"succeeding" poems
<>
No, He said.
I want you
wanting.
*I want to taste the miracle of your desperation,
need,
lick the sweet sweat of tense from the hairline well hid
on the back of your pleasuring neck.
I need your needing constant completion,
but not succeeding.
The airborne aroma of your desires are fiery, arousing,
stimulus sensating me by the unending beauty of dissatisfaction,
this virus desirous, infection, makes my perpetual wanting
for an incomplete perfect woman,
forever seeking betterment,
perfectly complete.*
<>
Nov 16, 2017
Nov 16, 2017 at 12:54 PM UTC
Side by side, their faces blurred,
The earl and countess lie in stone,
Their proper habits vaguely shown
As jointed armour, stiffened pleat,
And that faint hint of the absurd -
The little dogs under their feet.
Such plainness of the pre-baroque
Hardly involves the eye, until
It meets his left-hand gauntlet, still
Clasped empty in the other; and
One sees, with a sharp tender shock,
His hand withdrawn, holding her hand.
They would not think to lie so long.
Such faithfulness in effigy
Was just a detail friends would see:
A sculptor's sweet commissioned grace
Thrown off in helping to prolong
The Latin names around the base.
They would no guess how early in
Their supine stationary voyage
The air would change to soundless damage,
Turn the old tenantry away;
How soon succeeding eyes begin
To look, not read. Rigidly they
Persisted, linked, through lengths and breadths
Of time. Snow fell, undated. Light
Each summer thronged the grass. A bright
Litter of birdcalls strewed the same
Bone-littered ground. And up the paths
The endless altered people came,
Washing at their identity.
Now, helpless in the hollow of
An unarmorial age, a trough
Of smoke in slow suspended skeins
Above their scrap of history,
Only an attitude remains:
Time has transfigures them into
Untruth. The stone fidelity
They hardly meant has come to be
Their final blazon, and to prove
Our almost-instinct almost true:
What will survive of us is love.
8.8k
Features, my reflection—
subtle hints stare back offering wordless reply,
their evidence a betrayal of age.
A wrinkle looking deeper,
mane of face, of head—hairs
fresh lacking pigment.
Vain attempts made to mend heart,
to sooth soul's dread.
Testimony of experience
of wisdom, persistence, perception,
an impotent contraceptive, the argument
aberrant.
Regret to cloud memory, my youth
seeming a flesh and blood cliche.
Tiny footnotes heavy with prose,
words in bold
to distract mind's eye—a demand of attention.
Edging out tomb's more beautiful weight
of love and heartache
of passion's attempt failing,
to try again, sinking before succeeding.
An era's dusk and dawn anew, life's advent
unpredictable—without cause changing.
Notion hanging lingering, poisoning future,
the venom of defeat an insidious invasion.
This new age creeping toward night
in this stage my life's sun less bright.
Maturity's introduced responsibility,
some enjoyable while others to own hostility.
A brigand mugging freedom—time for leisure.
Spurring combat for what remains of youth,
fingers wrapping air in futile seizure.
The inevitable to command subservience,
presuming ownership of life, though the mature
demonstrate the defiance of the immature.
Objects, activities, music assaulting ear,
their manner,
symbols of strict adherence to who once was—
a spiteful surrender refusal.
A piece of me defining me until no more,
years holding power—threatening
to change who I am at very core.
Canvas construction the colour of murre,
rubber toe caps the shade of pure.
Design worn since youth, dead and resurrected;
a million mile shoe of valorous resistance—insurrection,
a Converse rebellion.
In torment of age's scars,
I'll never be too old to wear my All Stars.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 10:18 PM UTC
749
All but Death, can be Adjusted—
Dynasties repaired—
Systems—settled in their Sockets—
Citadels—dissolved—
Wastes of Lives—resown with Colors
By Succeeding Springs—
Death—unto itself—Exception—
Is exempt from Change—
7.3k
Commitment issues
This again?
Yes but this time these are my words
Not the labels thrown at me by exes
Like arrows attempting to pierce me into place
I thought it was meant to trap me
But I think they just wanted me to stop
To think
To really evaluate myself
To see the truth
Im afraid of commitment.
