An
intense
stabbing
pain,
reminding
me
how
lucky
I am
to
be
so lucky,
and
how
very
little
I’ve
done
with
this luck,
reminding
me
to
breathe
and
encouraged
by
the pain,
that
will
one day
subside
to be
someone’s
lucky
day.
Home » Posts tagged 'prose' (Page 96)
Tag Archives: prose
a not too special little thought that’s as comforting as a freshly plucked sliver
I sit here and write.
If you read it, good.
If you don’t, fine.
If you like it, better.
If you don’t, that’s alright.
Either way I’ll sit here tomorrow and write.
Listening to Old Country Songs on Women’s Day
You don’t even have to read between the lines.
With all their talk about cold, cold hearts,
bouncing between heartache and chord progression
like a broken record, it’s apparent
why these yodeling old cowboys are obsolete.
Did they ever really sound that good in their time?
At least the melodies sound good, silly boys
if I could remove your voice, I would,
and in its place insert the songs of a woman,
who’s light shines brighter than your sorrow.
Mercedes-Benz – now that’s a song with heart.
The King’s Sad Song.
The failed King sat on his throne.
His Queen had already fled.
Watching his people die, he couldn’t shake the thought
of who would bring him his dinner tonight.
The chef’s were gone, the jester dead.
As for his Queen, well he could find another Queen.
And no matter how much blood was shed,
his people showed no sign of stopping.
It was nearly a 50/50 split – men, women, and children.
He couldn’t help but wear his grin proudly.
It was until he saw his son beheaded that his grin began to fade.
It wasn’t so much the action of it all but rather the one who’d done it.
Down there, past all the bloody corpses, stood his Queen.
What she was shouting he could not quite make out but it went something like this.
I’d rather slay my own kin than have them carry on your name.
Why had his son been down there with the poor and wild rabble-rousers?
He then took note, that he was alone in his castle. How puzzling he thought.
But this did not bother him too long, for he’d only needed what his people could give him.
A King has no need for the physical person, surely he knew this.
Then at the strike of noon, the King began to sing.
Through the screams and fury and onslaught of ravaged flesh, he sang.
It went something like this.
My God what have you done,
my Lord could you believe,
that there is no helpful soul
to serve me steak and peas.
Saying Goodbye.
It’s been like beating a dead horse.
From day one, it just wasn’t there.
But we often emote like light through a diamond.
We listen to fortune tellers.
And cosplay for our own reasons.
But bloody knuckles aren’t more than bloody knuckles.
I’ll admit, saying goodbye was never my strong suit.
So for the sake of getting shit done.
The horse, long since buried.
I’ll say hello one more time.
Hello!
And now I’m saying goodbye.
The Futile Attempt to Explain a Temporary State of Being.
Somewhere between
breathing in and breathing out
comes this wave
of melancholy,
like salt to a snail
the only defense
is to crumple
back into a shell,
drained is all sense
is all sympathy
buried beneath
the weight,
sinking
deeper, deeper
into
this chair,
like a prisoner
wrongfully accused
without the funds
to buy a voice,
but time
is a cruel saint
without regard
for its hands,
that never miss a beat
or waver indefinitely
like this melancholia
that rests a while,
waiting for
another breath
to break up
the sea again.
it’s nothing personal, it’s art.
All I need is –
a camera,
(flash)
a crew,
(flash)
rented lights,
(flash)
and a sync wizard
(flash)
to take pictures
(flash)
of your appearance,
(flash)
make-up and all,
(flash)
highlights and softening,
(flash)
to give depth
(flash)
and allure,
(flash)
to erase –
the real you.
A Fond Ambivalence for Social Media.
It’s
a
fine art,
the
art
of following.
Choosing
that
precise moment
to
stop
is too, a work of art.
Like
a
thief in the night.
It
is
frankly, what separates
the
Doomed
from the Damned.
Like
a
self-congratulatory hand-job.
Sad
in
a way,
contagious
in
another.
An eye
for
an eye
with
no discernible
end.
Dance with the Devil at Noon.
Mother used to say,
“don’t talk to strangers now!”
And father used to say,
“don’t be a follower you hear me!”
What a different world
we live in today.
Mother I’m sorry says the boy.
Father I’m sorry, he crosses his heart.
But to make it in this
Brave New World
I must dance with the devil at noon.
True Inspiration.
More often than not,
we mistake our inspiration, for
celebrity,
strangers,
the grass that’s always greener,
when in reality,
our greatest inspiration, comes from
classmates,
lovers,
past or present acquaintance,
who showed us talent we sought to mirror,
who we quickly forgot,
fully unaware,
blinded
by the riches that whisper, like
serpents,
the sweet, sweet nothings of the stage –
the merest hint of our true inspiration.
Words Of An Average White Male 