sometimes i fantasize about
driving on the highway
going eighty
and swerving into oncoming traffic
will that make the hurting stop?
walking somewhere
alone in the dark
and getting cornered by a murderer
will that make the hurting stop?
being home alone
door bursts open
an intruder with a gun pointed right at me
aimed right at my head
will that make the hurting stop?
the medicine cabinet torn apart
four pill bottles scattered around me
all once full
now empty
will that make the hurting stop?
a blade in my hand, pressed to my wrist
finally brave enough
to go deeper than just the surface
will that make the hurting stop?
going to bed one night
head laid on my tear-stained pillow
and never waking up again
will that make the hurting stop?
will the hurting ever stop?
or am i destined to live like this forever?
i'm not even living anymore
i'm just surviving
barely surviving
against my own will
Expectations brings
about self deprecations,
sometimes I wonder if
the thoughts running
through my head are
my own or somebody
else’s?
The world lives
in constant turmoil,
waves crashing,
tides swerving in
and out from open-
ended beaches,
abysmal delays of
the lighthouse directory,
guided by supplemental
shocks of lightening
rays trajectory.
I stand firmly in front
of the baseless sandcastle,
a fragile foundation of
past voices from lurking
shadows who slowly
poisoned its interior,
lack of motivation,
wandering in between
spaces incoherently,
my mind in anxiety help-
lessly what I could
not understand,
the words stare back
at me in silence gradually
suppressing the last
bit of life found closing
in underneath,
time holds on as
it falls into deep
sleep.
A sudden drizzle gushed along the street,
That I wiggled out , romping and playing
In my cotton jumpshirt as summer cooled,
To allow a downpour of monsoon rain.
Swerving through puddles where debris
Gathered around little tots' feet,
Our lithe bodies slip-skidded, glided
On a roller-coaster ride of muddy suds... what fun!
Then, I picked dingy ferns coiled by reeds,
Merrily smiling past waters, unclear…
Till Mom and Dad yelled "kids , clean up...”
O youth's play of bubble-pop made us blush.
Then soft winds crooned among the trees
Where only spellbound laughter can recall
This whimsical atmosphere: A time to reel,
To cherish the frolic in heat of summer days
Which spangled my childhood sprees aloft!
Night stampedes wind-horses.
I edgily negotiate the sharp corners
of swerving shadows.
The hind hoof of a doe
slaps the reflection of my startled face,
the Chevy twitches, plows on -
headlights rake the earth.
From a rear-view mirror
I see myself prone on the asphalt,
terrified limbs still stamping
over a shell-shocked mind.
The deer chased its bones,
disappearing into the sight unseen.
Night dropped its iron curtain.
Later,
I sleep dead-eyed
behind a spinning wheel.
“The silence fades with a soft embrace”
in the undulating landscape with swerving life stream.
The concert of murmur cascades with mesmeric melody
in the rapture ripples of the whispering breeze,
the sound of music flies past me, braced by spell of silence.
My aloneness walks me in the desolate wasteland
with my serrated shadow trailing your fading footprints
through the quietude of the sequined moonbeam,
until you see me as a spellbound quintessence,
configured in the silhouetted contours of silence.
Touched by faint flow of silence your face glows vibrant,
the radiant beauty flows with charming trance
through my enthralled still senses.
My gleaming heart dances to the tune of music,
as you make the serenading silence within me so unique.
As the rising sun tints your charismatic calmness
with the patina of hued tide in the sea of tranquility,
I swim blissfully in its amorous waters
with my dreams dancing in the rhythm of aureate yearning
in the shimmering shore of swathing golden silence.
Two scales must balance
for unfaulty and accurate evidence,
the relationship between God
and Humankind must stand;
where impetus winds originate,
there must be a justiciable cause
to sustain such a destructible impact
on those cunningly swerving from right.
Solutions need to be wisely thought out
before the next catastrophe occurs unexpectedly,
whoever makes a solemn promise for prosperity
must keep it or be called a person of deceit.
Who can hold a notorious liar in contempt:
when he smiles and puts on an appearance
different from that of morality, from whence
remorse will emerge for being impudent?