When I've been told this in the past
I read it with the understanding that
Commitment issues meant I
Just couldn't have or didn't want a relationship
And that just couldn't be true
I mean just check my track record
No, see
My having commitment issues
Is rooted deeply within my past
These problems originate in an exciting mix of
Trust issues
Abandonment issues
And a variety of other traumas
I am not afraid to enter relationships
And I do not avoid love
Actually, I am obsessed with finding love
With being loved
All the while trying to love another
Thinking I'm succeeding
While subtly sabotaging myself in the process
When I was small
I did not receive the respect and care
Needed to show I was loved
Though my parent said they cared
They didn't protect me the way they should have
I had to take care of myself
Look out for myself
Because I was the only one I could trust
Anytime I got close to someone
They'd either decide to leave
Or get ripped away by outside forces
I was alone a lot
And not great at making friends
With the abuse happening at one house
And some solace found at the other
I was constantly fluctuating between
Hellhole and liberation
All while trying to have a childhood
And survive adolescence
So when they say I have commitment issues
They're probably right
But not for the reasons they think
Not because I'm polyamorous
Not because I don't want to commit
Not because I don't love and
Not because of who I am as a person
My issues come from a long line of
Different abuses by people who
Were supposed to protect me
But didn't
So if you think to judge me
For the trouble I have with trusting you
And trusting you won't hurt me
Or decide to leave when I'm "too much"
Understand that I did not choose to be like this
I didn't choose the pain that led me to love
In such a haphazard way
But I am choosing to do something about it
Sep 2, 2018
Sep 2, 2018 at 8:48 AM UTC
Spring came full of rejuvenating hope to ward off the chilly winters,
It came replete with dreams of days much brighter,
It came to exfoliate & gently scrub away the old ones,
Yes it came to make way for the new flowers.
It stayed till the sun was high up there in the shy sky,
It stayed till the sun burnt holes in human pockets with bills of electricity,
It stayed till the sun was cursed for being out there with AC's to help the well to do,
Yes it stayed there till it was the merciless month of June.
Summer then took over in July by burning animal & human skins alike,
It even did not spare a patch of cool water in the naked-barren lands,
It made animals cry & people kneel down and call for help,
Yes their calls weren't left unanswered and soon it was the rainy monsoon.
Monsoon - the rainy season lashes upon the oven hot land in August's end,
It eases the hot temperatures and releases peafowls in mating,
It even threatens to drown the ill-prepared cities of India by flood-waters,
Yes Mumbai is just one example of how Indian people want the autumn to come.
Autumn - the reliever from torrid showers,
It is an exception in the Indian season cycle,
It is neither that torrid monsoon before it nor is it the hostile winters succeeding it,
Yes it is a short calm time just before the winter season extreme in the north.
Winter season as we've learnt to call it in schools,
It sends chills down the spines of Indian people all over,
It is harsh only in the north but the other people simply don't have tolerance or genes,
Yes I love the beautiful winter season so what if once it nearly took my life while on trekking.
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 9:37 AM UTC
Use your pen to be expressive
express yourself and be impressive
impress your will to be progressive
progress of the muse possessive
possessed by another expression
expressing myself is my obsession
obsessing over words in succession
succeeding is hopeful in every session
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 11:06 PM UTC
I was three years out of high school and finally getting
the chance to grow up. I’d been ready since before
graduation day. Everybody in the world was certain
that I would fail. I couldn’t succeed. Thanks for the vote
of confidence. I am proving them wrong. I’m succeeding,
maybe not thriving, but succeeding right before their very eyes.
Success is living on my own. Being able to do every household
chore on my own. Success is getting myself to and from where
I need to be in my broken down, beat up wheelchair. Success
is budgeting my money each month. Success is not getting killed
and ***** on my walk home from work in the dark. Success is
living up to their standards and way of life. Success is faking a smile.
I’ve learned more about life in the last eight months than ever before.
I’ve made mistakes, just like they said I would. What they didn’t count
on was me learning from those mistakes and picking up the pieces.
They told me I wouldn’t last more than a month, six weeks at the most.
I would ***** up, fail miserably, get hurt and hospitalized. Thank you
for the boost of self-esteem. It’s made me tougher than steel.
I may not be the perfect student, skinny blonde ***** award winning
page designer or most eloquent writer. I may not speak Spanish fluently,
have loads of extra cash lying around or a motorized, state of the art
wheelchair. Stop telling me what I need. I don’t need or want any of them.
Success is living how I want to live. Success is a productive day when I want
nothing but hot tea and soft music. Success is having the confidence to ask
for help when I’ve been told I shouldn’t. Success is making friends who can
read through my masquerade. Success is facing the consequences. Success is
found through red ink marks and piles of papers. Success is not letting those
who don’t believe in me get the best of me. Success is sunshine on a cloudy day
Aug 9, 2010
Aug 9, 2010 at 9:29 PM UTC
Weeping by the Willow Tree
Written by Adam M. Snow
Who is she adorned in moonlight's veil -
This beauty with skin so fragile and pale?
