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Best Car Poems

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Details | Car Poem | |

Salvation comes with a far greater sacrifice than blind faith and car-wash fundraisers

Travelling to a foreign land,
engaging in a cause not rightfully yours to join,
illegally taking up arms
with a desperate desire to save baby orphans
(only to dig them into the ground anyway);
is a life-altering experience.

There is an old line which goes something like:
"A part of my soul died on that cold, November morn."

But, such an experience can have the opposite effect entirely.
Yes! An experience such as this
can re-kindle a passion within,
so that every single particle,
every minute of each passing hour,
feels like a sacred gift -
the most sacred gift imaginable.

Yet upon returning home from such an experience,
after being grilled by Internal Affairs,
threatened with charges of International Treason,
Subterfuge and Espionage(but in the end,
you were only trying to save baby orphans
that you had to dig into the ground anyway,
so Internal Affairs drops the charges, telling you to scram),
you are inevitably slapped across the face
with an inescapable new reality....

....everyone appears to be whining and complaining
about the most trivial things,
as if everyone simultaneously feels wronged.

And this is wot you feel compelled to do:
you want to take these whiners,
transport them one-by-one
back to the foreign land with you.
After they see living skeletons
drag themselves across the dirt,
moaning, groaning, pleading for a drop of clean water, 
a miniscule morsel of food,
you hand the whiner a gun,
point toward an ominous dust-cloud on the horizon,
and this is wot you say:

"See the dust-cloud moving closer towards us.
It is filled with psychopathic horsemen.
These psychopathic butchers are wielding bayonets, machetes and Kalashnikovs.
If you and I do not successfully kill these mad horsemen,
they are going to chop apart all of the baby orphans
congregated in the courtyard over there.
Do you see the beautiful baby orphans in the courtyard?
Yes, those are the orphans.
And if we do not successfully defend this camp,
yet somehow survive with our lives,
we are going to spend the rest of the night
digging the baby orphans into the ground.

So, it best be high time you wipe the tears from your face,
stop worrying about how so-and-so called you a loser or wotever,
how your retirement funds appear to be shrinking
and so you won't be able to play as many games
of hitting the little white ball across a course 
fed with enough water to run an entire city.
Forget about your little boo-boo.
Pull-up your chin, straighten that spine,
and start squeezing the trigger like there's no tomorrow."






September 25th, 2011

Details | Car Poem | |

And This Rain

And This Rain

Your verse became a misty trip to distant links
maybe the reason of sun's dodging was false,
affection left behind the borderlines and brinks
reminds of your ethereal, betrothal pulse.

Our time is still, with eyes to shine, conceived,
so is your company, outside my car to stray,
a fog rescinds while slowly falls, two souls bereaved,
the arbor trees in dusky light, remote sway.

The nightly breeze becomes your touch upon my face,
conducts unknown my course to steady effuse,
our steadfast floats upon the brines that dreams encase,
a summer song of longing stills and souls' bemuse.

How many sentiments a railroad trip ascribes
beyond horizon's borderlines and faded strings,
caressing touch of fingertips by airy brides,
- your Sunday advent will become a bird that sings.

Perchance you are bending softly on my scriptures,
inside a car of an expatriating train,
while I recall on Storrow Drive, your nightly features,
- as we have missed our dreamy summer and this rain.

© 10/9/2011, G. Venetopoulos All rights reseved

Details | Car Poem | |

DON'T BE A SILLY DONKEY THIS YEAR

Little donkey Legs are wonky He’s been on the beer Little donkey He’s gone wonky Full of Christmas cheer Been a long night little donkey You need to sober up If he arrives on your doorstep Be warned that he’s half cut Little donkey Eyes gone wonky He’s had too much beer If he heads to drive a vehicle We have much to fear Any one who drinks and drives …. really is an ass Jan Allison 20th December 2014

Details | Car Poem | |

Princess Needs A New Car

Princess just wants a new car.
I have told her that hers will go far.
'Oh, it's really not cool
driving this crap to school.'
'Do I need that emotional scar? '

'The kids will all laugh at the rust.
When we race, I'll be left in the dust! 
I will save up some cash
then we'll make a mad dash
to the car dealer surely you trust'.

