Daydreaming and then, maybe, writing a poem about it. And that's my life.
there he was arriving on main street carrying a backpack and a suitcase both stuffed with papers “WELCOME TO THE TOWN OF FORGOTTEN POETS.” said the shadows that watched from the windows of nearby buildings He didn’t like the sound of their voices but he sighed and dragged his tired feet along they were almost as tired as his soul and just as hurt He'll have to live on the streets, for the town was overpopulated
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It became more and more obvious There was a storm inside her growing ever stronger and she sought to terminate it before it was too late It's arguably more difficult to terminate such storms when you're fifteen and still living with your parents so she decided not to share her struggle with them and reached inside her for the eye of the storm with a steel wire she'd kept in a bottle of hand sanitizer for a day and a night Yes, the first raindrops painted the white of the bathtub they were crimson and salty like her tears
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The old lady kept coming by
the hospital to assure the medics that it’ll be okay
“He’s a true fighter,” she said. “I know he’ll make it.
He has won the battle with drugs
twice in the past. He’ll make it this time as well. I
know it. I feel it. I believe in him.”
“Mam,” said the doctor. “We found rusty fragments
of broken needles stuck in his arm. Now, since
you’re his only relative
I do believe we shall carry out a discussion involving septic shock.
The effects…”
“He’ll make it! I know he will!
He’s a true fighter and a champion.
I believe in him.”
He didn’t make it
but it was fine apparently. When they showed his
body in the morgue, the old lady
didn’t flinch.
Told them that’s not her son.
That was a dead body and her son was alive.
He’d…
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Well, after you write enough and try to publish for long enough you just notice it There is no such thing as good or bad poetry. There's just poetry to which people can relate and poetry to which people can't relate. And that makes all the difference in the world.
This morning he sent his third part (third time) of poems that we will publish every Wednesday. I personally thank the author who has many followers who value his written work.
j re crivello founder of Masticadores (*)
life’ll smile father punched him lightly in the shoulder and said, "Hey, keep that chin up, buddy. Just know that a time will come when life'll smile at us." Sure, he'd been saying that since forever. That was the earliest and most common memory of him Grinning from ear to ear and saying that a day will come when life'll smile upon them But until that day they'll have to sit in the town square and play their cheap instruments for passersby to drop money in their box Keep that chin up… Oh, father. You can't play the violin holding your chin up And life won't smile if you keep playing it…
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Well no wonder he kept dying or the police would catch up to him in the first minute after hitting someone or stealing a car. The game was for big kids. It said so on the box. He got bored despite all the things he could do and put the controller down. He looked around the living room went into the kitchen She was nowhere He went upstairs opened the door to the bedroom and, well, she was there sprawled on the bed naked filming herself with her phone while continually stabbing herself between the legs with... a lightsaber? It seemed painful too. She was gasping. "What are you doing?" he asked. And her response was a scream She pulled the lightsaber thingy out and threw it under the bed and turned off the phone. "Hey, what did I tell you about entering without knocking?" "Nothing," he said. "Well... Just... Just don't tell anyone about it, okay? And why did you come upstairs anyway? "I'm sorry. Look, I keep dying at the game." She came downstairs with him grabbed the controller unpaused the game "Watch this." Circle, Right, Circle, Right, Left, Square, Triangle, Up She passed the controller to him "Okay, now go kill somebody." he crossed the street and punched an old lady to death and then stomped on her body everyone saw that no police showed up no yellow stars. Nothing. "Whaaaaat? I don't believe it." He wandered into the street, stopped a car opened the driver's door pulled the driver out beat him to death and stole the car. No police "How did you do it?" "A boyfriend taught me. Along with many, many other things. You can even get a device that lets you fly." "I don't believe it!" "Believe it. Infinite health too. I can do that for you. If, of course..." "Yes, yes! I'll keep the secret. I swear! And I swear to God you're the best, best babysitter I've ever had. This! This is what I'm gonna tell dad when he gets home. I swear!" "Don't bother. He knows."
the little building was made of wood though it looked sturdy enough the high windows were barred and he could only see part of the girl’s face as she called out to him from inside “If you got a good drill,” she said, “you could make a hole in the wall and stick it in. I’ll take care of the rest real nice for you.” “What?” he said “What? Don’t you wanna help a poor girl in distress, Mister?” He blinked. “How... would that help?” “Tremendously,” she said. “If you get me pregnant it’ll mean I’ll be set free.” But somebody else called out to him before he could ask his next ‘what?’ A man coming from behind the building. “Hey! It’s off limits here, stranger. Away with you before trouble sparks, got it?” The girl disappeared from the window He raised his hands slowly and backed away apologizing to…
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Dad was fat all his life Obese He couldn’t do a lot of things. Walk without special help Bathe Climb stairs Sit in a normal chair Drive a normal car Sleep in a normal bed And say “I love you, son.” To draw those words out of his dad he became a cartoonist, but that also failed. And now that his father was dead, collapsed face down on the kitchen floor, blood seeping out of a head wound, he struggled to turn him over on his back and dipped his finger in the blood and drew a speech bubble next to his father’s head and wrote in it the famous words. Finally. “I love you too, dad.”
because it’s nice to be young because it’s nice to be in your early to mid twenties and it’s nice to do the thing after you’ve done the thing the thing that comes after you’ve done the thing is always the same but the thing that leads to the thing is often different this night it was white powder they shared it neatly between each other and then climbed into bed “Christ,” he said. “I still can’t believe you sucked dick for this shit. And a carload of it. What was it, like four, five guys?” “Oh, shut your hole, you pauper-ass. If you had a job like a decent motherfucker I wouldn’t have to do that shit, you know?” “Shit, baby, don’t make this trip worse than it is.” “You started it.” “Whatever, let’s just get to the next thing already.” “I haven’t even bathed. You know, after taking on that carload…” But it was too late to think. the first thing kicked in hard and it lead to the other and a brain wasn’t needed for any of them and the cold wind blew through the broken window and dried their sweat
I liked her dad He was an interesting guy preached all day long about smartphone addiction while his daughter was on her smartphone, ignoring him “A human life,” he was saying. “Controlled by a piece of plastic with lights. A destiny completely determined by a machine designed by corporations to become god, to claim souls. How blind, how utterly and impossibly blind a whole generation of human beings can be. To willingly subject themselves to slavery like that. Their thumbs and fingers always tap-tap-tapping that screen as if trying to break their soul free from beyond. But it never happens. You cannot break a door by merely knocking on it...” “Whatever, dude,” said his daughter with the phone before her face He shook his head and then looked at me. This time I too was looking at my phone. “I see she has corrupted you too,” he said. “Shame. I…
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Daydreaming as a profession 