I see her within a dream surreal,
Weeping by the willow tree.
Why does she weep such a woe,
Under starry midnight glow?
Upon the ground, her tears will flow;
Weeping by the willow tree.
How can I clearly see?
She weeps so tenderly...
Will I come to know; can it be,
She weeps for me by the willow tree?
What can cause her broken heart,
That led this dame to hurt?
Her hair does fairly touch the dirt;
Weeping by the willow tree.
A love that's lost should only be,
Misinterpreted reality,
For she will never be set free,
Weeping by the willow tree.
A heart's amiss if love is lost -
An empty bliss would be the cost.
A troubled dream, she would exhaust –
Weeping by the willow tree.
Every which way the wind would blow,
The rustling leaves, the willow'd throw.
Akin to willows weep, we know!
She weeps by the willow tree.
Is she an angel kneeling there?
What is her burden that she bear?
Certainly there is such grief in the air,
Away by the olden willow tree.
She veils her face with waterfall tears,
Misery held her all these years.
With tender hopes and fears,
She weeps by the willow tree.
The willow tree leaves would sway,
As she, on her knees would pray.
Every night and every day,
She weeps by the willow tree.
Alas! It is that she cries for me;
It twas I who caused her such sweet misery.
I hear her cries, her plea,
Underneath the willow tree.
I oft wonder what I did to she,
And wonder why she weeps for me.
In the night I hear the keys -
While she weeps under the willow tree.
Upon the morn, it occurred to me,
That maiden cries out of love for me.
And I simply walked past her plea,
Not knowing what causes her to weep,
Silently under the willow tree.
The succeeding night I went to see,
That beautiful girl who sits under the tree.
I saw her there, but in despair -
She hangs from two branches bare.
Swinging under the willow tree.
http://amsnow.weebly.com
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 1:33 PM UTC
A mask is something I often tried to wear,
never succeeding always ending up snared.
-Snared within my own insansity
I'm somewhat surprised I still grasp my humanity
it seems it's all I have left after all I've finally noticed
it doesn't even matter *my ****** expression*
it doesn't have to be a way to express my emotions.
If I remain neutral, who will really take that into consideration?
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 8:07 PM UTC
I spied it first from my upper deck,
a huge nest of driftwood, tree limbs and seaweed.
Each summer watching the male do his sky dance
while spotting prey underwater
from 30 meters above Hells Gap Marsh.
His wings constructed in a manner
that allows him to bend and shield
his eyes from the sun as he lands.
The first thing I would look for
after each hurricane took another bite
out of our coastline.
And after six succeeding hurricanes
the nest still strong in the top of the old tree, though
empty in the cold months as the Osprey winters south.
Several generations of young I've watched grow
through summers in my time here.
For two full years now the nest has stood empty.
Mates for life have parted.
No more young learning to hunt the fish.
Standing as a metaphor
for my own
soon to be empty nest.
A reality, not just a
syndrome.
r ~ 30Jan14
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 11:50 AM UTC
It happens imperceptibly
but you know it
when it’s in full effect –
Two’s company
three’s crowd.
It’s not
anyone’s fault,
not something
anyone decides,
just how it goes
sometimes.
Conversation
becomes
more and more
personal,
until it is clear:
You are not supposed to be here.
So you do
what you are good at doing.
You disappear.
-
See, disappearing?
You have it down
to a science.
Talk less and less
and then not at all.
Stare off into space,
perhaps fidget from time to time,
make small movements
to show that you
have not quite
turned to stone.
Take a while to leave.
It can’t be sudden -
you wouldn’t want to draw attention
to yourself.
[It’s awkward for everyone involved.]
Finally,
when you think you just
can’t
bear it,
get up to go to the bathroom
and never come back.
It’s easier than you think.
-
They will look for and address you
eventually:
*oh good night, are you okay, you’re so quiet,
you should have said something, I’m sorry, sorry,
sorry.*
The usual.
You will reassure them
when the time comes,
fold up your feelings
into a little origami crane
that you wish could just
fly away.
But for now
you can sit safely
in your invisibility.
-
You told your friend group earlier
that sometimes you thought
there was no point calling yourself
gay
because you just hated everyone.
It makes everyone laugh,
and even you find that you’re amused,
but
you don’t know if they heard
the hurt, the bitterness, the honesty of that statement
buried within your voice.