'He will make us a wonderful deal
and I'm sure you will know how I feel.
I will love you so much, 
My siblings... I won't touch.
Just get me behind a new wheel'! 

Now she'll be cruisin in style.
She'll be happy for only awhile.
There will always be better
and we'll try hard to get her
a car that will make princess smile.

Details | Car Poem | |

Out of the Sun

              Stayed 
             in the sun 
              to long
               today
 The skin became the bark of a tree
 the soul turning to brittle scars
 for uncaring worlds to see.
             my face
            is a pile of 
           old owl bones
sewn into banks of midnight creeks...
even the plump, over ripened ones 
no longer look at me...
but if their car was desert flat,
their oil grim reaper black
they'd paint a wormy, water colored  smile...
slide it through my barbed wired heart
so long as I could spin the jack...
so I spin it until their potholes turn to satin-
               Stayed 
              in the sun
               to long
                today
the mind has smoothed over 
like pebbles in Saturn rings..
a forgotten spice in the conversation of life
an hour later the word snuggles up to me
               laughingly.

Tomorrow or forever( which ever comes first),
I'll stay wrapped inside
till my skin turns back to ivory
to an easter egg yesterday 
to a time of bouncing ball and spinning jack,
when the mind was a great silky nest...
the face a flowered meadow place 
where watercolors swirled all day, 
the heartworms kept at bay.

I'll stay hidden within the briar, 
till the jewels of memories sooth 
every scar - every stripe,
the molten knots of cruelty,
till the sweetened fruit reclaims the tree.
until then only my curtains breathe...
       ...stayed in the sun 
              to long
                today





Details | Car Poem | |

Tim And His Kelly Green Mustang


I have a friend by the name of Tim, He keeps in shape when frequents the gym. His Kelly green Mustang he drove And smack'd it into a cove. The witches got him and ate one of his limbs! Dorian Petersen aka ladydp2000 copyright@2014 October,5,2014

Details | Car Poem | |

Classy Chassis

(Bill's 62 Ford Pickup)

She was very old, but she was quite grand,
she'd climb any hill, plough right thru sand.

She was loud enough to make your ears ring,
yet passing those hot rods made your heart sing.

She rattled like a chain, her beauty was gone,
upholstery was shot, we laid a towel on.

When she came to us, headed for the dump,
with her floor rotted through, rust on her rump;

Mel said "I'm through with her, take her if you want,
but you'll need to 'fix her up' she's begging for paint."

So we traded services, and chose the color blue;
Bill wired Rich's body shop, so we could use it too.

We patched all her holes, bought out the parts store,
gave her a hi-speed rear end, restored her 4-on-the-floor.

Her new body was sleek, cab and bed all one piece,
many people stopped to beg, "Sell her to me, please!"

High-rise manifold and cam, new brake system and clutch,
260 C.I. V-Eight engine, 4-barrel carburetor, dual exhaust.

Hounding those salvage yards took quite a toll,
but at sixty-five R. P. M. , she could really roll.

She took us back and forth, as we built our new abode,
lived up to every task, hauled many a heavy load.

We didn't throw her away when her job for us was done;
we sold her to a farm girl, who's taking her for a wild run.

We reminiscence about her as we rest in our new home,
we often miss the old girl, now that she's truly gone.

We wish someone could take us and do the same good turn,
give us a brand new chassis with energy to burn.

We'd like to join our old Ford, being restored now and again,
to our original beauty, with a souped-up power plan.






