Gratuity. *possible trigger, I guess* (long, too)

Discussion in 'Poet's Corner' started by The_Discarded, Dec 17, 2006.

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  1. The_Discarded

    The_Discarded Staff Alumni

    So, yeah. I wrote this a while ago. Just found it in an old purse of mine. Figure'd I'd post it somewhere before I trash it. Just in case I decide I like it later. It's waaaay long. Something of a stanza-broken story. You must prepare yourself, I suppose. :dry:


    "I am not dead yet."

    Vice-ful crooks lock themselves
    and look at themselves
    behind thick gold frames of deception

    A lonely boy of a fresh existence
    adamantly puts the F-U-N in funeral.

    He's had too much to vouch for, now
    he's waiting for time to fall
    maybe then, or not at all

    So send him a letter from your isolated grave
    Just to let him know that you still dread the chills of the underground
    Keep his head spinnin' so
    He doesn't lose track of emotions

    They nurture the concept of watchin' 'em bleed
    That's why he slices his powdery skin in the darkness of night
    The quiet darkness of night
    The solitary darkness of night

    It's the headache that's never far behind
    it peers at him through his blinds and says

    "I was your Tears when your mother died
    I am the Fears that you try to hide
    I am the Years on the far-left side
    of the timeline, that you long to forget
    And regret
    And I'll bet
    You'll crack before you're ten."

    How well does he know now!
    Poor boy, not even the slightest whisker on his chin
    And already
    Already
    Already
    His giving-up has began

    So send him a letter from your isolated grave
    Just to let him know that you still dread the chills of the underground
    Keep his head spinnin' so
    He doesn't lose track of emotions

    Meow, meow, is an annoying sound
    Poor boy's never been so perturbed before

    Running to the kitchen with the first thing on his mind
    He bares into its flesh with the most genuine part of the tool
    A fool
    A fool
    Meow turns to Murr which falls into a Munnn
    And no sun?
    No sun

    All these days he just wanted peace
    he may as well throw in the

    Blood-drenched towel

    Who knew they would make him return to life with
    a paternal figure -- whose absence has become a comfort?

    Poor boy's mother and father split years back
    A split worse than the thoughts in his mind
    and he was glad to leave it all behind

    A toddler, glad to leave it all behind

    So send him a letter from your isolated grave
    Just to let him know that you still dread the chills of the underground
    Keep his head spinnin' so
    He doesn't lose track of emotions

    'Cause see, Papa can't control his temper
    Last time, poor boy had a handprint that branded his cheek like hot coals

    But his reflection was frozen and lifeless
    Distant, at best
    Where were his eyes behind that dumb stare?

    "I am not dead yet."
    the young boy's most commonly spoken statement
    "I am not dead yet."

    But poor boy can't be coaxed to false comfort
    He knows the difference between truth and lies

    although darkened seas of self-degradation sometimes lead him to naivety

    So send him a letter from your isolated grave
    Just to let him know that you still dread the chills of the underground
    Keep his head spinnin' so
    He doesn't lose track of emotions

    Roaring shades of grey
    envelope the sky
    beckoning, saying

    "I was the Force when you were abused
    I was the Dissent after you refused
    I am the Root of the misuse that you long to forget
    And regret
    And I'll bet
    You'll crack before you're ten."

    How well do the skies know me! he exclaims
    He lets his hair blow in the wind this time
    And agitate his eyes
    He doesn't remove it from his face

    The cold forces back his tears
    The stinging forces them toward the surface again

    "But I am not dead yet."

    So send him a letter from your isolated grave
    Just to let him know that you still dread the chills of the underground
    Keep his head spinnin' so
    He doesn't lose track of emotions

    "Papa, I made this for you.
    You can't be mad anymore."

    Papa smacks the creativity from poor boy's hands.

    "Daddy!" he cries

    Parades of pulsation navigate his insides
    "And I said I wasn't dead yet, Papa!"

    So send him a letter from your isolated grave
    Just to let him know that you still dread the chills of the underground
    Keep his head spinnin' so
    He doesn't lose track of emotions

    Write him a song of imperfect rhyme
    Make it personal and brief

    'Cause he ain't dead yet.

    And the inscrutable sounds of ridiculous anguish
    Followed by an atypical resonance
    Barely identifiable by onomatopoeia

    Papa's drawers entice the poor boy to curiosity one night
    Perusing through them for the nearest form of protection
    and remembering the old women at the church
    That aloof problem child? He may as well go to the institution right now, or the detention center-- just to get a head start.

    And man-made things are the most decent
    And man-made things are the most decent
    And man-made things make the best weapons

    So send him a letter from your isolated grave
    Just to let him know that you still dread the chills of the underground
    Keep his head spinnin' so
    He doesn't lose track of emotions

    Papa snores like a beast
    Poor boy's nervous breathing matches his father's
    And he aims

    "I am not dead yet."

    And he shoots


    --himself

    Situation worries townspeople
    for weeks to come

    Too weak to go on

    So he's sending you a letter from his isolated grave
    Just to let you know that he still dreads the chills of the underground
    Keeps your head spinnin' so
    You don't lose track of emotions

    'Cause we've all lost track of the clock
    Still waiting for time to fall
    maybe then, or not at all

    And regardless of how you feel

    When your head stops spinnin' and the world looks calm
    When the script is red-ink written in your palm
    And when you keep hidin' your beautiful, miserable eyes
    Behind thick gold frames of deception

    There's no question--

    You have worth...

    And you ain't dead yet.
     
    Last edited by a moderator: Dec 17, 2006
  2. theleastofthese

    theleastofthese SF Friend Staff Alumni

    I like it, long or not!:smile:

    least
     
  3. ~PinkElephants~

    ~PinkElephants~ Senior member

    Godd that was beautiful and i agree long or not I was transfixed on reading it. Well done and dont you dare trash it..i'll come kick you in the shin. :blink:
     
  4. yeahmayb

    yeahmayb Antiquitie's Friend

    WOW---Awesome---don't toss--PLEASE---don't

    It has my mind going---going to re-read it--but it was AWESOME

    Sharon
     
  5. Beret

    Beret Staff Alumni

    wow that was great, awseome work
    luv
    Beret
     
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