Happily ever after doesn’t exist.
Not when people like you also exist.
I bought myself a new suit of armor so you don’t drive another knife in my back.
I told the vendor to hold the stallion because human legs were never for aesthetic purposes.
I wanted to walk the face of the Earth with you using my own.
We would’ve walked more than a thousand miles together to chase the sun and avoid the night.
And I never needed to worry about my tired legs.
They built up a tolerance from walking in the coastal sand and helping me keep up with dirty dishes.
I told you about my demons and how quickly I am to care when I’m shown an act of kindness.
Mother always lectured me that no matter how small they may be, they are never in vain.
But there is such a thing as being too kind. There is such a thing as temptation.
The best of us cave in once, twice, or maybe more than that when we write in our diaries.
You were like such a book to me and I trusted you, but never did I expect that you’d defile my soul
By persuading me to partake in activities that I would never in my right mind do.
I should have recalled the fable of a girl who trusted a poltergeist that haunted a similar diary.
Had I not flee the moment I saw your true character, I would have joined her in death.
Looking back, I understand that diaries are the keys to starting fires and turning innocents into fugitives.
You can try with all your might to pry my mouth open to get me to spill any more beans
But my lips are staying sealed because I know who you really are and I finally learned my lesson.
You never exposed me. You only leaked a chapter that was part of a book you never read.
So why bother showing it to you knowing that my real friends and family will be endangered as well?
I know that a deluded man gambled away so much ammo to the vipers that he became a trainwreck.
I swear on my recurring nightmares that any answers to your questions will be used against me.
Truth and justice is a concept invented by people and after all, people do make mistakes.
God bless the right to remain silent.
Because even the condemned understand that its value supersedes a vault of gold
That the draconian blackjack dealers steal from the poor that desire to play with them.
Where was Robin Hood when I needed him most?
Flash forward to a single year and I’m now twenty-five with an art degree in hand.
I’ve spent all that time studying my ass off and avoiding the vipers that plague my past.
I was with my true friends who never give a shit about your deceit when I realized I never needed you.
Preparing for financial exams under the tutelage of a bright mathematician was like you never existed.
So the next time you see me, I won’t grovel on the pavement begging you to take me back.
Instead, I’ll look the other way and French kiss my new admirer in front of you.
Just to let you know that I changed for the better and you missed out on the life we could’ve had.
I am fortunate to understand that your absence last summer turned out to be a blessing in disguise.
I dare you to call me an idiot again!
I dare you to call me a chicken!
I dare you to say that I’m going down
While you hide behind the blackjack dealers that love you for show!
There’s always someone out there willing to give you a taste of your own medicine anyway.
How did it feel when even Discordia didn’t want anything to do with you?
Was it salty and sour like your attitude and your deceit?
Cavities caused by the consumption of these candies are a pain for dentists to fill.
And just like that, you disappeared from the face of the Earth again. Hopefully, for good this time.
You can erase your identity from the world, but you cannot erase the marks your venom left behind.
You may still be on my mind from time to time, but I don’t see you in a virtuous light anymore.
You are nothing but a fable.
"It's been over a year.
I realize,
eyes playing about on dates
of the calender.
Suddenly thinking
back to a year before,
days exactly 364.
So, less than a year,
by hours. When the
lips that pressed were ours.
When our fingers intertwined,
when we felt each others' bodies,
souls, mind.
So wrong, so forbidden,
it felt right.
Written into passing,
the scripts and screenplay
of night-time stays,
never staying until morning.
Visits,
door left unlocked,
just in case.
Offered, often heard,
only once utilized.
She always said she would.
Eventually.
She did,
softly cooing my name,
pulling me out of my slumber,
and instantly hopping into my bed,
my arms, pulling her close.
My warm bare skin
juxtaposed to her cold clothing.
We soon matched.
There was no lack
of mutual attraction,
no shortage of constant communication,
trips, adventures,
ridiculous confessions
and straight-forward denial.
I denied I did wrong,
to myself.
Who knows how she felt.
All I know
is that she felt good,
she felt like home,
like I belonged.
Longing for her scent,
I still remember
how it drove me wild.
Past-tense,
as she liked to point out.
It's a lie,
there is nothing passed.
Though, once she asked
if she was hurting me.
I, misunderstanding,
replied, 'why, no,
it's my other shoulder
that's broken.'
She grinned,
leaning into my arms,
'no,' she said,
'this. Us.'
It hurt,
seeing her dog I grew to adore
slowly separate us on the couch
a year or so ago.
It hurts still
thinking of some details.
Fond memories,
so vivid, full of her laughter.
Haunted by scorn,
the scorn of several people,
over all that transpired.
You'd think a year
would wash it all away,
but nothing is past-tense.
Hence,
the dreams.
Thoughts I can't deny,
lying that they're gone.
They aren't.
I was told it was trouble,
I was warned.
But still I got in her car,
she got in mine.
She's a phone call away;
I don't have the heart
to dial,
knowing damn well
I'd immediately answer if she called.
Does she read my poetry?