Details | Car Poem | |

The Cow At the Car Wash

By Elton Camp

Tex had a longhorn he hoped to sell
But it was too dirty to do very well

It’d been lolling in the mud and dust
To get it all cleaned up was a must

So Tex pulled into the car wash bay
He put in coins and began to spray

He washed the critter nose to tail
Got it all ready for the cattle sale

But loading it back onto the truck
He got gored and was out of luck

So here’s the moral to this tale
Wash a cow and it may impale

Details | Car Poem | |

Modern Life

Modern Life
We are open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week
Except Monday mornings and Sunday nights.
What are they on about, at this place that I seek
That is supposed open 24/7 days a week.

The pub is open we have an unlimited license,
Let’s have a drink before we go to bed!
I’m sorry we are closed the doors shut at eleven
That’s what the snooty landlord then said.

The helpline is here no matter when 
Give us a call and we can help you then.
Ring, ring, ring, ring, the phone rings on
A tape recording says, “Sorry everyone has gone.”

My car has broken down the man came to fix it
“It doesn’t work” he said sratching his head.
“There a computer on board and I will need to record
All the things that are broken down” he said.

But I need my car; I looked at him hard, 
And he gave me a wizened up frown.
He plugged himself in, then said with a grin.
The computer says it’s fine, the engine is strong.

But the car doesn’t work you toothless little jerk, 
The computer plugged in must be wrong.
“How can it be wrong it says the engine is strong?” he gave me a shifty look
“To be honest missus if it ain’t on the pute, perhaps the answers in a book."

He could find nothing wrong, the onboard computer gave a bong,
But it still said all was okay.
The tow-truck they called out with its ramp and its chains
Now they have taken my poor car away.

Modern life is so frustrating; we have everything at our fingertips
There is 24/7 that does not mean that, and fury does exit my lips.
If its 24/7 and help lines constantly, a car that is run by computer.
Why doesn’t anything work, I feel like the jerk, can somebody lend me a shooter.

I want to blast and to break all technology of late
It’s driving me to drink and distraction
The open all hours pubs are now closed, 
And my car is still out of action.

The bank is closed, the computers just died, 
The telephones gone on the blink
The TV HD, it is fuzzy like me;
I think I’m going to put my head in the sink.

The oven would be better, but its electric not gas
So I don’t think it would work as well
I want to end it all, not practice for the day,
The Grim-Reaper points at me, and sends me to hell.

Therefore, I’ll fill up the sink and put my head in the drink, 
Oh, blast, who is that at the door?
It’s the water board here, we are just making it clear,your water is off for a week.
Typical, I have no car and it is too far
To walk out and jump in the creek.



Details | Car Poem | |

Why Is It

Why is it that pressure feels so heavy?
When pressure isn't solid.
Why is it that tears of anger hurt more?
When anger isn't sorrow.
Why is it that life is a challenge?
Life should be a gift.
Why is it that car was there?
In that right place. At the wrong time.
Why must I live my days in memory?
Ten years still don't block that moment.
Why can't I be stronger?
Make you proud of me. I know you're watching.
Why is it that you didn't look the same?
In that bed. In the hospital.
Why did I hug that woman?
The one who hit you. She brought a plant.
Why did I say 'She'll be okay.'?
I hoped. Knew it wasn't somehow.
Why did it have to happen right after our phone call?
Two more seconds you'd still be here.
Why are we left with all these questions?
Spoken out into empty air.
Why am I still here?
There must be something I'm meant to do.
Why?

Details | Car Poem | |

Senior Moments

As the December portion of life's treacherous journey arrives,
We tend to contemplate things that have happened in our lives.
Strange that we can recall events that occurred fifty years ago,
But now can't remember what day it is, adding to our woe!

Writing notes to ourselves regarding things that must be done,
We forget where we put them, leaving many things undone!
Tying a string around the finger to remind us of our obligations,
We wonder what it is doing there, adding to our frustrations!

Where the car was left in the parking lot is anybody's guess.
To find it is akin to the Israelites wandering the wilderness!
We misplace the house and car keys, causing panic untold,
But that's just another cross we must bear for growing old!

Going to another room to do something, our steps we retrace,
Having forgotten what we went there for in the first place!
Running amok searching for lost glasses causes us much dread.
Usually they can be found perched upon the crown of our head!

