"trailers" poems
The evolution of art never halts
Once we began dancing around fire
Our feet couldn't stop
A place in our lives
Where our subpar seeds
Could be seen as glowing trees
That's the way I feel about my poetry
It reminds me a lot of me
I reread it and rewrite it so often
By the end it seems unoriginal and plain
And all I can hope
Is the themes and ideas that were the inspirational genesis
Remain intact
Art walks a tightrope over the most unpredictable factor
The audience
They are the other half of art
Their power cannot be overstated
And as time progresses
Their power grows
And the importance of art always extends an equal distance
But the stronger art becomes
The more it asks of it's audience
In many cases
The audience is not ready to take the call
This is one of those times
Here at the current pinnacle of art
Surfing the web
A wonderful chance as
Art is a reflection of people and society
The Internet is people and society
But just as we listen to songs
To decide what concert to go to
Or watch trailers
To decide what movie to see
We like what we like
And put blinders on to find it
Like moths to fire
We could do amazing things
If we could harness the potential
Of our collective conscious
But the threat of losing our individuality
Is too great for us
Unable to accept
Our individuality is always in the context of our cosmic existence
We are part of something greater
And we can't escape that
Even in death
We feed what lies beneath
The memory of our lives
Shrinks to obscurity
The maggots that cover our corpses
Flourish to maturity
Everything this world creates is art
And we are it's most complex creation
Not necessarily the best
We just have the most parts
And the maggots that use our dead bodies for sustenance
Were once the monsters that roamed this Earth
They had no nationality
Or political affiliations
Or religion
And they're still here
Waiting to reclaim their throne
Once "smarter" species seek suicide
Jul 26, 2017
Jul 26, 2017 at 10:19 PM UTC
The magnificent Midwest.
Where meth-heads migrate only to make a living off of welfare checks and a lack of motivation.
Scattered across the land in clusters,
Making up towns of shattered trailers.
Even in the greyness of winter we beat ourselves to death against snowed in windows
Searching for the sun, just like moths to street lights,
or lips to flickering flames
Death is everywhere.
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 8:55 PM UTC
The posters said tomorrow
At eleven on the dot
The Mishkin Brothers Circus
Would be here ....on this spot
There would be no carnival or midway
Just one tent and three rings
And all of the excitement
That a good old circus brings
There would be elephants and lions
Trapeze artists overhead
Dancing dogs and ponies
And zebras painted red
Clowns of all description
Answering to just one man
In the center of the circle
Was Mishkin brother....Dan
He'd run the show for twenty years
Gone from town to town to town
In one day they would get set up
And in two, they'd tear it down
One day to show the locals
The circus still was an event
With magic, form the Barnum Days
All housed inside one tent
The sideshow barkers and their geeks
Were not with this fine group
Dan Mishkin had assembled
Only the finest circus troup
From Russia he had jugglers
Knife throwers, just the best
******** riders from Decatur
Along with all the rest
Fourteen trucks and trailers
Pulled into town the night before
Breaking ground once they arrived
Working right through until four
Just old time entertainment
No travelling gypsy band was this
It was the Mishkin Brothers Circus
It was something not to miss
The show was started promptly
At twelve o'clock, like the sign said
A parade of all the players
And the zebras painted red
Two shows and it was over
The whole routine began anew
The field was once more empty
Gone was the Mishkin rolling zoo
A year from now, we'd see the signs
And we'd all go to the tent
To see the Mishkin Brothers Circus
The best money ever spent
Jun 13, 2015
Jun 13, 2015 at 4:48 PM UTC
Being the only one awake in the back seat, or the only one thinking loudly,
and in the back of your mind, sitting there like living weight, you've got
the giant Citgo sign
(you swear you could fit in the T),
listening to passion pit as the golden sun flings itself on the highway,
a construction worker lowering his pants in front of a dumpster,
hearing the sandlot play downstairs as you stare at the dark ceiling,
pizza you ate in the park the evening before now being had for breakfast,
finding out the **** is pro-choice,
getting your shoulder squeezed on a rollercoaster
by a boy who screams like a girl,
feeling drunk even though you're sober,
running through the dark,
passing trailers with round lanterns lining the tops,
outlining shirtless men and smoking women,
looking in the mirror after swimming with your clothes on
in a hot tub,
and you're not sure if you're
beautiful
or
disgusting.
Yeah, you can sleep now.
