I was drafted last summer. "A bit a work'll do you well" In an armoured Ford Focus I could see the field. Up front. Personal. Littered with two kilometer lines of brown sods ripe for turning, with twenty euro for your troubles.
I was shot in the lower back. Midday. The war had just begun. I trudged on trudged on. Heaving. Sighing. Pulling. Wincing. The sounds of a honest day's work filled the air. I had never been happier.
Jam Jar No Buzz It's cruel Buzz "Oh for God's sake they're just bees!" Buzz "But look at them! You can see them crawling! Trying to get out!" Buzz Brizzz Briz "You're being" Brizzzz "cruel!" "leave the jar out!" Buzzz brizz B
I've been searching for you god in the spaces between the pages. But i'm coming up empty with nothing but a broken spine to show for my efforts.
I was told that you're inside me but i'm more a vessel than a home and i'm afraid that you slipped out through the cracks in the surface. I've patched them up, god. I put the pieces back together. You can come home.
To me you are a river filled with sweet, nourishing water, but everyone brought buckets and i'm left with just my hands to hold you god. I cannot stand your weight- I was not made for heavy lifting.
And these cracked, deprived hands have great spaces between the fingers. You'd spill out on my lap before i'd have a chance to take a sip.
Sometimes I feel like I am stagnant. I'm floating down this pool of water with my 'safety-nets', my expectations of the real world dragging me to the bottom.
But I don't want to stay submissive at the bottom of a vast ocean until I'm old enough to float to the top; old enough so nobody gives a shit about what I do because I'll be dead soon anyway I want to live while I'm young! I want to dive off a cliff with thrill's umbilical cord ground my ankles and stomp my feet to the beat of my pulse while I have it!
I cut my fingers on paper just to feel the thrill. I want to hook myself up to a sander and press the button till I'm raw and bloody. I want electricity injected my veins.
I want to wake up every morning and squeeze this world that's in the palm of my hand and drink the juice for breakfast where is this exciting life that I was promised?
Last edited by Gardevite on Sun Apr 13, 2014 9:09 pm, edited 1 time in total.
@Aley thank you for the poetry prompt! I did alter the punctuation a little.
Burned leaves don't make good earrings I look quietly at this raven made of charcoal. What they,we, made with this cold, dead wood? Bring her down to see what we all made. Where is she? Crisper before they set out.
Gender:
Points: 6441
Reviews: 110