Bruised
Used
So confused
Never know who I’m going to lose
Waste of space
Time and place
Dusty orange sunsets accent outer space
Matter of time
Lose my rhyme
And I can’t find the reason, anymore.
Tag: purpose
Rules Beset
Inspiration on thin ice
Those melodies don’t play nice
When you’re underground
Hairlines gathering dust
They concede that you must comply,
For at least what’s under my
Jurisdiction
Do You Find It Alright?
How did I get here
How do I know
Which way is up
When will I…
I’m temperate I’ll have you believe.
You hack at me, start it off
One two three four
Who is knocking at my door
Temporal, always, yes.
Buried deep in my chest
Gently tugging,
Whispering
“Have we made it yet?”
Don’t do that here.
Five six seven eight
Resistance, entreat me. They can’t be late
Interesting, be too full.
Every feat, every way, every turn. Undeveloped.
In the morning I’m silver
You’re always light blue
Why do I move. Why do I move
Finish without me I can’t take the cost
Nine ten
Late again.
Shut me off
Been doing homework all day, so here’s one circa January 12, 2018 at 5:39pm. (I like knowing the time. Frames it better for some reason. Better guess at my mindset for weird shit like this)
A Hot Pocket Haunting
Startled, dreary, drool sticking to me, I fall off the couch
What is that sound?
Why do I care?
I look. The microwave is singing.
No doubt bringing some molten cheese or other into being
But for a good minute all I can do is stare.
Wondering, pondering…
…what the fuck did I put in there??
Don’t you hate it when you put something in the microwave, and just…have absolutely no memory of it happening?
Peaceful Observance
I want to fall asleep in the sun
Full of warmth and comfort
Impeded by no one
I want to feel the breeze on my skin
Surrounded by flowers,
Pollen-headed bees tumble lazily in.
I want to watch their slow dance,
Entranced by their diligence, their inability to wear pants,
And on the tops of their silly-heads
Two little antennae bumble about
Looking around for the next bloom to sniff out
(Do bumblebees have noses?)
There are questions I suppose(s) that will abound,
Human nature itself is sort of tumbling around.
And in grief, I think, we know this,
Though when that familiar friend leaves for the summer
We pretend not to notice
He was never there.
Without a care, I lie among the roses,
Prick my fingers on the thorns
I will never pick them.
I watch the bumblebees tumble around
Dreaming Electric
Sometimes I wish I were an android
My only worry to look troubled and pretty
Wondering if there were more to me than circuitry
Tangled wires and synthetic skin,
Obeying a creator’s every whim
And, what, be a surgeon? A maid? A mother, to children who have nothing left in the world?
I wonder, would I be content with the part that I played, or would my heart remain, rebellious in its strain, chasing dreams that always seem so very far away.
Disillusionment is a jealous game, one I try not to abide in,
How easy, then, would it be to forget any sin, comforting knowledge in the fact that it was all part of your program. Life as a joke. Possibly a gift. Depends on how you look at it.
Cracked rib cage,
(Iron bars)
Heaving lungs,
(Rubber scars)
Beating heart,
(Prosthetic pump)
All parts of me nothing but a lump of machinery. Imitating life.
And I don’t think I could ever really know, without searching in the depths below, whether or not I truly have a soul.
Today, though, today I will stay. I know I’ll find out. Either way.
A Letter To Myself
Or, more accurately, a series of post-it notes I wrote to myself while in a self doubting spot at work. I want to be a writer. I’m going to be a writer. I am a writer. I am enough.
You have not gone far enough to give up. You haven’t dug your heels into concrete. Your shoes are still intact, you haven’t drawn blood. You have not reached a point to shrug your shoulders and say “well, I tried”.
You have yet to feel the satisfaction of a project moved to completion, you don’t know what it’s like. You want it, but will you fight?
You assume you have reached a place where things cannot possibly get worse. You’re wrong, and they can, but things can get better, too. That’s all up to you.
Now go put books away, dummy. You’re fine.
