manuscriptx
New Member
I used to think a dying man’s wish was a poor man’s way of saying that there is no water from above. A dying man’s way of saying there are many inadequate trenches. There are many words to describe it without disavowing the guilt from inside the bottle. His eyes are rolled up and a haze of glory smothers the weeping willow. Care yet for the murdered lover never sleeps. Behind every corner, every window every sense of pleasure tramples three days grace. A pair of scissors, razor sharp kings is useless to me now unless I figure out what kind of Boa Constrictor compares to the rest of humanity and what happened to the rest of time following the hereafter. The time I forgot. The time that lay hints around me like a cat out of hiding; when owls cry; when they leave clues like deception and arrogance; when they kneel down and pray for the summer I know just yet what I should do. When they steer me clean straight off a cliff and down alongside the river bank. When they curl up beside me in the fetal position; when they line up under and over shaded covered trees……….what do I know? Do I know then clues that will take me towards the shining light? Do I know when the madness is afraid of me? Do I know what one wonders with two eyes closed? I wonder.
I wonder what above pleasure comes prior to silence. I can fly but I can’t walk two feet. I can feel a little somber about Drake but it doesn’t bother me until he died. Drake was a friend; that’s all he was to me. Larry was a nightmare waiting to happen. Stella was a will to live, standing tall and unafraid. She stole my heart once. I’ll never let her do that again. I’ll never let her tell me anything that is not yet clear and protected from stone suggestions, pet peeves and rural misogynists. I will hit my head until it bleeds. I will try to ignore the obvious. That’s all anyone can ask. Human emotions have to be dealt with somehow. I learned to deal with mine ten times after they’re locked up inside me with an explosive hair trigger. Finding the right angle; sitting on a toilet; moving my waist one way as it flows through me and out the backyard; toilet paper to wipe away colored, flavored fiction, imaginary hollow points. I’m out of it. I’m out of it until the next summer’s wave of emotion starts to flow.
I wonder what above pleasure comes prior to silence. I can fly but I can’t walk two feet. I can feel a little somber about Drake but it doesn’t bother me until he died. Drake was a friend; that’s all he was to me. Larry was a nightmare waiting to happen. Stella was a will to live, standing tall and unafraid. She stole my heart once. I’ll never let her do that again. I’ll never let her tell me anything that is not yet clear and protected from stone suggestions, pet peeves and rural misogynists. I will hit my head until it bleeds. I will try to ignore the obvious. That’s all anyone can ask. Human emotions have to be dealt with somehow. I learned to deal with mine ten times after they’re locked up inside me with an explosive hair trigger. Finding the right angle; sitting on a toilet; moving my waist one way as it flows through me and out the backyard; toilet paper to wipe away colored, flavored fiction, imaginary hollow points. I’m out of it. I’m out of it until the next summer’s wave of emotion starts to flow.