Does she think of me?
Love me like I love her still?
I should have not turned my cheek.
I should have came to her rescue
against canine off-leash.
But I didn't.
And I wish I had.
Instead, all I have
is a book with edits,
another that's a gift
belonging to her,
one of her favorites.
We even shared a quote,
'Never lend a book.'
An act of affection instead,
one of several.
She never said the words,
but she gave me many gifts.
It started with a cold can.
That's how she loved me.
I wish I had realized it
a year or so ago."
"It's been a bit,
since I've written real words,
real verbs, letters lined up
to litter the page
with alliteration,
metaphors, hyperboles,
other devices that help gain
your undivided attention.
It's been a bit,
I almost quit,
because the last time I was on stage,
I felt like a tripped.
I felt like I didn't perform,
I knew I was pulling punches,
because there was much to consider,
but now it's got me a little bitter.
I held back.
I held back,
lowering my tone,
juxtaposed to my actual voice;
loud.
I held back,
because of the
familiar face
In the crowd.
I held back,
instead of letting it rip,
taking people on a little trip
to recount how one's lid
was flipped.
I held back
because I was scared
that I wasn't hip
and I wasn't hop,
when I was raised on Wu-Tang
and Nas
in a place where
where rain constantly drops,
and I know how
the beat drops,
the mic rocks,
and how rhymes can make time stop.
I held back
because the tone of my skin
has people guessing
wrong my ethnicity,
if you think I'm white,
you're not right,
and to be honest
that's not point.
Because I come from a place
where I was too nerd to be brown
and too chale be white
and too polite to be hanging out
with the gangsters
stealing cars
and shooting at other's backs,
and if you think
I'm talking about blacks
that's the problem,
assumption causes caution,
because not only were those
want-to-be thugs
of fairer skin,
my only friends
were much darker kin.
In the Marines,
we call ourselves green,
and you're either
dark green,
light green,
and there's no disillusion,
you disagree?
Shoot,
perhaps in the Army.
And yes,
the Navy too,
there's no turning back,
I'm no longer holding back,
what I'm saying is true.
The point of this piece
is to bring peace
to me,
that I was wrong
to hold back,
to withhold from the reader,
because how can I call myself
a poet
if I'm not painting a picture?
With your mind as the canvas,
and my words as the paint?
I watched poets come on stage,
deliver works of art,
things beautiful,
and I saw a beautiful, torn heart
put her hand up in the air
to an artist work,
like it was gospel in the church,
with thoughts on me! I saw,
but I held back,
and what I provided last time
was a finger painting
of child's skill.
I need to be real,
paint a real picture,
my motions and emotion
the finest paintbrush,
now fluttering about
all over your mind,
hopefully breathing to life
that I,
a man,
am more than some accusation,
of being mean heart.
Of being a relatable object,
supposedly,
to a poem so eloquently put
'he broke my heart,
and called it poetry'?
Get out with that
hand raised in the air
while another poet
spills out her pain,
and perhaps next time
I won't hold back,
paint a picture
of how her heartbreak
did become my poetry.
Yes, I'm being specific,
and context would make
for a much hotter piece,
but I'm over this,
over being scared,
I've conquered mountains
and crossed bridges.
Reader,
I respectfully submit,
give me another chance.
I won't hold back."
I say, I say, about this book….
By JFarrell
I say, I say, about this book…..
Look at that mountain,
Does it look like I write books?
Oh, please forgive me,
You probably do not recognise me,
It has been a long while.
I’m God, so pleased to make your acquaintance,
I designed this little paradise,
Quite a while a go.
Then got called out on a job;
After all, one has to pay one’s bills.
Forgot all about this place.
I was driving home listening to Radio 4’s Christian hour,
What a secret pleasure, rather like listening to Monty Python on acid;
Laughed so much, nearly rear-ended the police car in front of me.
But, about this book….
I do not write books,
I make mountains, and I create microscopic snowflakes,
Why the hell would I write a book?
Look around you,
Every mountain, flower, cloud, living creature, raindrop, snowflake and rainbow,
If you can’t see “I love you” written there,
LEARN TO READ!
I did not write this book.
MEN wrote this book.
Just a bit of fun :)
"You're free
to be
as creative as you are;
or so they say.
Yet.
Every time,
the artist guided,
unwarranted.
Unnecessary.
Why is the artist
so restricted?
IS it concious?
Do those who commission
Art
know they can be stifling it?
Or,
is it a lack of trust?
Not enough of it
to go around, knows
the budding artist
with lack of portfolio.
No trust
goes to those
with no reference.
So often are we told
we are free,
when we are not.
Their own opinion
trusted first,
unintentional or not,
before the artist,
the one who creates.
When one asks another
to create,
to stifle the flame
is to put it out completely.
Trust is a must,
we must learn to
give our hearts and minds
and souls
to others
to mold.
And that's the hardest thing to do."
"No excuse,
but the metal has rusted.
An unkept armory.
Barrels with red,
triggers peppered orange.
Springs stuck,
pins, unmoving.
