Shadowmarque
Active member
Erikimos (title)
She smelled like sautéd onions,
mushrooms on Wednesdays.
“I love you,”
he said
“No, you don’t know how”
I couldn’t even kiss him goodbye.
Some would call it knowing better while others might name it the only thing left.
I think I wet my bed that night,
after finishing the remnants of a broken thought in broken dejections through a broken-sealed bottle of cough medicine;
the metallic cabinet forever displaying a medicinal remedy for those with creative energy.
Addictive disgust
The physical connection to detachment
I thought it could help me remember him
A lie told by a liar to a scapegoat,
so pretty.
Nonlinear thinking sprouting abundance in originality- the fish biting the line through the parallels of the conditioned human.
Nail biters
and hair pullers
You’d think a hug might help
Pinball
-The game of the day
Elvira, all enticing portrayal of childhood ideas honored as crates,
the pitcher spilled at half-mast in the die,
you never even made it on the board
neither did I.
Everything stopped
TIME
TRUST
Even our kisses on the bench
with melted faces we smiled plastic smiles to all wandering around
GhostTown
We meant to keep you safe
A solid snoogle dreamt in our bed
holding each other with something more Promising than Failure
satisfaction in a continuous state of safety
justified with a heartfelt desire in a willingness to try
Making a cross-section in retrospect to artful gymnastics in make-shift tents
-happy family inclination outside Sunday mornings
It has nothing to do with me.
Swift delivery from righteousness.
Reality lost in translation.
Embarking on an unmarked journey with no other destination except the release of oneself somehow delicately lost on every mile-marker; every tire-turn; every weigh station.
It made sense to want a geographical change; but, as we know:
Wherever you go
There you are
Trying to wrap a mental preview around behavioral patterns emulated through generations
Flower children almost had it
Picnics scattered with sun-beamed kisses, hugs only intended to reassure a societal acceptance only found in the back of the corner-store
Then,
Blaring static stretches ear canals in a hidden message of chaos and belt-chains
I focus on the screeching, deciphering nothing.
Neon flashing screening my attention with a black bicycle and tuneless crackbox.
The fellow had no teeth left
BEER smile of the angry assortment;
his mohawk was longer than mine
probably unworthy, disregarded to be sure; but “hello, father” touched on appropriate
When he passed,
I said nothing
Should he have hinted at a meeting I might have said something,
something sweet
something soft
Anything to project the knowledge of family left to the wolves of concrete jungles to fend, sickly or not, for shelter alone.
Understand,
it can be heart-wrenching at times;
makes me wonder if he ever loved his mother
or was it her fault to begin with?
Bottle-corked emotions sent out with Champagne spray to those closest to us, those with open arms; open minds; open hearts.
Our relationships can change, but only if we change ourselves
bruised eyes never fade unless we let them
it helps to be hopeful
it also helps to be honest
Pride gets you in trouble
And Foolish Pride keeps you there
Serenity ebbing through the trees on wispy winds of delight asking nothing but thanks for eternity
bringing savage lips of unmeasured proportions
to the God fearing public in order to raise all questions about
Predetermined Futures
Bodies lay heaped in darkness
blanketed in ash fog
rotted flesh and stale blood
creeping their essences serenely
into our open mouths
stinging my eyes with unwelcomed compassion hearing the butterflies that sing in spring wave goodbye with the coming winter
to be left alone, yet again,
to sustain untraveled parasites
deriving creative intelligence from apprehensively destructive appetites
Sick people love sick people
Perhaps it’s a story of boundaries and becoming less peach about what’s acceptable
violet eyes and vanilla hair
seduction, like raw
crimson, flat-chested
baby hookers
Forfeit any sign of retraction
a friendly voice in the shadow’s of nature’s wonderful frailty
dusk broken to the drumbeat of thunder and masked children.
Let’s not contradict the magnificent power of the difference of perspective.