May 20, 2015
May 20, 2015 at 7:12 PM UTC
atop
that golden haystack
mounted on an unwieldy bullock cart
you wished we had......
a regret of a million lifetimes!
every time
your plucky smile flashes
in the sacred space between brows,
i see a wish fulfilling acacia tree
nymphalid butterflies flutter in my gut
and rapid clips of lifetimes past
neatly edited,
projected as movie trailers
your deathlike silence
has quietly become my universe,
as i pen in moon-like solitude
memoirs of an unrequited love
© 2019
Aug 3, 2019
Aug 3, 2019 at 11:14 AM UTC
Rusted trailers file in,
carrying pop-up roller coasters
and tilt-a-whirls. A tall man, face splashed
with paint, trips in oversized shoes.
His drawn lips smile, but teeth do not show.
A ferris wheel spins in the distance, time
measured in each rotation, the carnival's only clock.
Perched on a saddle, a small tot
rides a stallion, tangling her curled fingers
in its mane, cotton candy stained palms
shaking the reins. The steed chained
to a central post, muzzled in silence,
frozen like his carousel brothers.
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 12:22 PM UTC
— for the American Mustang
Strung up on one leg, bled dry while alive,
unloaded off trailers crammed full
of the crippled and blind —mares
giving birth on three legs, foals trampled
by stallions, and a wave of fear
hovering over tossing manes
like the sea after Moby **** surfaced
for the first time. Last year,
135,000 horses died —
rounded up in hundreds and sent
off to slaughter like feeder goldfish,
three stops from Canada
or Cabo, displaced from plains
once revered for their livelihood.
In 1969, Vonnegut
wrote, “And so it goes…”
In 2061, our children will ask about the wild
horses who used to live in their backyards
as they catch the last fireflies and bottle
them up in jars, flickering and dying
like tired bulbs giving up on electricity —
2015 sees Henderson, Nevada grasses paying tribute
to power-plant-lines and a suburb built
on Tralfamadore fiction: house-mounds
and picket fences caging domesticated dogs,
curb-lined streets and caution signs, billboard
warnings of humanity’s fixation with progression,
combined like coffee with an overabundance
of half-and-half and too much sugar — only 99 cents
at Dunkin down a little ways, and home
to the dreamers who forget the word freedom.
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 4:05 PM UTC
*The most broken people live on earth.
Not even a good poet and wont pretend to be.
I fell asleep at my desk reading boring poems in school.
I failed the test on how many stanza in a poem.
Writing about broke people makes me feel good.
It's a long *** poem so read it or not read it. Word up!*
Call me white boy playing black hipster like the broken record Miley.
I can't type twerk on my keyboard but turning all ghetto on y'all.
Lady done done all she can to shock and mess with our minds.
What she gone do next, buy a house in a black hood and live there?
That's messed up and so I'm dumb and I love attention.
I live in a big town population less than sixteen thousand.
We listed on the map as a god ****** city. Word up!
I need to be a hipster and I'm going hood on y'all.
In my hood I see houses needing fixing and painting.
Got a friend who lives in a trailer park
metal piece that goes around the bottom of his trailer
fell off and his pipes froze during that weather deep freeze.
He's renting that trailer that should be condemned
like most trailers in that park but who the **** cares?
He's got a roof over his head and he should be grateful
he ain't homeless like the rest of the trailer park dwellers.
Landlords don't give a **** they care about collecting rent.
We got men and women living on internet trolling Craigslist.
Most trolling hoping to find dates are married.
Single men and women seeking sugar daddies and mommies.
They are broken people.
I walk down streets and our old and newer malls.
Same weird *** people shop at both.
I see women yelling at kids with ****** diapers that smell bad.
One used the back of her hand to wipe a snot nose
then went back to talking and texting.
Women with babies at home meeting men they met on personals.
Good place to hide when they married or got men.
Leave the babies at home with sitters or family and find new men.
Hanging out at malls is a fake.
"Meet me at my pickup in a half hour and don't wear ******
Read that message on a burner cell I found at the new mall.
It's a burner so it don't need to be returned.
Read the rest and she is married and has more than one lover
she met off personals.
Work it girl and keep the sugar daddies coming!
How many broken moms who should not be moms exist?
There are too many broken people who exist.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 6:38 PM UTC
I was stuck
there's nothing else to say.
I was stuck on the corner of Innes and Main
walking to Expressions, the only smoke shop
where high times wasn't ready to
come out of the closet,
where Hustler was always
6 months old,
where you had to call a **** a water pipe
because the cops came in too often.