How credible is the trust of a charlatan
when he's in a drunken state and stutters
to convince himself he abstains from lies
and thinks his name is Bobby, not Brian?
A requisition for solutions spare us many pains
to avoid the pitfalls that entrap the naive one;
cleverness and awareness are never out of line,
they're needed to sharpen our senses for gains.
Last night we all might have had something
concerning the marksmanshiping of war.
The waves then might differ
pulsating, cresting, rising and falling both in tides
and others?.
Last night the something was thither:
If I said poetry, might not be alone;
if said naïve things naivety, might holden back the rule.
Now, how many things were like bubbling through
the woods?,
how many things were like swerving flower or swirling
to dell last night?.
I think war was a seasonal tree and was somehow fully
alive or it sometimes shedding it's leaves or recently
has become magical?.
War was sometimes completely dry ,
is not that sometimes a kind of encounter?
how like peace is an love fresh and tender tree?.
In luxuriant terrane of verdant sprouts
opulent golden understory unveiled,
stemmed by swerving jade blades,
entwining the pairs of legs petrified
within the maze of floral profusion.
The black figure of deviant prominence
stands out like a towering protector
in sutured closeness fused with her,
camouflaged to evade the predator.
Bare trees aligned in harmonized motif,
outline the floral boulevard for them
to walk away from the onyx horizon
to the sunburst meadow ahead.
Sparkles of faerie wings flit past the pink tulips
Sweeping and swerving, frisky faerie flips
Daffodil is jealous of this marvelous mythical attention
Pokes fun at floral’s spring gardening convention
Observe Your serve,
When you're on the last nerve,
Your mind Leaves the preserve,
Swerving into Emotional reserves,
Be sure to observe what you serve,
As you swerve into a dangerous curve,
You may get something you don't deserve.
My mother was catatonic, symphonic chronic is what I smoke.
Livinin it bougie, choosin floosies no uzis and then I choke.
You can be me, insane cerebral cortex is
just what I feel.
Living pervy swerving Lexus and hexes to get the deal!
I'm the homosexual, heterosexual, suicidal bloke.
I was adopted by white family and to them I'm just a joke.
They are white supremacist hollow and they drink a racist coke.
And they bought themselves a black kid, broke me down and built a moat.
I'm the illest of the illest, you the illest with a pill.
Donate plasma with no athesma, drain so much I start to spill!
Got the game on lock with fakers who found out that words can kill.
Better bump this on speakers like I invented free will!
Spendin money by the twenties gettin hundies by the bill..
And I'll never stand for the flag so you coonies can in chill!
If my words had a flavor I'm sure I'd be spicy dill.
Bringing back the old school freshness like my name is Uncle Phil!
Such a harsh gelid sprechgesang
filled with such soprano snowflakes
bitter whistling but so very beautiful
melodies change with the temperature
emotions fall and form a blizzard
the wind’s echo is never too sharp
a masque for a glittery wonderland
eyelashes made electric with silver
backup singers for an icy smile
knives sharpen themselves on the air
putting an end to the reticence
seasonal recluse finally set free
that first scent sparks out of control
swerving all over on black ice
lips on fire at the thought of danger
flushed with the breath of condensation
the stutters and chatters have eased
wrapped in this quilted blanket
an unequivocal need to cover up
Sprechgesang, so hard and gelid
Car speeding, swerving
as it's approaching the big, red sign.
The voice in my head defies traffic laws,
knowing I should stop,
yet I continue on,
seeking euphoria,
swerving a bus.
Little do I realise a cop is watching...
the most direct line to heaven ~ is to circumvent hell on the way
but will they admit you ~ for seeing the devil and swerving away
said the millionaire to his driver ~ who put his foot down anyway
By
David Kavanagh 05/06/24
the base soaked with pee
the devils tree
the stream traveled down
to the roots
in the ground
hands turning black
this haunting is whack
lightning struck
what the
swerving off the road
the fear growed
in the past
lives didnt last
hung from the tree
now filled with pee
the devils tree
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