the silent pulsing of the crowd, hypnotic
say what i say to cover the brain cracks, fissures, broken seams
forever and a day. forgive to forget the enemy fire fiend sulks in sideways glances
hand baskets: the nifty new way to travel underground.
devil horns and skull faces surround me drowning. the umbrella is a mushroom and i cannot leave
the man in the carpet yelps like a wounded puppy as the razor slices thin and precise names of loved ones who haunt the hallways of daydream's past.
invisible strings floss swiftly, 3rd party tugging at the corners of your mouth. pretty puppet sing me to sleep. stumbling gently over rust crusted cellphones on sidewalks decorated with sharp candy coated shards, broken promises and sweaty pillows.
awake in a rectangle the stench of yesterday's arm pit playtimes oozes from the pictures.
connect the dots on popcorn ceilings.
nevermind gangster, what about dankster
my shit is danker than yours
"you ain't dankier than me, because you got weed and its stinky"
FUCK. my career in hip-hoppity-bee-bop will never take off with lines like these.
but its modern day warfare, droppin chemical bombs on my furry cohabitants.
them fleas has gots to go
skritchity scratch, those are things of the past
reading rhymes off of cereal boxes
counting stars like fallen angels we fly
mischief causing rebels we climb
faster in trees of rope licorice and powder our noses blue, pixie stix
the blood is normalto be gushing
at this rate i've cried enough tears to fill a girl made lake of silly sloppy tails and dreams' demise
open your eyes, silly goose, you've touched down in the perfect place. you're still alive and not a pillow.
rejoice in the choices made and be glad for mediocre diner coffee and acid reflux.
polite reminders of being alive
better late than never, better now than ever
this is it, be glad and spit huge gobs of lung chunks and this baggy is not leaking coffee stains and burned up, shriveled up hopes and dreams
one day we'll all get to be stars on the stage of this-can't-be-happening-to-me-now-really?
its my life
my life lays in piles all over the floor
leftover reminders of my every day.
my life is packed away neatly in boxes shoved haphazardly into storage closets of those in transition.
my life is a dvd menu; constantly repeating funny one liners until my ears bleed, my guts clench up and i brave the cold mess just for some peace and damn quiet.
you would think that sleep would come easy for someone who has fallen asleep alone for many moons.
but no. clocks broken tonight.
the little green bottle inside has exploded.
i want to be drunk on the words of a poet describing life as he knows it
his life looking through a window.
my life is an organized closet, a shoe collection that no longer makes me happy.
my life is almost meaningless monotony and a past more colorful than a drab finger painting done by a brilliant 5 yr old, more abstract than an 8th grade crayon scribble.
more emo than finch's letters to you.
more magic than song.
what it is, is temporary.
the end is nigh.
the room is clear.
my life is words written on paper stored in purple folders in another town.
my life is flowing through the veins of light that i wish i could see everyday so i don't get sad anymore.
so i don't cry save the tears shed for epiphanies so mind boggling the only response left is tears.
i want to get lost on sidewalks in a different city. i want to ride my bike from dededo to tumon. i want to hike somewhere and eat oysters and chicken n a biskit. i want to have hot sand under my bare feet, sweat i cannot stop, smiles, love and respect deeper than the ocean.
i want deep blue seas and sunsets to die for.
i want to fucking float on the surface of the shiny fucking marble planet.
i want to be, like the dust particles on knick-knacks-taking up space.
|User's local time||Saturday, 23 Feb 2019 1:25 PM|
|Total Forum Posts||222|
|Last Active||Monday, 21 Jun 2010 12:52 PM|
|Send a Personal Message|
|Send an Email|
|Interests||anything, everything and nothing. silence. laughter. poetry. live music. photography. media.|
The words I write, are cheap and trite,
But they're drawn on the back of your door
most recent blog entry.
the silent pulsing of the crowd, hypnotic