You ask me why I think that way
and what makes me think it's true,
if I'm smoking something,
or if I'm sniffing glue,
if I believe the crazy things I've read,
or hear strange voices in my head.
You ask if I'm some kind of kook.
You tell me that I make you puke,
and suggest that I might be insane,
that the doctors found no brain,
or perhaps I have a rare mutation,
but to the jury, I say, "speculation!"
there once was an old man named Bill
who liked to brag about his stamina to women for a thrill
one night it was said
with Molly he was limp in bed
Bill said I must have gotten a generic blue pill
thinking with my
head voice while
speaking with
my speaking voice
while texting with
my sign language
finger tips that often
play chords on my
string strung wooden
box that occupies
my singing voice
all happening all
at the same time
as elevator musak
in a different time
signature not
knowing if i'm
going up or
down or stuck
on one floor
Thought the pieces wouldn’t come together? Rewind back to what I said in the beginning. You told me as well. Genuine but generic right? You don’t get many points playing a fool for a fool. I was the jester wearing the crown of no king it has always been tin foil. There’s no intermission it was over before it began, the first act. Put me in my place, drag me from my family’s embrace, run or stand? Nah. You can have this round. I’m going to lay down while you step to the edge of the stage and bow to seats without the crowd. They used you more than I threw away the Visine it’s the season for dry eyes.
Love no more a cold smile
Touch never again the reach beyond
Far has become close
Yet not close enough
No one is “normal”
Everyone pretends
Most attempts to conform every idea of similar
Difference is Fear’s shadow
All have run, away, away, away
Eyes drown more than once in jacuzzi temperature tears
Tongues fail to bench press teeth
Silence is what fool’s may deserve
So I insist on talking to everyone
Sometimes no words are returned
I retreat into sad sometimes
Know Desire
Say, should you mean it
Shhhh when you do not
Think if you’re not sure
Is that why it’s quiet
Maybe becoming so abstract
See what they will
Broke what they wouldn’t
Loved whom they would
Despised what they shouldn’t
Generic Love For The Bakery Couple
butcher went to bed with his cookie cutter
and baker opened her oven for his flutter
a recipe mix and bake
generic love to shake
dough rises bringing cake mold to shutter
connie pachecho
8/4/17
Breathe in.
Out.
A chore for yourself.
Lungs fill slow,
Too slow.
You're impatient.
Don't exhale.
Hold it in.
Let the breathe become
part of you.
The only clean part of
you.
Hold it in until
hazy.
Dry lungs,
don't fall down.
Let go now...
Breathe out.
In.
Oppressed by you, your state, your religion
So you think you good, kind and Superior
But I find you cruel, arrogant and callous
But that is just in my view, what do I know?
You control the language that describes pain
But there is no for me in its grid, or how I feel
My soul is ripped from my body and bound,
On to your machines on which I slave and toil.
You say it has to be this way, no room for doubt
Master and slave, it is only a matter of degrees
But it is my kind that is always tied to the rack
While you sip vintage wine in the lap of luxury.
Everything has its time and its place, yours is over
End is near, for you and everything you hold dear
Everything carries with it the root of its own destruction
And I will rejoice now that your has very nearly come.
You beg to breath in my emotions
To get high off of my thoughts
So sure it's something you can handle
I'm not so confident in the strength of your "lungs"
For the term, "smoking you out" is a very great understatement
I've considered letting it all out
But I can't get the image of you choking on my insanity out of my head
You reassure me it's nothing you haven't heard before
While I am way to positive that you have no idea what your really talking about
I am fully aware of your desire to dissect my brain
Rummage through my own mental files for some sort of useful information to make you feel better about your own status
But you really don't know what you're trying to get yourself into
They are selfish, childish words
The ones that speak to me throughout the horribly long days
Crazy
Insane
I'm absolutely positive that would be your final conclusion
As soon as you sobered up anyways
Little do I care if bleach is generic
Or if fabric softener or detergent
Some bad personality flaws become chronic
Little do I care, if well you really meant
What brings me care is negative remarks spoken_
Harsh words pour forth like rain released kinetic
Energy, power released never to be unbroken
Words that leave my heart's state of being semantic
Semantic=Affected role
Quality comments wanted
Generics need not apply
“Cute one,” she said. “Funny,” he wrote.
(I’d written the poem while I cried)
“Points” are given for comments left
Some writers just copy and paste
Such comments show poems were not read
To muster points, they’re left in haste
Poets always see the difference
When their verse was actually read
So if you have no time to read
Pass the poetry by instead
For the Views versus Comments contest
No friends, no enemies.
This one walks among an unforgiving people,
thinks about the fantasy they live in,
strays away from colorful pretending.
He crawls, retreats,
becomes a prinla being void of all emotion.
Empty on the inside, hollow to the knocking,
dug into the deepening hole far inside the memory.
Sad to see another one
forced to run away from
those sick imaginative predators,
throwing books at you.
Come on, speak.
Tell them how you don't feel anger,
how you only want peace.
I'm sure they'll stop and really listen.
They'll push, reject,
keep living they're blissful ignorance together,
happy knowing whatevers catchy,
and lost to the challenge of the process.
Sad to see another one
forced to run away from
those sick imaginative predators,
throwing stones at you.
Rum me fast,
Let it warm snowy sinews,
My fingers cannot move,
Heat them at last,
My legs feel leaden,
As if weighing tons,
Let them march past,
My facial muscles are screwed in hold,
Liquefy them from the cold,
Light the furnace,
Let the fire grab the rum in embrace,
Bring me a bowl of hot soup,
Which can heat me,
From toe to lip,
Put over me warmer clothes,
Freezing winds are working in like sharp lathes,
They are all my dearest hopes,
As I lye forlorn on a cold footpath,
And stagger up to get up catching stand rope.
Strumming the four strings,
Got my fingers vibrating,
Those jingled nerve endings,
And reached my spine and brain,
The tones that came out,
Were melodious and sweet,
They tingled my ear drums,
It reached brain and perhaps spine,
And felt good,
I continued to strum,
And noticed nearby ears “tingled” too,
Man makes music,
Music makes man too,
Believe it- in many senses its true.
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