-
You watch
the way your two friends (with benefits)
are affectionate with each other,
the way one puts her head
in the other’s lap,
the way they play with each other’s hair
small kisses on small places,
the way they do these things
and see only each other,
as if all of this
is only obvious
to them.
It’s sweet.
You try to rouse yourself into
more feeling:
jealousy,
sadness,
hopefulness,
anything intense, but
everything boils down to
the same nothingness.
This is simply
another thing you
can’t/won’t/don’t have
[pick any verb, they’re all true].
-
And this is what
your life is:
trying to find ways
to make everything disappear.
Feelings – gone.
Desires – gone.
Expectations – gone.
Hopes – gone.
Communication – gone.
-
And this is what your life is:
Succeeding.
Mar 30, 2016
Mar 30, 2016 at 2:43 AM UTC
My emotions are a skeleton
and every bone is breaking.
My heart is a cavern
and the ceiling is collapsing.
If disappointment were the ocean,
I'd have sailed the seven seas.
My eyes are a furnace
and the saltwater is my excuse.
I could create endless metaphors,
turn my anguish into beauty,
craft well-written analogies,
and pretend pain is poetry.
But honestly I'm just empty,
there are no words that convey
this simple absence of fulfillment,
the hole in my chest isn't poetic.
I have huge dreams and fiery passions,
but I'm lying in bed writing poems,
life is dripping through my fingertips
and I'm just watching it hit the cement.
I feel like a failure,
I'm afraid my life is worthless,
I'm incapable of succeeding,
I'm not good enough to win.
These words are midnight's lies
but they're finding me in the daylight.
I have become exhausted,
and I am so tired of being tired.
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 4:12 PM UTC
As the poison ran through her veins
She started to lose control
Couldn't breathe
Couldn't talk
Couldn't move
Couldn't think about anything else.
The worst part is that she poisoned herself.
But she won't die, nor will she be okay.
Because this poison is a different kind.
The poison is hopelessness
Being let down
Negative thinking
This poison is her own creation
Specific to her
And the people she cares about can poison her just as easily as they can breathe.
Now she's sitting
Motionless
Speechless
Thoughtless
Breathless
Because the poison has circulated
And it's reached her heart.
But she won't die, nor will she be okay
Because this poison is a different kind.
She physically feels sick
She wants to die
To **** herself
To cut
Drink
Drown
Hang
Shoot
Break
And cry
But she can't.
Because this poison has paralysed her.
This poinsion has taken away
her will to breathe, not her breath itself.
Her will to move, not her mobility itself.
Her will to talk, not her speech itself.
But it has replaced every thought with that of a blade
Or a rope
Or a gun
Or a bottle
Or a pill
Or a lake
Or a building
This poison has polluted we mind and mingled with her blood. The will to **** is a part of her now and there is nothing she can do to escape that.
Despite wanting to sleep for eternity six foot under
This poison cannot **** her
Only she can
And she is close
And willing
And weak enough to attempt.
She cannot think of anything else
And it's all her fault
She created this
She started it all.
If she had succeeded last year, she wouldn't be around to have created this poison.
So until she has hit rock bottom and has a chance at succeeding
She will try to drown her demons
Suffocate her demons
Bleed herself dry of the poison
Consume enough alcohol to alter the poison
But she won't die, nor will she be okay
Because this is a different kind of poison
And she is already dead inside.
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 10:24 AM UTC
I am a teenage introvert:
My bed is unkempt and I long for forgiveness - mainly from myself and possibly my mirror
I worship the cynical and complain how much I hate school - even though I hate when I stay home
My fingers are etching maps in my head, while I form an excuse to skip, even though I never do
I look for acceptance, anywhere. No one uses words anymore and the rooms are silent.
Miscommunication starts fights so I never speak up. Late nights on Netflix - succeeding at nothing
I am a teenage stereotype:
I save for concerts and buy cd’s. I long to drive someday and having the prospects of college. Filled with wanderlust I cry myself to sleep. Dreaming of not waking up - but getting home sick at home.
I am confused.
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 12:59 AM UTC
I've become phenomenal, outstanding, and courageous.
I've become dignified.
I've become a person that understands the meaning of life and all its wonders.
I've become amazing and outstanding, succeeding in all ways.
I shall achieve my success at any rate.
What I have earned no one can take away from me.
What I have earned no one can give to me but myself.
You cannot explain me in words but, even if you tried to write them on a page
The words would merely lift up and fly away.