I was thinking of the **** trailers
20 minutes out by the lake
and how when I was young they all seemed like
weather factories - heavy cloud but no rain
*sniff sniff
something's on the oven.
it's a world of difference
on Innes and Main.
bankers, business owners,
and old folks walk by with a
look in their eye that says "you're
exactly like you're t-shirt -- secondhand."
here I am secondhand.
here I don't have a name, just a presumption.
here I am nothing.
nothing good.
I kept walking.
I started thinking about my dad --
the first time we got high
together was on xmas day. I was 20,
he was weary and his roommate ALWAYS
had bud. here's the skinny:
we'd get ****** watch ****** movies,
he'd argue about how good they were
and I'd never quit laughing.
then the come down.
he'd start in about what a huge mistake
he's made of his life.
and he'd count his past regrets
on his fingers like he was learning
addition and it took the strength of all of my bones
not to grab him by the shoulders
and yell "DAD.
QUIT BEING SENTIMENTAL."
and I swore I'd never be sentimental
and I'm not sentimental.
I just know where I'm going.
but when memory's teeth breaks skin
like plaster,
when fresh marks color blood
over old wounds,
when you can't find home anywhere
but in a blunt or a bottle,
it doesn't matter where
you're going.
Oct 3, 2015
Oct 3, 2015 at 11:11 PM UTC
Spring. Same plants, same order.
Monday morning, open for business.
Tractor-trailers, day care centers.
Every leaf that’s coming out is out.
To tonight’s town meeting I will go unaware and foolish.
It’s delicious, the unimportance of my feelings.
Even our particular war was small.
Europe had one last a century.
Hubble photos of events 13 billion years ago
Do not put me in mind of the species’ insignificance.
Just the opposite having witnessed the universe’s birth.
But birth from what preceding state? God again rears his hoary head.
They say one must let go and will let go,
God will decide what tragedy you need.
Not every seed becomes a flower,
Not every branch breaks out a truelove knot.
While the ancient Romans wrote of love
The ancient Britons wrote of war.
The Romans should have been perfecting their republic.
No god could do that work for them.
The November moth's the fall cankerworm
Slender-bodied, beige, beginning life as the well known inchworm.
In our war more children may have died than would have had
the tyrant lived in fear and awe.
We'll never know because we can't help being here.
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 11:28 AM UTC
You waved the tool in my face
Causing a switch to go off in my brain
My thoughts distorted
My body springing to action
Trying to make you stop
What you had already done
The new raised lines on your upper arm
Caused by simple office supplies
Wouldn't have happened
If I hadn't left you for just a second
For the moment my back was turned
You were half past gone and a mile away from better
Both of are breathless
The shiny twisted piece of metal
Somewhere on the floor
Sitting across from each other
Your shoulders shook against mine
My tears burned into your shirt
And were mopped up with your brown hair
I spoke through choked sobs
As hurt memories flashed through my brain
Like the trailers of movies
Showing only a quick remembrance
Of my past
That leaked into your present
But you feel as though your present is not a gift
For you're falling down the rabbit hole
Not to Wonderland
But to the land of pills and hospital beds
Where it is not wonderful in any shape or form
Your scars can still heal
If you stopped retracing the red lines you've made
And realized
You are something
I care about you
And so do others
So if you won't try for yourself
Try for them
Try for me
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 9:32 PM UTC
This is a place where you can see everything coming
from far away;
a place where people come
to leave;
a place where people pack in the middle of the night,
and wake the children
while it's still dark out,
hoping for hope in the cholera
of a sunrise
and the 5 a.m. Greyhound;
this is a place where there is no flea
market, just a strand of people
on the side of the road
a table and a parti-colored distress,
while their kids play in grass lots;
this is a place where factories are built,
clandestine factories; factories with no
signposts, and no barbed-wire fences;
this is a place where there is always something green
in the tilled rows crowding up against the road,
not necessarily growing,
but maybe the signs of an arbitrary decay;
this is a place for old trailers and rust tears;
telephone poles more than a stake in humanity,
communication rather than introspection,
redemption more than salvation,
revitalization more than pleasure,
insight more than hope,
promise more than dreams,
this is a place where a father rushes up to the bus,
pushing the kids,
as he ushers his wife on board,
the little children hopping up each step,
as he says
"Get on, and we outta here."
This is a place where families don't have belongings
where you don't belong to anything.
