and good posture–
nice suits
surround him
it's all very intimidating
all of you hoping
he makes no mention
of you, or you, or you
and the wait, for him to speak
is nerve-wracking and
feels remarkably long
with people tapping their feet
impatiently, and readjusting their ties
until finally he clears his voice once more
and addresses the crowd
the audience exchanges expressions
of amazement, wonder
his voice is strong and reaches you
though you're hiding in the very last row
and you can't bear to meet his eyes
or return his flashy smile
he makes a speech
and you settle into your seat
as you forget your own presence
all seems well
until
he stops mid-word
and meets your stare
and
all of a sudden it's 1979 again
and you're back in that playground
and you have a bat in your hand
and he has fear in his eyes
and he's crying
and begging you to let go
but something in you snaps
and you hit him
right across the nose
before you could stop– and then you sprint
it sinks in when you're halfway home
and you stop and hesitate
feel the guilt
but shrug it off
and walk the rest of the way back
the roles are reversed now
and he is clearly the bigger man
and you are small, and weak
and petty
a playground bully is your only claim to fame
while he is the president of this ******* country.
he starts again
and you feel worse than you would had he
given you the punishment you deserved
nope, this boy ain't angry- or ashamed,
only hurt, and blatantly sad.
so, so sad.
Aug 25, 2013
Aug 25, 2013 at 5:47 PM UTC
I would hope
that no one would read my mind
or hold on to a grudge
But what is left
not in final meaning
but in my explanation
of my open wounds
My heart floats
on ice
in hills
Basking on spreadsheets
And analysis
I am not wanted
Knowing that
Something
Ominous
Hangs
above me,
and confides in me
I am unattached
Just like death
Or when autumn
Dies quickly
Or your soul
stays around
Without warning
my hands held
to open skies
I turn and walk away
soaked in my own memory
Aug 29, 2016
Aug 29, 2016 at 2:49 PM UTC
i. right before you fall asleep, there's a twitch in your shoulder like you're actually falling--your face turns up into a goofy grin that lets me know you're gone, and the lucky ones who get to see you are those in your dreams.
(i'll see you in mine.)
ii. radiohead. pink floyd. chromeo. a drum set that echoes through an empty house but the neighbors haven't moved in yet so you have your one man band until the rooms fill up with furniture and the only echo left is the soft plucking of your guitar at midnight.
(there are certain types of songs i can't listen to without thinking about you.)
iii. how could you be so heartless? we'd start our day at noon and wouldn't end it until three in the morning and kanye would be our soundtrack as we trekked across the city we love--
(and fell in love).
iv. your smile. your lips. each curve in your back. the sound of your laugh. your eyes. your walk (your posture, your stance, your aura). the flip of your hair. the way your hand searches for mine--
(and maybe one day we'll find our way back to each other like the way my hand always finds yours).
v. my inner monologue every time i see you: what a wonderful person, and how lucky am i to have met you. thank you for helping sunflowers grow inside of me.
(i'm sorry i can't be your person but when you find her one day, i hope you'll plant a whole garden for her.)
vi. we were made up of bad jokes, song lyrics, good beer, fireworks, movie nights, outdoor concerts, tacos, spreadsheets, ******* "you've made me the happiest i've ever been", "we're really good together", sing-alongs, belly ripping laughter and hearts full of love in the heat of a texas summer. we're just two lost souls swimming in a fishbowl.
vii. i swiped right on the one that got away.
Aug 2, 2015
Aug 2, 2015 at 5:10 AM UTC
you have to remind yourself that it won't always be like this. that someday approaches (probably faster than you think) and when it arrives, it will wake you up at 6:00 a.m for work you could do better at 9. hopefully, you'll enjoy it. someday will keep you fastened to a desk and cramped in a cubicle, your fingers typing out memos and emails and spreadsheets quicker than your legs ever carried you during your middle school mile. someday might chase away the little things that nudge you in the back of your brain when you remember that there is a world outside your window. someday will make you wish you had the luxury of being nineteen on summer break and calling yourself bored. and someday will come. maybe tomorrow or maybe a few years from now, when you trade in your textbooks for road maps and your goals for yesterdays.
but right now, here you are, calling yourself bored. you are not bored. how can you be, when you are nineteen on summer break with cinnamon hair that has just been kissed lighter by the sun? when you still have fictional characters to cry over or philosophical paradoxes to ponder or world hunger to solve or even just a heart that is still in need of breaking by a boy across the sea. you can't stop someday from stealing peter pan away from your bedroom window and diminishing neverland into a castle of ashes, but you can remind yourself that it's just some day. and right now, you have an infinite number of them in front of you, just waiting to be seized.
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 3:44 AM UTC
Went to bed and dreamed of getting my *** kicked by the Queen of Earthquakes.
