Describe Your Writing
My writing is careless at best. I rarely proofread or plan. Usually, I spit some shit out on the page and hope for the best. I wish I could say it's some artistic choice to show the frailty and imperfections of existence, but it's really that I lack discipline. I guess it's a bit like fucking. Give it all the hell you have in the moment of inspiration, but you know you could have done so many things better if the goal was perfection rather than getting lost in the moment. I guess that means a typo is like knocking on the wrong door. Just laugh at yourself and keep at it and embrace the joys of imperfection. As long as the closing sums up intention the reader is left satisfied. So my shits unrefined as hell, but I like to think there's a certain beauty and innocence flowing within my awkward wordings and forced lines or conclusions. When inspiration hits, just spit it out and move on. Wait for the next time a moment cracks you open enough you feel it's worthy of sharing. Repeat. So ya, a lot like fucking.
Hold It In
Don't waste lung
On long words.
Just one breath.
More time to think
In the pause.
The word "she,"
one gasp.
Let that be
The last of my words,
One breath out
To sum up,
All of them.
And all I meant.
is held close
Till lungs
Lay dry,
Till dust
forms a view,
Of her.
And I will have held
All of it
In me,
Like calm
While I rest.
Teaching My Dog to Walk
My dog is an asshole. I love the little guy, but he is THEE asshole. He just refuses to do anything but pull when on a walk. I'm stubborn and dead set on teaching him, so our walks consist of about a five foot radius death match of will power. He pulls. I stop. He stops, and I pet him and walk about 3 steps before stopping again. Repeat cycle. Until I get truly annoyed and call him a dick tickler or something. He wags his tail because apparently he's proud of himself or some shit. End walk. So I'm sitting outside with a smoke and a beer contemplating it. It's like teaching a toddler. But that's a bit fucked. I wonder how much of my framework is based on a similar manipulation. How much of me is the product of conditioning? How many times did I wag my metaphorical tale because I inadvertently bent to the will of another? I doubt any one of us want to know the actual answer to that question. End of the week thoughts I suppose. More terrifying still, is how many times have I been guilty of such a thing? How many stones lie within the foundational concrete of hearts and souls, placed there by my own hands without knowing the ripple affect of my actions? A laugh too fake. An expression that got away like a blade and cut more than realized. A generic answer that made someone feel small. Or spacing out and not catching or appreciating the gravity of the moment. Nothing terrifies me more than knowing how many scars my fingerprints have framed. All because my dog is an asshole.
Username Challenge
I basically just use my name. When I first started I used Cerebral Emotion because I'm always analyzing the scenery within my thoughts. Eventually, after I got to know the community, I changed it to DaveK. Prose was in a transition back then from group to community, and it seemed more relatable and open.
I Adore This Challenge
It is blue because we did it. Bled the sky in faith that rain was what we needed. Once we realized death was required to create, we paid the price of hope. So, the sky is blue. An echo of the bruises of our existence. As every baby stretches skin and leaves a mark, so too we exist within sacrifice. So the sky is blue. And it's fuckin beautiful.
Strippers and Trash Cans
Please don't send me
Flowers.
Send me memories
That feel like
the look of steel trash cans
Beneath florescent lights,
with that little streak
Of shine.
Always moving
towards you Like
The eyes of some
Fuckin haunted painting.
Or the notion
Of strippers
Beneath spotlights aimed
By untrained hands,
Just catching
Shadows
Of what you don't know
You missed.
Because the focus
Is shit.
Delayed Like appreciation
Often is.
And I always seem to miss
The things I almost saw.
Maybe that's life.
You only ever
Comprehend the ass
Jiggling
Towards the curtain
As dreams unrealized
Walk away,
Finished and empty
To the sound of applause.
Like the best tits
You never saw
And wish you remembered
But don't ,
But still brag about
Because no one
will ever know
The difference.
Like these
Stainless memories
Framed by charcoal regrets.
So please
Don't send me flowers.
Send me a trash can
To hold the remains.
The half wilted moments
Between inspiration
And oblivion.
I think they call it life
Or some shit.