Bores obstructed.
The whole weapon set
useless,
to the trained eye.
But
a gun is still a gun,
the potential it has
to kill,
ever present.
Rusty or not,
it is still recognizable,
months of no use
not enough to erase
the sizable impression
of the shape,
the indication
of the handgun, long gun.
The task looming,
Armorer,
keys in hand,
sighing.
Unlocking
the cages,
duty tumblers turning,
locks coming free.
So long,
had it beem
since maintenance
had been laid
where it belong.
The familiar metal
began to fill hands,
twist, turn,
rifles broke down,
pistols slid apart.
Rusty was the
mind,
as were the firemans,
but both began
to be broken
free.
Rag, brush,
break-away sprayed,
assemblies oiled.
Pieces began to click,
operate smoothly,
unlike language,
where lack of use
means disappearance,
past tense
isn't the demise
of functionality of things,
like bike riding.
or an armory.
The Armorer will be busy,
it may take some time.
But he will pass inspection.
With work,
with determination,
desire
and time.
It takes time
for things to rust.
It takes time
to fix such a lack of use.
The best solution
isn't busting rust,
but daily use,
rather."
KAPOSI’S SARCOMA
It’s been many years since Charlie has showered.
By a rapist, he was roughly deflowered.
Born a piece of trash, he will remain the same.
Generations of incest are most likely to blame.
He wears a dress because he’s a homosexual.
The frigid turnip has become hypersexual.
Charlie was placed in a nursing home.
He acquired immune deficiency syndrome.
He’s such a mess.
His stature is small.
Refuse to feed him.
Don’t feed him at all.
Transfusion trades;
He’s learned a trade.
Spread it on purpose;
Another one laid.
Partaking in the spreading of Aids.
Sharing blood by way of needles and razor blades.
I enjoy seeing his many defections.
He has lost the ability to fight infections.
He’s expecting to die from pneumonia;
Either that, or Kaposi’s Sarcoma.
His request was to be cremated.
Instead, for him a black casket awaited.
Infect them with;
Immune system disease.
There is no cure.
Spread and seize.
Sniff really hard.
Smell the aroma.
Charlie died;
From Kaposi’s Sarcoma.
From the book, EXOTIC NEUROTIC.
Copyright © 2016 Kenneth Jarrett Singleton
All rights reserved
http://www.booksamillion.com/p/Exotic-Neurotic/Kenneth-K-Jarrett-J-Singl...
BONNIE’S DESTRUCTION OF THE PRISTINE DISHES
Long live rage, as well as, tragedy.
They’ll live evermore.
I am confident without your trust.
I’m glad that life is a major whore.
She has washed her spotless dishes;
But they will never dry.
She has washed her pristine wishes;
But the promises were all lies.
Long live straining and intact notions.
Some people live life only for chores.
I am confident that you will rust.
It is now time to produce the spores.
She has left the rumor vacant.
Gossip is left for thought.
She has left the tumor vacant.
She is exactly what you are not.
I created my own discontent.
Contentment is absent and far away.
Indulging in misery without consent;
I wonder what Bonnie would say?
She possesses her own opinions.
Bonnie’s judgment is viewed as fair.
She should put on display her dominion.
Long live misery and despair.
From the book, EXOTIC NEUROTIC.
Copyright © 2016 Kenneth Jarrett Singleton
All rights reserved
"First, he says,
first and foremost,
the cub has it's roar,
or did I mean Lion?
He tells me,
performs for me,
the vivid imagery
of the courage and strength,
trying to give unto another.
No script, no paper,
off memory, his poetry
is in his heart,
and apart from my written word,
wow, can i perforn like
the one singing bump and grind?
Well, I most definitely have
not the voice.
But,
the artist has instead
his art in his soul,
and no pen or pad
or book in hand, man,
this man has it.
So does She
giving me sweet epiphany,
alliteration and onomatopoeia,
hyperbole, dreams of red velvet,
a memory of perhaps
succulent treat,
and after a beat,
another artist approaches,
such powerful words.
All of them,
potential no longer blocked,
mind unlocked,
her voice giving me thoughts.
I am home,
I am surrounded by poets,
artists, lovers, dreamers,
those who have suffered
more than I,
hearing some of the pleas.
It would indeed be
enriching, more imbued positivity.
And perhaps comical
as I watch one poet
almost run over another
on trip to couch.
I grin, laughed,
laughed more when asked
to rurn to page 24.
Hands, the color red,
subjects being poured about
by all these great writers.
Such emotion,
they read,
I listen.
Tonight isn't about me,
this is about them,
and I am humbled again.
Tonight is about you,
and you, and all of you
who pour their soul,
so vulnerable.
Lessons, being preached to me,
wise words, being brushed
across my canvas,
their paint so vibrant.
Their pain so real,
like my own.
What I strive to do,
being done unto me.
They want to write,
they make me want to
write, right now.
Never stop writing,
requesting got returned keys,
being alive.
Poetry has kept me alive.
You, artists, breathe into me...
life."