Six hours later and I'm waking up with a headache.
Hid from the sun beneath sweaty sheets.
The only thing that gets cold here is the space in our chest.
Road the bus with a load of automatons withered with rust.
Scanning the seats with dead-beat eyes.
Hey, would you mind if we traded places?
I like the window seat best.
Paperclip trebuchets wage war in front of ignored spreadsheets.
Just another day in paradise,
but now I think I feel a stirring between my legs.
Here we sit waiting on a disaster to speed up our slow demise.
But all that aside, the thing is that when I stare into her eyes I can feel my feet sliding -
Carrying me toward the tittles in the middle with a gliding force that can't be avoided.
i think i might like her a little.
Nov 28, 2016
Nov 28, 2016 at 11:27 PM UTC
She smokes,
Pall Mall Menthols
She smokes and she drinks
and she swears
She puts on a cool face
handles conversation well
She's hilarious and clumsy
and easily entertained
She's graceful sometimes
but more often not
She's into finances
business proposals
and spreadsheets
She's smart, but
She's lazy
that's something
She's working on
She's trying to
live more in the present
but keep the future
in mind
She wears jeans
and t-shirts
baggy sweaters
and slouchy hats
She wears glasses
but only if
She has to
She liked to use
her nails
She arches her back
and gasps and makes
just the tiniest of moans
when touched just right
She has posture problems
She'll grab her shoulders
and forcibly drag them back
She writes poems
something she doesn't
take too much pride in
She's flawed and flawless
and the best thing about her?
She's mine.
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 9:07 PM UTC
Wednesday 18th:
Should I be working?
University at 25 seems
so redundant when I stare
at the soft skinned babes,
who skirt the car park
in drunken bliss.
Should I quit?
Get a job? Maybe retail or
office work.
Some say I could seek stability
between the pages of spreadsheets,
sipping coffee with Susan on the
9-5.
Should I marry?
Set a date? They're all engaged.
Stones glaring back at me
like Polydectes eyes
from Facebook pages.
25 is the 'right age',
or so I've been told.
Should I?
I suppose I could.
Maybe I should. Or I could
perhaps
just do something else.
May 18, 2016
May 18, 2016 at 4:50 PM UTC
1
The personal is boring
as are my ruminations on the war.
What I need to do I can't try:
wander without shelter in the backcountry.
Or go deeper into the polity,
join a committee or a party.
Minute by minute and season to season
I like my life but what does it add up to, what reason
to go on? No better than a squirrel
or a spider. Spreadsheets, fake books, girls
I want too mildly, modestly or morally to have.
Can the economy and community be called love?
You can be killed and buried in gravel
Your children can be failed at school and marched to war
You can be taxed and sent to gaol for the honor of it
And there's nothing you can do about it.
Will we find the universe not large enough to hold us?
Will planet after planet be too old for us?
If you were president, what would your program be?
What one question is the key
to another's truth. How do you spend your money?
Do you believe in a god who can see
all and understand? Or is he
unable to care, a different species.
2
We take the long view
that as individuals drop
from sight, new enthusiasts
will associate. Legs
give out, lungs collapse,
but we do not let the circle lapse.
For every Aristotle
there are a million toddlers
who will advance no memorable
theories. But the mist
on trees and mountains,
sunrise over desert, are for
every merchant, traveler.
My sons will take on cares,
which toys are theirs,
as their parents grow
older. Slowness brings us
to our goal: do one thing well.
By that what is meant?
Don't be a dilettante.
Not having found the greatness
of a single, clear description,
definition, the greatness comes in
doing everyday what's known.
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 7:11 AM UTC
Counterpoint:
I love you lot.
You colleagues and loves who despise this
alongside me
so when my foot slips or knee gives
you are at my shoulder, my elbow
with a Kit-Kat or quick jab
about being old and ****
so giggles lift the misery
of ignorant, blind and fruitless bosses
while our loss seems their gain for now
I am bound to remember this refrain:
We’re not gonna take it
So, my brothers and twisted sisters
get those pitchforks ready,
sharpen in the dark,
keep being artisans
for when the time comes,
the spreadsheets won’t even be worth
the cold nothing they’re typed on
but your healing hands will
Jan 30, 2022
Jan 30, 2022 at 8:39 AM UTC
The special
Agent Fat lip
The Happy Man
1-2-3-4 Cut huge
Lip- 4 Action
TVor RV trailers
Gold finger on his
dinners set
((Step Beyond))
Honeymooners
((Chippendale -Moonshiners))
X-men slip up lip
Love their
ladies lips
4-Max I phone
Late bloomers
Bunked into
God Amen
Like a rich soul
Tentative I millions
The curiosity
killed the
Old Meiser Goat $
He had
Italian horns
Maxine's lips burned
The Will-Smith
Wild West
College girls
of Sorority
Love of
the Venus
I beg you to
make money
Maxine's lips
of Men to charge
Of Mars money
turned minus
Varsity loves Visa
Max is the man
Going once to
Bottom lip
ten million
Mona Lisa
Multitasking
Never smiling
Secret lips slant
Italiano Piza
So why would she
even
shred his French
lady onions?
