I've been out of it lately. I guess its just the extra time to breath I have, thanks to the momentary break from that hardcore schedule. It definitely shows in what I've been writing lately - can't help but put it all on paper. Either way, fuck your worries people and onward we stride!
How's everyone else doing? Got something like 160 different people that have visited the page. Hopefully, a few are coming back. I'll try to keep you here. Todays piece:
Mr. Hatiko's Despair
He awakens
Glare of the morning sun
A blinding reminder that yesterday is no more
and today is just a yesterday waiting to expose its rosy cheeks
The Bronx bleeds its symphony through the cracks in his window frame
Subway cars and a forgotten Major fuse as they traverse the cigarette stained air
On a path to his ear
There’s no place like home
No place quite worthy of the lovely, hateful mess of feelings attached to it
Like this towering concrete prison
Its captives unlearned and over-experienced
Finding love for sale in the hands of children -
Children finding love in the loins of children -
Creating children in the loins of children.
And he is nothing more than a child
Wearing the mask of an adult and flexing his voice as one
His glare is that of a lone wolf in the forest of his mind
He finds he likes his time alone and he worries
If he can move beyond the blood and spit stained path
Carved by those before him,
Can he walk a golden road?
Will his legs carry him beyond his grungy walls of insecurity
To the oft visited dreamlands of his mind?
Or is this urban seer merely unfortunate enough to have been born with eyes
Fine focused enough to witness his own demise and see that
Today is just a yesterday waiting to show her gleaming browns
Will he let them raise him up or keep him down?
Glare of the morning sun
A blinding reminder that yesterday is no more
and today is just a yesterday waiting to expose its rosy cheeks
The Bronx bleeds its symphony through the cracks in his window frame
Subway cars and a forgotten Major fuse as they traverse the cigarette stained air
On a path to his ear
There’s no place like home
No place quite worthy of the lovely, hateful mess of feelings attached to it
Like this towering concrete prison
Its captives unlearned and over-experienced
Finding love for sale in the hands of children -
Children finding love in the loins of children -
Creating children in the loins of children.
And he is nothing more than a child
Wearing the mask of an adult and flexing his voice as one
His glare is that of a lone wolf in the forest of his mind
He finds he likes his time alone and he worries
If he can move beyond the blood and spit stained path
Carved by those before him,
Can he walk a golden road?
Will his legs carry him beyond his grungy walls of insecurity
To the oft visited dreamlands of his mind?
Or is this urban seer merely unfortunate enough to have been born with eyes
Fine focused enough to witness his own demise and see that
Today is just a yesterday waiting to show her gleaming browns
Will he let them raise him up or keep him down?
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