This is a place you can leave easily,
because it is a place with a name
you can't remember.
Feb 6, 2012
Feb 6, 2012 at 10:34 AM UTC
Tractors chug
and the new ones Zoom
up the road
Pulling all sorts
trailers and implements;
all to tame the Earth
and help thrive livestock
to fill fridges and freezers
and bellies needing feeding
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 3:14 PM UTC
On the zero night
It doesn’t matter if someone loves you
Or if you have something between you and the emptiness
Broken trailers with incoherent messages sprayed
“Kitten ***** “Idelibo frant”, messabi todar”
But still the silence descends
The Buddha is confused and lost
Frightened men with their heavy guns
Counting the bullets
Will there be enough?
Sliding hands over ****** knives
We have our pizza, our beer
The screaming is muted for tonight
Please tell me, ghost of the future
Can our superficial images of beauty
Cover our despair?
Still the digital display is counting
The numbers, though meaningless have changed.
If we turned off the lights of Las Vegas
Would we still have a chance to breathe?
What eyrie darkness.
The drones are clustered above the targets
But there is uncertainty
Still the moon shines
And the silence builds
Gibbens 2013-08-21
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 2:02 AM UTC
Beer bellies in sun,
Green grass in a fast circle
Squaring like trailers.
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 1:15 PM UTC
Best of all, there are lives in every skin. They know the words to your favourite language and the aching corporeality of smoke wisps as overused poetic analogy-- sativa with grapefruit, the particulars speak in toungezzz and sometimes I smoke **** and I'm so hungry, but I'm not hungry.. 6 o'clock and Dionysius means what the heaven needs **** done, it's awful-- no misfit twists and yab blam undeclared winter this year we call Fort Summerforever, BLANK, BLAM, expressive bottom-line, you don't look around anymore and check the bookshelves of your lives for those lucid Lucy detailers, trailers a warmer word for tracers, do the replacement parts fit all of the models and every time I went back to Trippy's it was the same guy, $70, oh the whole **** with the slide and all flattened preference to how in-this we are, how imagine how mystical, hanging those mushrooms on the wall, that weird pipe, cover ashes I dunno. In here it was I / thou and the digital paper-- I climb behind the eye and continent for a moment and hear see do 'it was a huge *** bag just filled with all this weed' bazooka balloon. crick the neck to create a feeling, oh but you'll listen to be come and be
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 2:28 AM UTC
Now there is nothing left
that's worth the mention
Yet there is so much more
I wanted to say
The years have passed
as a whirlwind
There was nothing left
that together we had
The horses The trailers
The tractor and truck
The saddles and the tack
All then gone for a song
A funeral dirge
of the saddest kind
A song about the
loss of We and Us
Destruction was there
then relentless
Only one single thing
I could keep
Just a wallet I bought
In Our last days together
Holding the picture ID's
of Our Sons
So on I alone
went through
unending destruction
As though all Hell
existed alone against me
Until I again studied
the sunrise and claimed
a new beginning
alone there
beside the sea
So sorry you're not
still here with me
With a beautiful
start-over play
for keeps
I heard for you
it went very badly
And you languish
In doom and sorrow
and grief
I hurt for you
Knowing the very
moment of
abandonment
You set loose
upon yourself
The worst of all
of your fears
Are you happy
that you succeeded
Did you accomplish
all that you planned?
Didn't you know
I would get up
and go on and do
what we did together
by myself once again?
So on I must go
to restoration absolute
of that which was
Ours then to claim
Knowing you're
gone forever
However
I am again myself
surely restored
But not now nor ever
would it be possible
To recover
Our once
precious Love
once more
We Shared Love
We Cherished Life.
-R.
(10.11.17)
-LA
-4MAR
Oct 12, 2017
Oct 12, 2017 at 12:01 PM UTC
I know back roads and bonfires.
I know pine trees and rivers.
I know parking lots and cigarettes.
I know trailers and trailblazers.
The day I was born I was wrapped in dust,
it coated my skin and made me sneeze.
I was laid down on a bed of dust and my nose began to bleed, it hasn't stopped.
In school we'd throw a tennis ball against a wall, we'd run through the field, we didn't have swings, we didn't have a soccer ball.
We read from dusty books, we inhaled the words and dust alike.
In high school we drove fast down back roads. We drank beer and started a fire. We swam in the rivers and smoked doobies on the rocks.
These are the things I know.
I know this small town, I know the people in it, I know the trees and I know the back roads.
I don't know heartbreak.
