singing bowl of tomorrow

chadwick

i'd write a poem but you'd steal it
not that it is a great bit of creativity
no
you'd still take the fucker & give your woman
you'd still shit brown
you'd still be a bloody mess after falling off your bike or your roof or getting hit by a car (hopefully)

i'd write a poem but you'd piss all over yourself
while aiming at my words
you'd be a drunken fucking moron shitting in your pants

i'd write a poem like a singing bowl
like those mountains that hum
the mountains that fell apart under your big fucking toxic mouth
the mountains no more rain are getting
now solid stone fields no flowering valleys no clouds none
and there you are standing there with a finger up your nose

a fucking poem
a fucking dream
a fucking old reheard song every bit brand new
it's all been played out before but you can't see that because you are simple
what you hear is garbage
what you see is a lie
what you consume is saturated with confusion taken as knowledge
what you are is naïve cleaning up your empty teapot
it has not once ever been used

your hands like a pillow's softness
seeds do not respect you
no grasses
no dandelions
no carnations or roses no irises no daffodils nor any tulips none are your colors of spring
no cactuses no beetles no flies no bushes no decency nothing

no shellfish near you
no deep water no shallow water
no snowflakes of incredible perfection or as thoughtless as easy creation
yes there are
yes you are not
get used to, "you are not"

get used to, "not much"
get acquainted with zero or less than
your shadow vacant
your shoes empty walkers
your boxes of lifelong family heirlooms never truly existed

your ass weak
your skin sunken as so many ships in the now desert
you see this is all yours
you have it all
yours is endless as far as your detached visions have taken you
colorless fruit
colorless souls all lifeless from parrots lie in your hair
your head a absent nest
tigers stripes, lions manes and mushrooms all elsewhere
your pockets picked raw by your own hand
your poverty may even be your very own palace fully loaded
you are next to hummingbirds not ever
you are next to mice and rats not once
you are next to Africa's, "black death" the water buffalo's "shit pile" often

i got B's & C's in school
sometimes i may have gotten an A+ or -
modest grades you see

you see
i am not the sharpest tool in the box but you defeat all ignorance
you receive no trumpet players' coins
you receive none of a seamen's far off lands jewelry
silver & gold

mostly you make me tired
i am exhausted
my bed is so far off
cold fresh sheets
no
more like thorns & crusty blood that curdled under my name as i dreamt the vultures taking me away selling me to their razor like beaks & tearing talons of which i have grown accustom to & have found to be quite inviting next to your tombstone written in the stone floor in which i am nailed down too to two twice over

basically the singing bowl has given my visions this poem for you to steal & give to your smoking hot ass women is could only be a tool herself with her fake ass, her fake boobs, selfish smile, empty brain box & her delightful inner thighs moist & golden brown tight & open

rustneversleeps

i'll take 2 of what youre taking.....

mikalina

Lots of emotions in this poem.... thanks for sharing.