I locked myself in and threw away the key.
Step by step, getting away from me.
Nobody noticed for that I'm glad.
The map in hand is a tangled web.
Look to the stars, they show me more
than I'd like to know.
Look to the masses, it tells me
I have a certain use.
The glamor & sound chase me around.
I don't think nor feel for quite awhile.
"Hey, honey, it's me at the door.
You never left & the dream is your own.
Won't you spread the seeds you've grown
and come outside for awhile?
Nothing's lost & everyone's always been
around."
Category: random feels
Autistic.
I seem to live atop of life instead of in it.
Like a diver who takes the occasional plunge
then comes up for breath.
Beware of high tides, sharks & moonless nights.
It's a habit, an exercise, a strategy to survive.
The lucky few…
...get to choose what to suffer for in this life, one at a time.
There's a bleeding heart to stab, the blood, the tell-tale sign.
Maybe you try to escape the miserable fate but it's all the same.
Being alive is a shinny prize that's hard to come by.
Be careful & careless when you choose your pleasure & pain.
It might dawn on you or it might be a mirage in the rain.
Be quick now, before the muse finds what's missing on gods' plate.
Get away before the dreamers who count & think, wake.
Script.
It's always a good time so why do I resent it?
It's situational family comedy with strangers.
Maybe that's where I find the plot:
I'm no one & that's fine.
And hardship cloaks my misery & loneliness
like sweet crafty.
If I can be noticed, if I find my place,
maybe it's all worth it.
Tell others' stores by telling my own
without taking charge.
I put something on the line but
never too much until, "Action."
Mother death.
I don’t know you and you don’t know me,
I grow up alone and that’s what I know to be.
I long to return home, I’m tired and weak.
The only song I know is buried and
I don’t know what to keep.
My spirit is alive somewhere
beyond my reach.
No title.
If you really look what do you see?
The space in front of your face filled with dreams.
But when you focus there's nothing really there.
And when you blink to discern it's gone forever.
If you really look what you're going to find?
Maybe love, maybe loss, maybe something dumb.
When you pause to write who guides you hand?
When the rhyme is not a rhyme but a breath.
If you really love what's gonna be the keep?
Blood flows, tears fall and a will is croaked.
When you dare to grieve who's holding your head?
The light is dim but the sun still shines.
An actor.
Narci-sext
I cry after I masturbate
at the accompaniment of piano.
It's a great relief all things considered.
I don't have to think of other people.
The attractions of sex as a female:
the titts, the lips, the old cave.
It's the primal mission of survival
with the soul weeps another layer.
Why do we have to think when we don't have to?
To make art? To fill the gap? To beg for more?
Keep it simple while simple gets you dead.
I'd take that hint & cram it up my own ass.
My heaven.
My heaven is a Japanese 7/11.
The fresh stuff, seasonal miracles.
All lovelily, lovingly packaged.
The drinks are elixirs, the chips angel wings.
The prices are cheap, at the counter
they apologize for their humble politeness.
I'd get a veggie bun steamy hot from the oven
and egg sandwiches that have no rough edges,
a rare find is the holiday white peach thingies.
All kinds of onigiris especially with wild plants.
After I die, I'd go straight to a Japanese 7/11.
Garden.
There's a dagger in my heart,
shackles on both my arms.
My legs are running fast.
All I see is blood red.
The contorted soul looking for relief.
Don't know how & don't know where.
Too scared to look within,
afraid there's hell fire.
What's important is on the inside.
Know the garden that's neglected.
Build fences instead of walls.
It takes time & wisdom to be organic.
hotsurf_ 