I don't know alcoholism.
I don't know anything that is not covered in dust, I don't know anything beyond this valley.
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 4:29 PM UTC
I woke up in the middle of night, last night, to an unfamiliar noise. It was a vibrating frequency coming from the floor underneath of me. I live in the third floor unit of my building which means there's second and first floor units. The noise is coming from the people underneath of me, probably. I heard it again and I was unsure of the location. Then I heard it a third time and this time it sounded like it was coming from my front door. I heard the **** make a noise. The sound of someone turning your locked doorknob or vending touching it in the middle of the night is not okay. I felt the adrenaline rush to all the muscles in my body and for a moment I was ready. I was still. I listened. My instinctual fighting abilities have evolved to this moment even though I have never been in a physical fight with anything except my boyfriends dog... After so many minutes, I began thinking about that very specific door **** noise and then trying to figure out what that vibrating rumble was. In my head I compared it to the Babadook which is a movie I had just watched recently. Even though still terrified hiding under the blankets, I found this moment comical. This would be the moment as a child when I would run into my parents bedroom night after night telling them about my nightmare and then continue sleeping in between them. In this moment I decided to let my mind wonder and listen for the first time in a long time. Through meditation I have learned to shut the unproductive doors in my mind. As I listened all I heard was the rushing vehicles on rt 76 across the river. The sounds created it's own river. I heard the breaks of the tracker trailers rumbling down the freeway to fade into the noise of the night. I heard nothing. I heard a car drive by on my street. It hit a *** whole. For awhile the noises became so repetitive that it became mundane and my thoughts started to creep in and I let them. Then I heard an emergency vehicle. My ears perked up as I listened to the sirens bounce off the buildings. I could visualize the architectural layout of each block the ambulance went down or approached. My mind had made a fuzzy map of my neighborhood. I eventually heard the sound of my alarm reminding me to get out of bed.
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 11:52 PM UTC
A sadness haunts that town.
stuffed between the cracks
of dilapidated matchbox houses,
and in the grit of rusty trailers.
Even below the green carpet of government buildings,
And the marble courthouse floor.
Poverty stares Wealth in the face from across the street,
his haunted, empty eyes
lit by the embers of discarded cigarettes.
Wealth is good at glossing over the cracks,
setting up the chain link fences and rail road tracks.
Iron curtains that could be stepped over,
if anyone knew they were there.
But no matter how many fences,
there's still that nameless sadness in the soil.
A potent concoction
of dead dreams, harsh realities, and broken hearts.
With a dash of Cherokee tears and lead from the War.
All stirred by Monotony,
who lights her cauldron fire
with electric bills and dollar store receipts.
Like a curse, it spares none.
Though they've learned how to smile
with tears in their eyes,
above moth eaten scarves or pearls.
It's permeated everything, down to the roots.
But not to leave the glass half empty;
Some still find happiness,
some are still sad.
That's just how it goes.
Hope and despair are but two notes in the same tune.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 11:28 PM UTC
I walked down for my daily meal,
probably spinach salad
and yesterdays pork in a soup
and flesh on the brain stopped me
dead in my pace
when I saw this striated sack of bones
a greyhound, kept thin as ribs
by the genes she was bred to express
collapsed on the end of chain, tail-tucked
dead weight where once was thoroughbred speed
built for speed, life on the fast-track
chasing a mechanical sheep
a lure she’ll never catch
kept hungry
for the good chance she’d run faster
winning some beer-belly’s bets
but at least she was given a wage—
a crate, and all the food she’d need
to stay thin. when genes turned her
speed to the slip and sag of age
one ******* was human enough
instead of a quick slug pulling out her brain
through a new hole and pinning it to the dirt
behind the trailers, Beer-bellied *******
let her retire to an old-dog’s crate
plastic walls and one gate
Isn’t she beautiful??
I raise my gaze from the hound’s caramel eye
and find the thing clutching the chain,
grinning like hooks pulling cheeks
far too wide, with too much skin on her thighs,
a squat pile of woman bred on fatty beef and pecan pies
We rescued her, she’s our mascot!
and she hands me a flyer:
EDUCATION INTERNSHIPS
PUT YOUR LIFE ON THE FAST-TRACK!!
