What a life to live, oh, joy, we live today.
These feelings of sorrow.. oh, joy!
I too often am reluctant, I know you see.
Where’s the inclination to help?
wheres the fight, the promise, the need?
Oh, joy! It’s out of sight…
…out of mind.
Sometimes I feel anxiety
I won’t lie, it’s at your discretion.
I feel it grow and diminish
like our moods, from fun to irate.
That anxiety drives me
into a pool of despair from
knowing you’re out there
without me next to your side.
But through the jealousy
and the pride and the envy
I know you’re right in telling me
that it doesn’t matter at all –
I know where you belong
and you seem to stay there still.
That anxiety struggles for release,
purging back and forth in my skin
wanting nothing but recognition
for I deny it to keep me whole
and to keep you happy.
My anxiety is at your discretion,
whether you know it or not
as it is the metaphor for my hope
that you will stay next to my side,
and our fun will spread again,
and our irritation will fade away
with the anxiety in me.
It was a warm day, unlike any I’ve seen
I went about my path, constantly I
clicked my animator’s tween.
My madness was cured and I rejoiced,
my face lacked its anguish – perfect;
now all I needed was that voice.
Hours went by and seemed to pass
like sands breaking through
their eternal hourglass.
Time was made of vectors and blurs
I couldn’t be happier, myself,
now that I was hers.
So musty, old and black in appearance;
A small steel casing is its shield
to the dust it flies through and air it separates
Soft on the top, not steel nor cloth
Just a dark shade of processed carbon.
Gaseous of fumes and perforated exhaust,
inside, however, smells of smoke and aging upholstery
as if kept safe in its past to its present
embroidered in the scent it deemed at birth,
of oil and smog and poison.
It’s look, its smell – nothing to its performance;
its ability overshot by its underestimated qualities
as shifts from bottom to top and gains leverage
over the dirt and pavement with astounding capability
considering its age and condition. Though it feels like home,
a place full of welcoming heat, passion and care.
In spite of things once said,
we turn to the present
for answers we want
but not necessarily need.
Our words float like clouds
against a somber sky;
that preamble of life
we conceive to be lost
and unable to be recovered.
of compiled significance,
we abstain our realities
to nothing more than
for events that never happened.
Suffice it to say,
we’ve disposed morals and ethics,
only to adhere to our problems
through violence and bloodshed;
for our motivation is brought forth
amongst our anguish and pity
and not through our imagination.