Over the Limit
A handful of bullets and I'm driving.
Can't be informed of my destination but I'm told how to get there.
I'm falling in,
burning out, sunken thin,
days without ends.
Exhaustion's thin veil
deafening me to my choices,
the truth, the real;
and I've pushed all away.
It's dragged me down alone.
Company I'd blemish.
I'll take this on my own.
I have a handful of bullets,
and i'm driving
Can't be informed of my destination,
instructed where to go.
I'm tripping over rocks at the bottom. ,
can't foresee reality,
in front of me,
Ignoring what I know.
My hand full of bullets pointing;
the end is what they show.
I'm numb, dumb,nu...NO;
My handful of bullets knows.
And I'm driving.
I'm racing to the brink to force dividing.
subtracting myself from
my sadistic situation.
This affiliation will ultimately lead to my end.
Unless My hand
Unless i load
my hand is free
This handle is warm.
I can RUN
to blow away these demons by which i'm run.
Every Word You’re Right
Every word you're right
With every word you write
If it's true to you.
Hear now linguists
your practice is altruistic
because you prove by example that there can still be connection in this modern day,
That communication is possible and it can still effect in many ways people; effect them deeply.
Verbally cathartic are your prose
And I intend to be sure that each and every one of you knows
It matters to me
that you take the time to put in the effort to put into words written, or in print,the contents of your mind building onto the conglomerates value, and you are scrawling out what can be left behind
Once we can't write any more. We pen the foundations of the future.
On the day that we pas, after which our corporeal interactions will lay dormant;at that time
these words you have given the world to read
Past your own timeline. They are what we really can leave behind.
That's why words are all I've got.
Luckily words are all I need; so thank you poets, practitioners,or you who read this; thank you for sharing.
Thank you for the daring act of throwing yourself into the scrutiny of the public and for giving the part of you that lies within what you've written. Thank you for what you do, I appreciate you authors, and felt thanks should be given.
Here is am old thing I'd written in response to a challenge asking for us to modernize Shakespeare's sonnet number 18. The title I is a joke based on. The title "sonnet 18" but it is in reference to the likelihood that the person Shakespeare was talking about was more likely to be what my title is because in his times people married so young and yadda yadda... anyways here it is:
[So Not 18]
Could I say you are like mid-day some time after spring?
You're the summer when the sun is out, but are hotter still to me.
A beauty truly flourishing, and twice as nice as a sweet young thing should be.
You're ravishing nature is prevalent, yet its permanence won’t ring to infinite so easily.
Ultimately each beauteous thing will find age’s presence when its green beauty turns to brown.
So I think I'll preempt the crashing fade out now, and jot this down.
The lovely shine that is you, before it folds into the tidal-times destruction of what used to only be called "now".
The truth is that you cannot stretch summer beyond the brow
of it’s longest doggy-days,
nor pull it past the chill of fall,
or into winters grays.
While even summer still leaves sunburns
and has no permanence at all,
you bring peace to the eye and in the mind inspire thoughts of all
the strong pursuits of longevity through the use of rhapsody,
to which my heart now falls.
You are a hottie with a body, hot enough to sound like stolen property, but this temporary visionary treat
has one true fate,
and that is its retreat.
Yet, for but a moment,
I'd swear the hands of time are abstinent from their glare on you. Their corrosive course on your fairness, is a natural force who, without too much care for suggestions in direction,
should only be denied it’s rancor through my pens celebration of the skin you're within,
with which is imbued
a shine of the kind that needs to be mine
and from it my words bloom.
Sweetly you are the exception sweetie,
as here with my words I’ll paint your beauty to this page.
Death wouldn’t have a chance for erasing this.
These, my turns in phrase; my praise.
Where time leaves wrinkled lines along it’s path down a face,
you by this truth written,
seem to last past the grave,
almost untouched by any ill fate.
A great truth, the proof of the scrawling on this paper stage. Without refute this fact reiterates in our day by day;
that as we live, breath, think, and read there will not come a day
that your blooming esthetic will let me forget it,
nor will it be lost for posterities sake! Your beauty, my keepsake.
He gasped to catch his breath as he laid eyes on her in that doorway. It was as if all the years and days and hours of living together and sharing their struggles had never been. He found himself entranced by this beauty as if they hadn't built this life together at all, or loved one another since their youth. He was pulled with desire like he just had to meet or know this magnetic woman making her way into that room, but it was a room in their home they had together.
He knew these things but it never stopped that initial second when his eyes would find her and he would lose that breath,and she'd see him and need him and he'd cross the room and pull her to his chest. True love is timeless.
Do you speak to God and if so through what means does God's Voice reach you?
And a side note you may like:
When I was 14 I was coming to belief and had a time of directly addressing thoughts of God and so forth and so to God I wrote a poem of inquiry I feel the pull to share. It was as follows:
Did you have a start?
