with eyes that burn so bright they make me pure
i am purposely letting (some) things fall apart around me, as i watch, dazed and smirking. [i wish i knew why]
do you ever fight tooth and nail for one thing, though you know deep down that the other, less appealing option will prevail in the end -- and in the face of such ridiculous circumstances, in the end do you feel like regret, resentment, disappointment, and contentedness have all been pulsed in a blender and poured into your heart and soul?
this is a killing sentiment,
a dying breath,
a buried purity.
Potential
is a vicious cycle
like unravelling
hair ribbons of
satin and rainbow colors
that go flying
in the breeze
alongside windblown
tresses, loosed with a
playful laugh
and twinkling eyes
i read some inspirational bukowski poems today. i love his writing. i need some more inspiration, though, for material worthy of hAze.
There’s a blond boy
staring at me from across
his table and across mine
nine, maybe ten years
and a toothy grin
I grin as well, mine
less toothy, less honest
he lifts his fork
puts too much pancake
in his too small mouth
still grinning
his ears wiggle
with every chew
A waitress, the one
with red hair -
the young one
stops by and refills
my coffee cup
the liquid splashes over
and onto the table,
leaving a ring of
liquid devotion around
the bottom of the cup
I don’t like this
waitress much
too young, not as
nice and friendly,
or as understanding as
the others - and she
doesn’t refill my coffee
as often as I’d like
That’s all there is to it:
keep my cup full,
so that I lose track
of how much I’ve drunk,
how much I’ve drowned in
and I’ll remember your name
do you ever fight tooth and nail for one thing, though you know deep down that the other, less appealing option will prevail in the end -- and in the face of such ridiculous circumstances, in the end do you feel like regret, resentment, disappointment, and contentedness have all been pulsed in a blender and poured into your heart and soul?
this is a killing sentiment,
a dying breath,
a buried purity.
Potential
is a vicious cycle
like unravelling
hair ribbons of
satin and rainbow colors
that go flying
in the breeze
alongside windblown
tresses, loosed with a
playful laugh
and twinkling eyes
i read some inspirational bukowski poems today. i love his writing. i need some more inspiration, though, for material worthy of hAze.
There’s a blond boy
staring at me from across
his table and across mine
nine, maybe ten years
and a toothy grin
I grin as well, mine
less toothy, less honest
he lifts his fork
puts too much pancake
in his too small mouth
still grinning
his ears wiggle
with every chew
A waitress, the one
with red hair -
the young one
stops by and refills
my coffee cup
the liquid splashes over
and onto the table,
leaving a ring of
liquid devotion around
the bottom of the cup
I don’t like this
waitress much
too young, not as
nice and friendly,
or as understanding as
the others - and she
doesn’t refill my coffee
as often as I’d like
That’s all there is to it:
keep my cup full,
so that I lose track
of how much I’ve drunk,
how much I’ve drowned in
and I’ll remember your name