Those dreaded senior moments are part of growing old I suppose,
But if I may, here is something that I would like to propose:
Well, I declare!  I forgot what it was I was going to say!
Maybe I'll think of it later to suggest another day!

Details | Car Poem | |

Incident on I-59

Headed home from a business trip
Tired, spaced out, grouchy and impatient
Pushing the limit to beat rush hour traffic
Fast closing on an old jalopy van

Suddenly blue smoke and debris flying
The back tire must have bounced twenty feet up
My first thought…’Stay STRAIGHT, you bastard!
Careening violently left, it flipped many times
(Several objects were ejected from the doors)
My next thought..."This is NOT my problem!"
"DAMN!" Slam on the brakes at the last second
Then it hit me. I was the first on the scene...

I would guess it took a full minute to cross over
Cars whizzing and blowing by in both lanes
Obviously it was not their problem either...
(Someone else has stopped, they'll handle it!
Besides, there's a game coming on tonight) 
I waved my arms, screaming curses and pointing…

A woman was lying near the wreckage,
wailing in robotic, shock induced screams
Left arm beneath her back with her right arm
twisted at a bizarre and unnatural angle

One man was thrown at least twenty feet off
(Ironically, he seemed the least injured)
He kept trying to get up for some reason
I rushed over and asked him to stay down
"Okay, but the baby!...Where is the baby?"
('A baby, you mean there's a BABY??')
"Yes, our BABY...Please go find our baby!"
(‘Oh no, dear God please, no...no')

The median was a wide, steep-banked grassy ditch
The van was tilted slightly sideways on its roof
Legs rubbery and trembling, stomach churning,
sweat streaming and stinging blurry eyes,
I staggered over to the wreckage, knelt down
and peered through the passenger side window
 
Empty… (‘Oh no, dear God, please, no…no’)
Stumbling around back and then alongside,
scanning the grass and then around front
I almost tripped over it. There he was
Maybe five feet from the bumper he sat upright
still tucked safely away in his baby seat
kicking and cooing, giggling and drooling,
obviously having a wonderful time

I collapsed to my knees, bowed my head down
and feverishly began to unbuckle him
but quickly thought better, fearing unseen injury
Instead, I took his head gently with both hands,
kissed his forehead and nuzzled against his neck
(Babies have that particular scent, you know)
I recall glancing upward to clear blue skies,
muttering and mumbling incoherent thanks...








Details | Car Poem | |

Hiding from the Truth

When you hear the car door shut
You know whose home
You pretend to be asleep 
But he’s not fooled

Trying to hide under the covers won’t save you from what he’s after
He’ll take it from you
He doesn’t know any better
You are “his” after all

You cringe through every minute, hoping it will be over soon
Then, there’s the relief
He’s passed out
You’re free again, for a little while

This was a good night
There’ve certainly been worse
The nights he arrives home while the kids are still awake
These nights he gets his kicks at everyone else’s expense

He has fun tickling the kids
Perfectly harmless, you try to convince yourself
You watch as he pins your daughter to the floor
Sitting on top of her as he tickles her sides

“I can’t breath!  Mom, help!” she gasps
You’re afraid to make it worse
He laughs incessantly, while your daughter struggles under his weight
“That’s enough,” you say in a calm but stern voice, hoping not to set him off

He ignores you as always
You turn and walk away, hoping he’ll soon tire of this game
He runs out of steam five minutes later
Your daughter learns that she’ll need to protect herself

Next time she hears the car door shut
She runs down the hall and locks herself in her room
Is she safe?  Are you?
You anticipate what’s to come.