What parts of
Through and through
Are conglomerate at heart?
Why is my relationship;
undefined as it may be.
Do I have some leadership?
Am I slacking at said duty?
If fault finds me not
And blame is my
Is evil my nature?
Am I a crock?
And as time is told
what might you be,
And when it is out
Is truth in tale or forewarning haol to be taken seriously,
Or is it reliable like that
That is pliable
For a wooden balcony?
|F|ollowing |A|n |I|dea |T|hat’s |H|ard (to prove)
When your soul hears that something,
That something so slight.
The pinging ring when it's uttered
a wing with holes heals for flight.
Divinely it is fostered,
in your heart hear that chime
that bewilders philosophers
but it can't be denied.
This jingle made ore your quiet heartstrings
is as low as a whisper
yet still deafening.
It rings on to endless,
it is infinite and we
have only to hear it
to know eternally
that what this life is,
is worth having meaning.
It is what there aren't words for
but inside you its gleaming
right at the edge of passionate feeling. It speaks like a song bird
within joyful communion.
To love one another
is the direction it's leading.
Amazingly it's invisible,
But your heart can just see it
when it's found it's profound;
No logic can reason with
why faith would be or
How it could be proven.
Faith if sought
Is something to believe in;
And its presence is persistent.
While it perseveres in each of us
who thought to try and reach it..
Those who just stop,
Stop and listen,
It's that soulful sonorous riff,
Creation in transmission.
In your heart its playing out,
The hidden Hymnal symphony.
You've never noticed somehow.
This minstrel melody
but till now
you havent ever listened
You never knew quite how.
My heart has chosen to brake instead of breaking; while my mind would oblige to eviscerate it with each reminding of tidings of its memory’s, it’s passing fondness and discontinued camaraderie, its staking contentment from its history, and its hindsight’s proclivity to remind me I once had company and contentment, where it mistakes my name for misery but shows me my loss and I am done with taking that break so instead I’m braking to halt that shit.
I write to recite the noun of renowned that plays as Onomatopoeic and at its core context it is inherently due process for relating the very basis of what we say; for when we say in any language, inflection, dialect, or tirade this one thing, it will always be the same.
Word the word. It can even be used as a vague placeholder to maintain social pace and instead of a response illustrating nothing more than your recognition of it being the time to speak or respond because someone has been flabbing their upper hole in their meat suit at you all day long and normally one will have to receive a validating response intermittently to continue talking which is better tHan sharing space and being quiet together.
Word is the bare minimum whilst also being associated with the full spectrum that is language, and for this challenge it is perfect.
So word word word, word is the word,
word to your mother
Not your mom’s Limerick (whimsy is for pussies)
There once was a young Jill who got jacked.
The man took her cash to get crack.
She laid there on the ground,
With arms up and face down,
It turned out; piece of mind was what she'd never get back.
Way I see it..
The world is a symphony,
It sings the tragedy,
That is dying each moment,
with each sounding key.
No conductor can simply
Instruct this discord
this Cacophony of falsity
the hum of the bored
Chaotic is the tune we hear playing out,
muffled screaming in an ambient cloud of electronics buzzing
and the splash of the loud
radioactive waste in staccato,
decrescendoing while it is found
drip-drop dripping away at our collective tomorrows.
This unmistakable sound,
gets Lost in the bellows
of the masses .
screamed in the crowds
who are marching to the beat
of their own unique drummers
whilst they play it
all out on the doldrums.
from these percussive instruments,
A loud clattering blunder. composed of a fodder, made up from the utter mundane.
monotony, formed fully
from the struggle day to day.
But The chorus refrains from any rebuttal.
uttered cries will get muted, ceased, and are muffled, then they're replaced with an echoed rest and then they’re stifled.
The duration of this attenuation maintains
till all who took note of the alarm get beguilled,
And the mind change
is as a fall of a mild silence denoting a farce of "okay".
All the while
this poisonous jingle though muted still plays.
Longevity to be the casualty of this Harmonized haze.
Fumes of all that's amiss, that’s destroyed, or in phase to collapse Toppled from all this folly.
I speak of the things we cannot take back.
We the producers who've mastered this track.
So sing your songs low
of indignant resendence.
We will squander real life
with the things that our well-meaning advancements have lended.
So note this deception and respect what we've hindered
for it is granted no more.
If this Life is a battle,
we have lost the war.
Then hear it,
in our final moments
a profound sense of cost
the last smoke clears and
the real toll is told
the weeping tunes of regret
will be sang as a whole
from the bottom of each and every poor soul,
who now knows the hard way their errors.
I pray they won't ever again place
the value of Life below gold.
but its too late now,
its getting old
and so are we.
Grow the fuck up,
I accept my responsibility.
As I Lay Me Down To Sleep
God lay my path
Lord plant my feet.
As the day I rise to meet.