Home. As I grow with time like the nose of Pinocchio grows with his lies, I've surmised, albeit my innate and with no mass stirring of motivation or diligence to pique my intrigue to the point of interest or beyond the confines of limited to the brink or passed the point of what we or just me can see as limitless my impeccable, and if you would please allow me to be bombastic rather than bashful extra-terrestrial inference is not worn out loud with crowds to appease or appear as kings when i'm at home in the soul and the bones that is me. Home Is what it is. Home as what it is represents a multifaceted and dynamic range, a multifaceted and dynamic range of damage and breaks, the kind that align without reasons and whys and for all purposes genuine a good character makes. A multifaceted and dynamic range of rage and havoc can enslave the brain to be spastic achieving feats of reaching clouds 9 to 11 but cant connect the piece it would need to link its cerebellum to heaven. Energy in motion like rockets exploding and the flames enraged engaged with wind twist and bend for a chance to encapsulate forever in them. My ability to infer for instance could lead one to make an inference that my intuition is at home in my intellect seated on the throne of intelligence. To me home is a clone of the mind that spies and seeks to find what may be outside. The grass thats greener on the other side could perhaps shed light if what is shining is shown through the right window of the home you goodnight in on the road to the storefront of woes in the forefront of lobes are closed. Your eyelids like the youth in the warm summer after noon hang low to the Earth. Where the rooster calls and nature concurs. Your eyes with no need for words slips into slumber for a time with no number. Eyes in use with no passion to prove can conclude the absolute truths of youth. Grass is green mom is home dad is too. The sky is free and from what we see of the sky it seems blue. The sky ive seen it weeps and apparently my parents do too. In that I see home is ,we ,I, us ,them, and you.
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Red Mud
Dust filled air. A dog or some dogs barking somewhere. Getting lost in a city pretending to be the country where rural eyes spy sights that have no reason or deeper meaning. After all why stall when hens need feeding? The benevolent buzz of the bees keeps singing with no need of me tending their wings. The cows need hay, the grass under mass hoof remains safe to say at the least. The fence made to contain these vegan behemoths is seemingly the teeniest of weaklings. The juice running through this poor excuse for fortitude will lend a clue to any who question its abilities regarding its profession of protection. It could be noted by one of importance that the cattle has been accounted for stored in, not up neither boxed nor boarded. Home life, farm life, long days dark nights with the stiffest of drinks in hand here to demand euphoria if for a second one second before slumber. They say numbers don't lie but a clock blamming its alarming horn at 3 a.m. begs to suggest otherwise. The rooster keeps his cool until sooner or later like the sun and the moon or the tide that waves at the stoic rock faces some etched in anguish some aware that theyre rocks and all rocks are brainless. The rooster at some definitive point will lose his cool. By then we will have fixed old hoes and other barely used mostly broke dew covered tools. The hens need seed. The vegan behemoths need hay. The grass is being tended to at least for today. thankful. Our horse could divorce this place without a word either way but she stays. Shes at home. Im at home on a farm. Im at home in a drink. Im at home in my sleep. Until the clock lies where I lay as loud as it may. At this hour rather than cower I sustain. At this our I remain unchanged. The hens need seed. The goats often wonder but they still need me. The horse is adored and adores its importance. The cows in every hour howl their truth. " We love planet earth" *munch *munch *munch "But bring back the moooooo"
By Writer anon6163 years ago in Poets
Final Call
She flings her arms around my neck and squeezes me like she’s never going to let me go. My head spins as her lips brush against my cheek. She must be able to feel my heart thumping in my chest. I shuffle backwards and ram my hands into my coat pockets, watching her reach down and heave the rucksack across her shoulders.
By Caroline Cravena day ago in Fiction
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