You listen as he stumbles up the stairs
And down the hall to her room
You hear him try to open her door and then pound on it with his fist
You picture your daughter huddled in her bed, petrified

You imagine she’s thinking the same thing you think when he comes to your room
“Go away.  Please just go away.  God, make him go away.”
You hear his frustration build as he kicks his foot through the hollow core door
He’s done, he’s pissed, he’s going to bed

You fail to see the whole picture
Your oldest daughter begins to “party” like dad
Your middle child takes sanctuary in her room
And, your son starts to experiment with self-mutilation

We all have our coping mechanisms
But, why are we so afraid to face the truth?
Pretending there’s no problem, won’t make it go away
Hiding from it, won’t make it better

Dad suffers from depression
His treatment of choice is the bottle
He loves that bottle more than anyone or anything in the whole world
How’s that bottle treatin’ you dear old dad?

What misery will you hide from today?
Whose joy will you steal?
Whose hope will you crush?
Isn’t it time to start facing the truth?


Details | Car Poem | |

Tullys Automobile

Over the top of Tammy hill came Tully’s motor car, Tully never drove it very fast nor ever very far. In his youth he’d taught us all How to pilot our ride, It was a job he did very well And in it found his pride. But now Tully was an older gent approaching eighty-three, And he was a pretty good driver still for a man who couldn’t see. So when it became known to all that Tully was on a drive, It was best for them to stay inside If they hoped to stay alive. Whenever he detected movement in his line of sight, He’d steer his car right for it and do so with delight. He’d assume that he’d happened upon some traffic on the lane, It didn’t really matter to him at all if it was an auto or a train. All that ever mattered to Tully was that he found his way to the pub, And he was about to spend an evening of Guinness and Irish grub. Then one night I’d had enough and was in fear of poor Tully’s life, The thought of the blind old man behind the wheel added to my strife. So I lifted the bonnet on his ride and removed the distributor cap, When I was done I was greeted by some locals as they began to clap. When Tully finally stumbled out he found that his ride was no longer game, He took out a pistol and shot it dead As if it a horse that had turned up lame. Now Tully has moved to town And can walk wherever he goes. Off in the direction of the wind And follows wherever it blows. And when a car comes down the lane, To the side he’ll frantically dive. He’ll shake his fist and yell at them, “Who was it that taught you to drive?”

Details | Car Poem | |

Senior Moments

As the December portion of life's treacherous journey arrives,
We tend to contemplate things that have happened in our lives.
Strange that we can recall events that occurred fifty years ago,
But now can't remember what day it is, adding to our woe!

Writing notes to ourselves regarding things that must be done,
We forget where we put them, leaving many things undone.
Tying a string around the finger to remind us of our obligations,
We wonder what it's doing there, adding to our frustrations!

Where the car was left in the parking lot is anybody's guess;
To find it is akin to the Israelites wandering the wilderness.
We misplace the house and car keys, causing panic untold,
But that's just another cross we must bear for growing old!

Going to another room to do something, our steps we retrace,
Having forgotten what we went there for in the first place.
Running amok searching for lost glasses causes us much dread;
Usually they can be found perched upon the top of our head!

Those dreaded senior moments are part of growing old, I suppose,
But if I may, here is something that I would like to propose:
Well, I declare, I forgot what it was I was going to say;
Maybe I'll think of it later to suggest another day!

Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved




Details | Car Poem | |

Elvira And The Pillow

A true story....


Well I lived in Sioux City for a little while
Another job site, hubby and I have covered some miles

While there, my mother in law came to visit
She drove Elvira, the biggest Buick ever made
No doubt about it!

I drove mom around to see the highlights
If you've been there, you know there's nothing but corn in sight

Suddenly the cars in front of us started to slow
Wondering which way around this pillow they needed to go

Well some went left and some went right
Some straddled over it and seemed alright

Mom said baby, it will be OK
Just drive right over it
Elvira won't notice anything in her way

I lined up perfectly and over we went
Thought I'd made it until visions were sent
Into the rear view mirror of down floating everywhere
And it wasn't pleasant!