Dec 13, 2011
Dec 13, 2011 at 6:41 AM UTC
pear leaves strum the high wire
fern roots claw a sun drenched bank
creep vines mount the hedgerow
sow bugs jump a grated worn step
picket wall stain on cedar
mountain stream brisk at lush green pass
four legs down the foot path
biscuit brown trailers fill the pipe
spiders march on dew web
knots and rivets cut hard at the seam
maples cover the forest floor
sap ***** ping the front gate
dandelions drift on west breeze
blue berries plump at shepherds grove
wood sill holds a stained glass
letter box lined above the scrub
delft ware on the mantle
(with petals and script for a promised guest!)
junior poised with mouth agape
birds and squirrels whistle jovial tunes
goldfinch darts the sea ranch
tabby cat rests in a white wicker chair
a crafters window in the alpine
follies await the summer task!
queen bee on the flutter
airedale set on a woven grey mat
watchmen of the hollow (+ earwig and mite!)
scurry, under rustled moist leaves
frogs leap at trickle creek
shutter bugs mount on gryphons lair
still water ripples in the shaded pool
folding fingers on corner bridge
foragers cut the high shelf
silver fish come to life
whiskey jack sings on indian green
elijah and xavier pause...
at a long days end
Apr 28, 2017
Apr 28, 2017 at 9:39 AM UTC
I am a thousand head-collisions of two
tractor trailers and you are the EMTs’
who come and save the motorists I put
in peril. I am that one-too-many shot of
***** that causes someone to crawl
to the bathroom on hands and knees
and you are the friend who holds their
hair back while they dispose of what
made them sick; me. I am the cancer
invading a loved one’s bones and you
are the chemotherapy that brings them
to a full recovery.
You are the beautiful arrangement of rays
that the sun glimmers down on peoples'
faces during the summer time, I am the
numbing frostbite from the coldest and
loneliest night of winter. You're all of the good
qualities made up in a person, and I am all of the flaws.
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 11:22 AM UTC
11.45pm
hi, guess what i'm listening to country music right now
and i cant text you because my parents took my phone and laptop:(
so ill just write this and you can read it later
i love you
11.50pm
i just ran dowstairs amd almost tripped and died
but its like all good
i had to get my chocolate milk
imma watch cat videos until im tired
12.00am
okay well i lied
i started watching horror movie trailers and now im scared
im still listening to country
im soo bored
12.20am
jeez my parents just came home because they forgot their keys for something and somehow noticed i was up and gave me sleeping pills
so i kinda wanna die but its all good
i just listened to the song H.O.L.Y and now 16 is playing
not a bad song
12.25am
i was thinking about how you always say opposites attract
and like thats not wrong because we're really different people
but like i was thinking about it
and i think i kinda get it now
we're opposite, or at least we were before we started dating but we kinda tried to like the stuff the other person likes
like i wouldve never started listening to country if it wasnt for you
and you probably wouldnt have tried listening to the music i like
and you probably wouldnt have tried to write poetry
so like i think thats why people say opposites attract, because we show eachother new stuuf and like idk
12.32am
well i just remembered i have a health test tomorrow so i should probably study but i cant do that tomorrow in the morning or later
ughhhh im still not tired
oh guess what?
i love you soooooooo much
and youre amazing and great and one of my favourite people
1.00am
okay well the pills are really kicking in now
so goodnight
i love you
Dec 4, 2018
Dec 4, 2018 at 11:47 PM UTC
I attend the funeral of hope,
weekly
Watch the birth of despair
daily
I think God has gone deaf,
atleast to
my cries
People look at possessions as
success
They aren't
They're stones tied to souls
making sure we all drown with the
Jones'
we all so long to keep up with
Oh yes,
those Jones' are falling to the
Depths of "stuff"
far faster than we Smiths
Good Lord
All day, Everyday,
I see and hear the "upper class"
whine
About the stupidest things
Its appocalypse if the Jones' buy
a BMW
while the neighbor only owns a Cadilac
Utter DEATH
I see these things and hear these silly conversations daily
"Oh did you see how fat Pam's *** looked in that Vera dress at yesterday's luncheon?"
"Yes! All that money spent on lypo! Haha!"
Disgusting ****
like sulfuric acid poured into my ears
And the road on the way to this Country Club and Gated Community called
Deerfield
Is lined with falling down trailers and houses without glass in the Windows
Clothes hung on ancient strings because the wearers can't afford a dryer
Or the electicity to run one
Children filthy and barefoot playing with
hand-me-down toys
in hay field yards
Still cleaner and more pure
than the
Filthy Rich
Apr 15, 2017
Apr 15, 2017 at 11:49 PM UTC