The British tea
party
Alice went
money maddocks
Bitcoins bird flocks
Mr. Smart money hand
Why the wrong man
Getting Stuck
Mr. Bull **** Buck
The Agent double
007
Agency lifted
money 666
Smiles of
sanity
No-one was pure____
((Olive Oil))
Minds 14 karats
money or nothing
Pots and pans
Chicks 4 free
The Millions of madmen
Cigarette lady revenge
Maxine's lips
was counterfeit
Her biggest fan the
Pure one virginity
Gave her most
freedom serenity
Dutchess master plan
Gucci men lips
found guilty
Red be hearted
fanlight
Max I-million wanted
to get out of the heat_____$$$
His stubborn
partner
in crime big loss
Her vivacious lips
Tangled web trillions
He was ******
I cannot believe
it's not butter
Spreadsheets
The maid's swept
up the cash
millions went in
her mother's trash
Maximum
Overdrive
Belle Sacrifice
yourself
Respect
yourself
Ringing the
Ben Frankin
singing bell
Aretha
Max line 4 Bella
The lip sign summit
Nickname ****
The Darkman
yellow taxi
Max, I million ended
up in Hawaii
To the max extinct
Nowhere near
basic instinct
Lips leopard impact
Cigarette lady making
Diamond rounds
Bulletproof purse
Max, I million
Explosive words
Is she and his
money
flames
May 22, 2018
May 22, 2018 at 2:35 PM UTC
The undeniable truth
Is that I feel I'm the only one
In this questionable relationship
Really trying to make something work
I've been more heartache
So any excuse that you've been hurt
Wont affect me
I've been used just for ***
Played with and dragged along
Rag doll to her pretty little fingertips
The truth is I dont see us together
Much longer if we're together now
Ever if we're not
I see me getting hurt again
Being used and mislead
I see me just getting snagged
In your trap you call eyes
Its only me in this
I dont know about you
But I learned to dance with another person
Or ever danced at all when I was alone
The truth, you wanted it
Me and you would be pointless
You doubted me to begin with
I doubted myself then
Here I go again
Doing it all over
Just on repeat
Because I'm too scared to tell you myself
But what's to stop me from
Telling everyone here
The truth **** it
Is that I'm madly in love with you
States away and I'm trying
The fears and realizations
Factors and data
Spreadsheets and diagrams
How the hell am I supposed to believe it
That I'm losing the only ******* thing
That's ever meant something to me
I can't take this
Scars are reopening
Liver is getting abused
Lungs suffocating
I dont know what to do
I dont know how to react
What the **** is the point of trying
When everything seems to just fail
I am insane
I am ******* crazy
But **** it I dont need a reminder
I draw pictures for you
You haunt my mental state all hours of the day
Yet I dont want to be the one to only say
Good morning
Goodnight sweet dreams
I love you
I'll just go back to talking to myself
Ridding myself of all these emotions
Become a shell that doesn't give a ****
The truth my love
Is that everything seems pointless
And you can't put it in perspective
For me to understand
I try telling you
What's wrong with me
Why I'm so short with you
Why I'm distant for no apparent reason
This is why
Its all to no avail
But of course you'll never care
You'll never change
I'm the zero in your equation
Completely redundant and pointless
All I wanted was a life with you
A future that I could be proud of
Where you wont feel fear
Only know love and compassion
But now I see if all fading
That's expected when its only one person
Holding hands with his shadow
Just to find love that he shows
Dec 22, 2015
Dec 22, 2015 at 12:51 AM UTC
“The freest person is the one with the most hope –“
Gabriel Marcel
Of all the shards of a broken world
That chafe our wounded psyches,
None cut deeper than the
jagged edges that would
exchange our essence for function.
Are we nothing but the pieces we craft,
the spreadsheets we tally?
Are we only the hours we clock?
When we raise our hands to the light
do our fragile bones
appear pale and translucent?
We wander like nomads without a tribe,
banished to a strange and distant land -
exiled from our once inquisitorial selves.
Do you see that distant light?
It calls us to elevate
the blinds of our forgotten dreams.
Its haze obscures the blazenness.
Which brightens with each forward step.
Go ahead, approach if you dare.
Behind that veil stands “Redemption”
who waits patiently for us in the
form of an oracle who coolly whispers,
“Welcome back, my name is Hope.”
Aug 29, 2025
Aug 29, 2025 at 12:47 AM UTC