I could see people on the sidewalks laughing, I pretended not to care
As millions of feathers floated through the air

Really embarrassed I drove on about one hundred feet
Then Elvira stopped dead right there in the street

Somehow the drive train had caught the cotton cover
Ripping it to shreds, wrapping it round and round so tight
Until it killed the engine dead

Now I know God works in mysterious ways
But He proved it for sure this very day

In a parking lot next to where Elvira had died
Was a complete race car driver's pit crew - no lie!

An 18 wheeler with trailer in tow
Guys dressed in uniforms, patches aglow 

With traffic backing up behind us
They came over to see what was all the fuss

I said spitting feathers out of my mouth
I really don't know, I'm from down south

They opened their trailer and out came the jacks
Air hoses and tools, they got down on their backs

From under the car I heard laughter and jokes
They'd seen cars stopped by everything but a pillow!

Well I thanked them and shook each and every hand
They wouldn't accept money, said the entertainment was grand
I often wonder who they were and if they remember Elvira and the pillow in Iowa land....

©Donna Jones

Details | Car Poem | |

This grinds my gears

Do you know what grinds my gears?
Its been building in me for a few years.
People driving and texting, just letting their mind linger.
They almost hit me, then cut me off, then give me the finger. 

Then the teacher tells everyone not to text during class.
She starts lecturing and all heads go down like a ceremony at mass.
They all just sit there and talk and text away, 
or just sit there and get frustrated at the games they play.

Another thing that gets under my skin and must go,
is when people talk to me, using phrases and words I don't know.
For Example, my friend spent some bones on a whip and got a bucket.
What? Is everyone all right?  What happened?  He explained it.

What that means is he spent money (bones) on a car (whip), 
and its a piece of crap (bucket), and it won't last on a long trip. 
Another is: I got a trick that we can flip and make some mad.
I'm not sure what he said, but I could end up in the most wanted ad.

Then he explains, he saw a nice car (trick), that we can buy and sell (flip), 
and make a lot of money (mad). So a bucket is a trick and trick is whip?
Why can't you just say car?  Because it sounds cool and you know it.
You sound like an idiot and I can't even understand you and I'm a poet. 

I don't get why this world has to be so frustrating and get in my head.
He's gonna skeet and drop it til then, so I have to figure out what he just said.  

**For Natalie Fllikkema's contest “What annoys you”?

Details | Car Poem | |

What's in the Boot of the Car

Being stuck in a traffic jam
I was shocked to see
A sticker in the window 
of a car in front of me:
It held a lurid message
Of dark and deep despair;
Ex husband locked in the boot 
Open it if you dare.

I laughed a bit, then paused for thought!
What if it really were true,
How do I know theres nothing there?
If I did, What would I do?
I decided I would follow her
Then take a peek inside'
After all you don’t post a note
Of what you wish to hide!

I opened the boot cautiously
And much to my surprise!
A jack-in-the-box sprung out
and hit me between the eyes.
I now know why the boots are up
In the car sales sites I pass:
It confirms no husbands are in them
Who’ve been poisoned shot or gassed.

Robert Cartwright-Davidson (RabCD)

Details | Car Poem | |

Once Upon A Car Ride

Feel like that woman
Screaming, he betrays
They're stealing her
They're taking her
And everything shes kept safe
He Can't protect her
Not strong enough
Not brave enough
Nor man enough
To understand her horror
And how she will remember
The rest of her life

Details | Car Poem | |

Student Drivers

rehearse reverse
__________________________________ 8/13/14 For Judy Kono's Footle Contest

Details | Car Poem | |

Barbagello raceway

Barbagello Raceway.

We live in a place
Just up from the track
Barbagello raceway it be
The cars and the bikes
They race there all day
And this is exciting to me.

Every weekend
They gear up their motors
 Making din that disturbs all around
But me, I just love it
Oh, I really I do
From these races such joy can be found.

The wonderful roar
That these motors create
Oh, how it thrills me to bits
Bikes are my favourites
But I love the cars too
I adore it, I love all of it.

When weekend is over
Everything goes so quiet
Until the next time comes along
And me, I can’t wait
I love it, it’s great
The noise makes my heart sing a song

Vera Duggan, 11 June 2014.