The Man Beneath the Bridge (Challenge)
He sits there under the bridge hoping to gather dust beneath the nail like it's some fingerprint of existence or some shit. He used to be important and in some ways still is. He's quite wealthy. Just gave up a bit. Left it all in some fuckin mental break or something to find the meaning of it all. It pisses me off sometimes, but like a car crash I can't look away. Or stop thinking about it. Half pissed I work my ass off to buy food to survive and half impressed that there's someone out there that gave up everything by choice. He just sits there and looks at a mural someone painted under the bridge when they were probably stoned or high. I think he's searching for some color that never existed. Maybe some special meaning buried in a spray can-typo. For some dumbass reason it gives me hope. Maybe for all my struggles I'm missing something beautiful. Maybe he's just a crazy, senile asshole that does this for fun. I don't know. Gave him a dollar once. Asshole didn't even look up. Just took it. He probably won't even fuckin buy booze with it, which is a bit insulting. I'd buy booze with it. What the fuck else would I do? But this asshole seems to need nothing. Maybe I'll join him one day and see whatever it is he stares at so intently. Or maybe he'll just be dead tomorrow and this fixation will have been for nothing but a midlife crisis. I just know when I wake up thirty minutes before I'm ready tomorrow, and sip half shit coffee to go make someone I've never met money, this cocksucker will wake up whenever the hell he wants and look at a wall. Just because he wants to. And I'll feel like a dick for not dropping a dollar on my way home, thinking it's the right thing for him to taste my morning disappointment. He won't. But a dollar buys my sanity sometimes. And one day, I won't see him. He'll just be gone. And I hope I get there first, so I can look without anyone around at this dumbass graffiti he's so taken by. There's still a bit of color coming through. Maybe hope lies within the concrete. Maybe that picture of something so common will look like what I had all along. Or maybe I'll fuck a whore in front of it out of spite. Maybe the asshole I've become was what he gave it all up to avoid. I'm just jealous of the person buying paint right now.
She’s Kind of Fuckin Amazing
She's leaning out against hope
Again
Suspended
Above the impossible
With those 3 stray hairs
Mindlessly framing
My future
She trips over
Her dreams as she recalls them
Worried about these imaginary
Failures
That whip behind her
Like ribbons
While she rises
And it seems the total
Of her regrets
Have become an arrow
Pointing her away
From
The nightmare I never met
That never really existed.
Her heartbeat kind of sways
Like dreams wrapped in
Doubt
And it's fucking beautiful
And I'm cursing the clouds
Again
And praying for a mirror
Big enough to reflect
the view
And I wonder if the sun
Ever sees itself fall
As it sets beyond the shore
Or how I would feel
If I carried such a burden
So I will hunch
Over the page
And write within the shadows
Of myself
As I follow her into tomorrow,
Begging, that dimly lit lines on a page
Will somehow become
Reflection
She is,
Lying pretty
Beneath the paper.
Like some echo
Of the next line
That says it all.
And I'm inkblot-Lovesick
And scribbling random words
That make no sense
But look like
What she makes me feel
When I hear them.
My muse.
And she smiles
When I get like this,
So lost for words
Because I can't grab
Enough of them.
She loves it. To see me speechless for once.
And I have a knife and
An alphabet
And I'm carving out her outline
On the page.
Hoping I can swim
Within the ink
Before it dries,
So I can find the thought of her
within myself and beneath the page
And push her face
To the surface.
And her outline will have been
The best of everything my pen
Has ever offered.
And she is snuggled sweet
Between the words
I haven't found yet,
Diving off the tip of
My thoughts
Down into me.
And like water.
I will break.
And splatter.
And ache.
And eventually.
Go back together,
Like holding her.
Like the splash reattaching,
Waves becoming still
As I hold her tight.
My future is the breach
She makes
To breathe again.
And breaks me open
As she rises from the deep.
And she makes ripples
Move out like hope
Into the future.
And I still can't capture her.
She remains beneath the ink.
Still waiting to be seen,
I keep drawing her outline.
With my words.
But the shadow I cast,
Will be her blanket.