you sent me to a place, where the routine
substitutes for all clock ticks
everything seems grey despite the sun shining
through a white wide open sash window
maintained by unskilled hands
not like yours, always ready to help
I forgot what it’s like
to be guided only by you, deeply
only you could reverse it
everything that drowned in a deep blue sea
of dangerously scattered thoughts
I hope
that this bad tape will never return
mingling my mind with the chaotic miasma appearing
pear-shaped
when everything went wrong
in this desk jockey case
having no equivalent in life
I guess that’s where
all the stereotypes and bad experiences arise
like baking a poisonous cake
and measuring life in coke spoons
and forgetting about it all together
when it’s gone
it will never be reborn
in any humanistic form
*
the will to exist
everything depends on it
---
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About the Creator
Mescaline Brisset
if it doesn't come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don't do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don't do it.
so you want to be a writer? – Charles Bukowski
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Bless Me Father for I Have Sinned
So, here’s me sitting on the 7b bus heading into town. I shouldn’t be on the bus. I don’t want to be on the bus. I should be on a bike, legs pumping like pistons. The freedom of the open road. Directions where the tyres press, as the poet said.
By Brendan Donaghyabout 11 hours ago in Humor
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