Details | Car Poem | |

Baby on Board

Have you ever seen The ‘Baby on Board’ car sign It shows a warning --- Having child problems inside Makes the car now dangerous
Russell Sivey

Details | Car Poem | |

Aerial assault

If pigs could fly it wouldn’t be good
You’d have to go out with a brolly
Wear Wellington boots and waterproof suits
Life wouldn’t be happy or jolly

There’d be danger around every corner
You’d think in your car you’d be safe
But unless you’re under some cover
Either you or your car they will strafe

The Towns would be dirty and smelly
And slippery in the extreme
We’d have to employ a small army
In an effort to keep the streets clean

Now don’t you get all of a fluster
For the scientists haven’t yet found
The means of piggy propulsion
Or getting the beasts off the ground

If one day this nightmare should happen
It won’t come as any surprise
If they manage to get piggies airborne 
Then the price of bacon will rise

© John W Fenn  17-01-2009

Details | Car Poem | |

Run

 The streets are crowded
 And the sidewalks are full
 The city is filled
 But yet for us it's dull

 We have no meaning among millions
 Yet we stay here still
 And these peoples judgement is killing us
 It's like we're held against our will

 So lets run
 And run so far away
 Away from all the people
 Cause we don't want to stay

 We will burn down our homes
 And turn our memories of this place
 All down to ash
 And leave without a trace

 Through fields and forests
 Through every song and every chorus
 Passing by every place we want to leave behind
 Will soon be forgotten and out of mind

 We'll get matching tattoos of a telephone booth
 It will be a symbol of our youth
 Showing that we will never stay in one place
 Saying that we live our lives at our own pace

 And we will sleep
 In beds where no memories lay
 Yet the comfort will be perfect needless to say
 And we will find another bed for the next day

 We're singing without words
 We're screaming with emotion
 A silent song that only we can hear
 A soundless commotion

 We are alive and we are okay
 We are free and have nowhere to stay
 But we prefer our life that way
 And we have a lifetime to say

 Lets run
 And run so far away
 Away from all the people
 Cause we don't want to stay

 And we may shed tears
 For all of our wasted years
 Where we were apart
 But now we're free and our life can start

 And we can see the world from our own view
 Seeing everything like it's brand new
 And we can watch everything with our own eyes
 All day and night till our body dies

 Our lives will be endless
 Filled with grace and happiness
 This is our life from day until night
 Because this is what feels right

Details | Car Poem | |

Car Crash

A dark room with a small wooden desk, no lamp
A thick pad of paper and a typewriter, never used
Like a museum exhibit, though they aren’t allowed to gather dust
And dead flies and moths, a pack of playing cards
I never learnt to play, but still they’ve turned yellow with age
The shelves full of books, thumbed and read a million times
The pages fall out sometimes onto the slanted shelf, broken
The cascade of over-used books falling into each other
A literary car crash 

The carpet burnt by years of clumsiness, dark and worn
The ceiling stained by years of nicotine, the cigarette smoker
Looking on at a world frozen, the books are the only living things
Read a million times and thumbed to death, the dirty pages blending into each other
The faces and the timeless, frozen authors and poets, trapped here forever
In the corner, a lonely television set, never used and not even plugged in
The lonesome keyboard, beaten a million times, my voice recorded
The German tongue, screamed above piano murder, the manslaughter of my violin
A cultural car crash

The curtains, white to ivory to ashen, unopened in an age
Time to let the world come in through the never-before-seen window
I sit upon the bed and watch the silhouettes gather, their vagabond army 
Creeping over everything with their tired and dirty little hands
The books I’ve read to death, the literary suicide, gathering in a spot of light
Like flocking birds fleeing for the winter, their matted feathers and scabbed legs
They can’t fly anywhere, trapped here, my favourite victims, dead within the covers,
Like broken pigeons trapped within damning cages. I close the door and leave
The untouched car crash