Repeat lather rinse.
Over the top, under the bottom.
There I see no one but the mirror of me.
Repeat lather rinse.
Under of it all, through the mirror of me.
Over the top, under the bottom.
Is it another reality where I can not see but the future me.
Repeat lather rinse.
Up the top, to the bottom.
Under of it all, through the mirror of me.
Over the top, under the bottom.
What parallel is this where the past is not past it is in front of me that keeps repeating right after another mistakes of past of a deja vu life.
About the Creator
Oliver M
Poetry is my past, the future rolls for no one. I'd rather have her exorcise my past and to entertain as life goes by in this chaotic world.
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Drifting Wordlessly Through the Urban Jungle
Drifting wordlessly through the urban jungle. The faces of strangers come and go forever, each person dead and never to be seen again. The foreign interactions of people passing, the protests, the panhandling, the homeless, the ambivalence of the veteran city-goers. Nothing feels real; there is a dream-like haze that echoes through the grey hallways between obscenely large buildings. Invitation for adventure, there are odd people wherever you go, those are always are the quest-givers. There are the swaths of unreal characters that aimlessly roam throughout the city and phase out of existence once passed. But they contribute; they are part of the environment around you, they are one with the buildings, sidewalks, and cars. It is a frothing, obscenity of a jungle. The sirens, whistles, screams, calls, horns, conversations. All make up the jungle’s audial ambiance, amalgamating with the behemoth buildings and rushing pedestrians to create a living, breathing, single entity. The city is one organism – you pass through it not as an individual, but as a brushstroke making up a greater painting, a mere atom within its structural makeup, a perpetual stranger to all those around you. Interactions mean less, but that means they have more potential so escape into novel circumstances. No one will ever see each other again, so why not have a conversation about a giant robot cop? Why not say something off-color, something that goes against social norms and have someone get mad at you – who cares? You’ll never see them again. There is a certain freedom to being the stranger, to being a mere grain of sand in the grand scheme of creation. Your individuality sends waves of color to whatever minute circumstance you find yourself in, waves of which are then overtaken and thrown to eternity by the advancing tsunami of the jungle’s overbearing presence.
By James Cummings5 days ago in Poets
The Value of Web Presence
The Breakdown I’ve been writing on Vocal for eight months, and the experience has coaxed some of my best short fiction out. They reeled me in with their unique short story challenges. I spent a couple of months submitting and losing in contests like the Runaway Train and The Aquarium – but I caught early spirits with a Runner-Up placing in the New Worlds challenge.
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