Feb 20, 2015
Feb 20, 2015 at 6:45 PM UTC
Right over middle
Middle over left
You sit behind me
And braid my hair
"Don't move your head" he warns
"I don't want to mess up"
I smile and roll my eyes
Because you couldn't possibly mess up
You tie my hair
And rub my shoulders real quick
I turn around
And I don't understand the look he has
Hiding his smile with his hand
Trying not to stare but not succeeding
And I never knew
That braids could have this effect
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 8:19 PM UTC
I stood upside down on the watery
side of the sea line and looked at the
world I was standing on, the stars
blew out and re-appeared like the people
walking past the cafe bench. The guy
with the newsboy cap, made his
rounds around the city, a white-out inscription
on brick caught his attention:
“You anticipated
this time in another place.”
The daughter of the woman
behind the flower stand
draws chalked fish completed with
succeeding circles to indicate
bubbles, bubbles on the asphalt.
She was right: I had learned
to breathe underwater and as a litmus
test I turned my eyes to the single
tree on the island. It shivered
like seaweed. I went up to the stand
and purchased the ugliest peony,
the one with petals that were
chiseled like frozen waves.
I gave the lady
my last quarter and as I
turned around I saw the face of the guy
with the newsboy cap, only this time it was infinitely larger,
peeking over the horizon like the sun
when it first rises. And then, a hand coming up,
from under, fingers tapping from the other side,
taps reverberating through sky,
as though there was inside and outside
and this whole time I was
in an aquarium.
Sep 15, 2011
Sep 15, 2011 at 8:45 PM UTC
Doc, I've been trying to deal with these issues for quite sometime to no avail;
A good friend of mine (you may know him, Elmer Fudd) recommended you.
I fear I will never be able to eat, let alone catch this turbo inspired example of flightless foul;
Stuck in this celluloid world vividly inspired by an Emmy award winning colorist.
I am a proud animal from generations of fine breeding, born in the pristine coyote valley;
I am not stupid, not a fool or buffoon, and so I thought contractually, not one to be laughed at.
And I, always the bad guy, constantly daunted in pursuit by haphazard ACME products;
Expensive, bulky, time consuming, they characteristically fail right before they almost work.
Rocket powered skates, unfortunately, only allow me to kiss the cliff-side really really hard;
Very heavy anvils serve no other purpose than to be dropped on my head repeatedly.
The incredulous manipulations of the impossible by the so clever writers of this farce;
From trains appearing out of nowhere to run me over, to fierce lightning storms in an instant.
Laying there in the release of my own bowels as the uncontrollable result of
500 Megajoules of energy traveling through my body yet again.
I am the twice electrified mass of dribbling spastic protoplasm
Personified proverbially in that lightning does indeed strike twice in the same place!
As the smoke arises from my chard hairy frame and I sweep up my ashes to reassemble later;
I realize Doc, I'm losing my grasp on the reality of ever succeeding, I need your help!
I'm still hungry;
And still I have not caught that **** Road Runner,
**** you Warner Brothers!
-----ChawzzyScript
Mar 29, 2013
Mar 29, 2013 at 1:13 AM UTC
A season of waiting
As the cold air has come and choked our land
Taking away our breath and our hope
Even making attempts on our lives with this cold
And almost succeeding in this terrible winter
Oh come oh come Emmanuel
Lonely sit these lands
Waiting for good things to return
And holding onto hope in this winter of anxiety and fear
That soon, our redemption may come for to carry us home
In these lands we wait, for it can't be much longer now
Oh come oh come Emmanuel
Our ancestors once cried 'over the next hill must lie our Promised Land'
And we now cry 'in the next year must come our Savior
For the Lord could not make us toil much longer
Lest our bones freeze and our bodies die
And all of this waiting would seem to be in vain
Oh come oh come Emmanuel'
Yet here we wait for years upon years and generations upon generations
For the promised king to finally bless our lands
And free us from the tyranny of this world
Leading us into a better life
And bringing us a better world
Oh come oh come Emmanuel
We wait this winter, knowing spring comes on the horizon with our Messiah
To end this long-lasting winter
And melt this world of snow and ice
To bring a green spring
Full of life and good things
Oh come oh come Emmanuel
For our Savior is coming
And He will redeem all things
He will end our exile in this winter
And bring warmth to save our souls
Oh come oh come Emmanuel and ransom us from this freezing winter
Nov 29, 2015
Nov 29, 2015 at 5:07 PM UTC
Last night I had a dream.