I’ll have
a double espresso,
hold the abandonment
Copywritten by ShadowMarque
She smelled like sautéd onions,
mushrooms on Wednesdays.
“I love you,”
he said
“No, you don’t know how”
I couldn’t even kiss him goodbye.
Some would call it knowing better while others might name it the only thing left.
I think I wet my bed that night,
after finishing the remnants of a broken thought in broken dejections through a broken-sealed bottle of cough medicine;
the metallic cabinet forever displaying a medicinal remedy for those with creative energy.
Addictive disgust
The physical connection to detachment
I thought it could help me remember him
A lie told by a liar to a scapegoat,
so pretty.
Nonlinear thinking sprouting abundance in originality- the fish biting the line through the parallels of the conditioned human.
Nail biters
and hair pullers
You’d think a hug might help
Pinball
-The game of the day
Elvira, all enticing portrayal of childhood ideas honored as crates,
the pitcher spilled at half-mast in the die,
you never even made it on the board
neither did I.
Everything stopped
TIME
TRUST
Even our kisses on the bench
with melted faces we smiled plastic smiles to all wandering around
GhostTown
We meant to keep you safe
A solid snoogle dreamt in our bed
holding each other with something more Promising than Failure
satisfaction in a continuous state of safety
justified with a heartfelt desire in a willingness to try
Making a cross-section in retrospect to artful gymnastics in make-shift tents
-happy family inclination outside Sunday mornings
It has nothing to do with me.
Swift delivery from righteousness.
Reality lost in translation.
Embarking on an unmarked journey with no other destination except the release of oneself somehow delicately lost on every mile-marker; every tire-turn; every weigh station.
It made sense to want a geographical change; but, as we know:
Wherever you go
There you are
Trying to wrap a mental preview around behavioral patterns emulated through generations
Flower children almost had it
Picnics scattered with sun-beamed kisses, hugs only intended to reassure a societal acceptance only found in the back of the corner-store
Then,
Blaring static stretches ear canals in a hidden message of chaos and belt-chains
I focus on the screeching, deciphering nothing.
Neon flashing screening my attention with a black bicycle and tuneless crackbox.
The fellow had no teeth left
BEER smile of the angry assortment;
his mohawk was longer than mine
probably unworthy, disregarded to be sure; but “hello, father” touched on appropriate
When he passed,
I said nothing
Should he have hinted at a meeting I might have said something,
something sweet
something soft
Anything to project the knowledge of family left to the wolves of concrete jungles to fend, sickly or not, for shelter alone.
Understand,
it can be heart-wrenching at times;
makes me wonder if he ever loved his mother
or was it her fault to begin with?
Bottle-corked emotions sent out with Champagne spray to those closest to us, those with open arms; open minds; open hearts.
Our relationships can change, but only if we change ourselves
bruised eyes never fade unless we let them
it helps to be hopeful
it also helps to be honest
Pride gets you in trouble
And Foolish Pride keeps you there
Serenity ebbing through the trees on wispy winds of delight asking nothing but thanks for eternity
bringing savage lips of unmeasured proportions
to the God fearing public in order to raise all questions about
Predetermined Futures
Bodies lay heaped in darkness
blanketed in ash fog
rotted flesh and stale blood
creeping their essences serenely
into our open mouths
stinging my eyes with unwelcomed compassion hearing the butterflies that sing in spring wave goodbye with the coming winter
to be left alone, yet again,
to sustain untraveled parasites
deriving creative intelligence from apprehensively destructive appetites
Sick people love sick people
Perhaps it’s a story of boundaries and becoming less peach about what’s acceptable
violet eyes and vanilla hair
seduction, like raw
crimson, flat-chested
baby hookers
Forfeit any sign of retraction
a friendly voice in the shadow’s of nature’s wonderful frailty
dusk broken to the drumbeat of thunder and masked children.
Let’s not contradict the magnificent power of the difference of perspective.
I’ll have
a double espresso,
hold the abandonment
Copywritten by ShadowMarque