I was standing on a planet named ALONE. It was just a lonely planet widout any sun and moons. It consisted of kingdoms. And I was on a tower of one of such kingdoms. The day was perfectly imperfect as always. And the night came succeeding to boil all the intricate frivolous thoughts running through my mind. Wind was cooler than usual. And its blowrate was gradually increasing. Suddenly I saw a white dot far ahead in the sky. It was getting brighter and was protruding lines of white. Wind ravished the people all around the planet. There faar ahead something had happened and the white dot was now like ripped off into small white dots and was kept intact in a spherical manner by some force. It was a scene depicting many planets coming into existence.
Then something clicked my mind. Maybe there a world had arised like ours but very very far from this planet. But there, is not just a planet, but many of them with luminous bodies succumbed into it.
One day I will travel there.
I got up from sleep. Now I knew that goals are always far. You just have to try and be determined..
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 5:13 AM UTC
Some go out in a blaze of glory, some with a crazy, sad story.
I am not sure which I have chosen but it may get very gory.
I don’t care any longer about the skies I see
Or the dreams I’ve had that cease to be.
I am tired, sore and I hurt in mind and in the fairy soul
I know at this late stage I never will be whole.
I do not want to urge it on but simply to not worry
I want those who give a **** to know there was no hurry.
Music sounds dull, words are boring, what’s left to say
all that’s left is for a fool like me to pick a day.
No more pills, no checking, no pecking no heeding
no worrying, no trying and paining when you stop succeeding.
There are no magic cures for us, just pretenders selling dreams
and the rest get rich selling us on their schemes.
I will go when I go, doing just what I choose to do
Then the task of being someone special will suddenly be through.
Copyright/1/2014
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 12:32 AM UTC
Creamy...
Smooth...
Sweet...
Melt in my mouth delicious
How I love your savory flavor
The way you sit on my tongue
Caressing my mouth
With love and care
.....
The carefully engraved tattoo
Sitting directly in your middle
Lets me know that its only you
That its the real you
And not some imposter
Always trying to be you
But never succeeding
....
Your fun-size ways
Never seems to fulfill
They can't seem to fill
Your king-sized shoes
But even your king-sized shoes
Look small compared to your
Giant perfections
.....
I like others
But no one else
Can come between me and you
The love we share is
Sweeter than honey
Better than money
Greater than him
Greater than her
This love just simply can't be compared
This love is so complex
I wouldn't wanna be without you
Ever... You are the best
My baby
My lover
My honey
My shooting star
My honey
My lover
My baby
My Hershey bar
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 12:00 PM UTC
Staring into stars, the lonely people drink their tears
And genuflect to empty car parks and swallow their fears
Like Ernest Hemingway, they grit their teeth and laugh
********* a pocket bullet, contemplating aftermath
And the shadows bend and grow…
And the embers shine below.
Geared for success, the lonely boy begins to starve
His chest heaving from stress, his wish for waterfall in cars
Freeways self-entitled, forcing ants into the gutter
While a lonely father cries and the boy freezes and sputters
And the doorway opens up
As the mouth is finally shut.
“I’m not mad, son, you’ve only disappointed me”
Father, point the way for me, where is my life leading?!
Should I sacrifice my happiness for a chance at succeeding?
Should these calloused hands be empty, do I need a beating?
You need to straighten up your tie and keep your noses clean.
My mother’s eyes in moonlight silently judging me
Inhumanity, why don’t you rule these streets?
I bite my bottom lip and gaze down at my feet
Lumped chunk of nicotine
Pushing itself out of me.
I want to stop blending rainwater with my leaking eye-sockets,
Crying for another with which to share my gold locket,
Tossing and turning, wondering where I will be next
And for God’s sake, can I do it, am I trying my very best!?
Why can’t I get up on time like every normal human being?
Why do I always get sick, why do my guts hate me?
Why are all my joints always crackling and aching?
I never want to live, don’t ever try to save me!
“I’m not mad, son, you’ve only disappointed me”
Father, point the way for me, where is my life leading?!
Should I sacrifice my happiness for a chance at succeeding?
Should these calloused hands be empty, do I need a beating?
Staring into stars, the lonely people sit and smile
Counting all the faces staring back, retracing miles
Celestial serenity, striving for an energy
Never needing inquiry, embracing the no thing!
Should these calloused hands be empty?
Do I need a beating?
Will these pruning hands deceive me?
This Universe is in me.
Jun 3, 2011
Jun 3, 2011 at 3:58 PM UTC