PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

GUESS I'M PRETTY RANDOM

WHAT ELSE CAN I SAY

TAKE THIS THOUGHT IN TANDEM

WITH THIS RHYME TODAY

Every line

doesn't have to rhyme

Syllable count is important

I never feel good enough

I have no self esteem

I tend to sabotage my stuff

Do you know what I mean

In a car, rolling on a strange deserted highway, the heat absorbed by the skin of the two cousins inside. Only silence and the tires going at 100km/h could be heard, and sometimes the poor insects splashing like a paintball against the car’s front. The driver decided to put Spotify on with a random weird playlist named “I’m a cyborg but that’s ok”.

After a few random unorganized songs, The Globalist by Muse came on. “Oh! Hey, listen to this,” said the driver while increasing the volume “I heard this song the other day, it made me think in a short story that fits well with the song.”

“Sure, hit it.” Said the cousin.

“Alright,” he prepared himself with his shaky right hand “imagine a man struggling in a deserted highway, he looks messed up, like if a gang of people beat him up to the blink of death. Black eye, blood sliding down like sweat on the forehead, he even lost two complete fingernails with dirt as a substitute. His mind is white, he is not sure what to expect next, but suddenly, a strike of motivation hit him. ‘Screw it, I’ll do it’ he whispered to himself.” The intense part of the song began at this exact moment.

“Do what?” his cousin asked.

“Nobody knows, he just decided to do it. He walked in the endless desert, and then he found it. An abandoned cabin in the middle of the desert. He went down the hill and reached the door, he seemed to know the place, and he seemed anxiously angry, collecting weapons that were hidden everywhere in it. Ropes, guns, knives, grenades, a map, water, mustard gas, molotovs and a lot more. Focused and agitated his heart stopped for a second leaving a tight feeling in his chest. He saw a picture laying on the ground, face down, he picked it up and looked at it, he then smirked while having deep thoughts: his childhood friendships, his family hanging out at the local hamburgers store, hanging out with his girlfriend, the day he got married, the day he lost a thousand dollars in the casino, the day he got that thousand bucks back, the year he was on drugs, everything that had impacted his life was flashing on his eyes—‘bang!’ he shoot a bullet on the head of a guy.” The epic-ness of the song turned off.

“Wait, what? He was remembering positive things of his life and suddenly all that was cut by a gunshot? Who did he kill?” The music resumed with a resolution feeling on the air.

“I don’t know, nobody does. But just imagine it, be in his shoes.”

After that, silence was again prevailing, until the driver stopped the car in the middle of nowhere. “Well, this is your stop. I guess, I will see you soon?” said the driver, while looking away. His cousin opened his door, got out of the car, turned back to close the door. “Stop chasing yourself for what you did” he said. The driver looked down, nodded and didn’t said another word. He drove ahead, and he took a glimpse on the front mirror to see the reflection of nothing but an empty road and an endless desert.

He sits there. In his hands he has his little book of poems, and a backpack by his side. The tree besides him casts a soft shade over the bench, shielding him from the blazing sun. A cold breeze ruffles the pages of the book and he puts it down and looks up. A few people play with their dogs on that circular grassy area over there. A couple walks along the tree line holding hands. He looks down and tries to resume his reading, but his concentration is lost. His mind is already far away. Three years away.

His mind is on her blue eyes and on her freckled face and on her thin lips. His mind twirls her hair and brushes her nose and caresses her eyelids as she sleeps. He feels her soft skin under his hands, and sees the way her hair sprawls over his pillow and feels her breath on his neck. Feeling his chest tighten, he sighs and puts the book away into his backpack; it was after all just a recommendation, something to take his mind off her. He stands up and looks for something to do, anything. Seeing a trail that leads into the wooded area of the park, he starts walking.

A few minutes later he is already immersed in the woods. The smell of moss and rotten leaves and trees calm him. The birds squawk loudly overhead as they look for food or a suitable mate. His eyes follow the complete path of a squirrel leaving his hiding hole, finding a nut by the base of a tree, scurrying around the dead leaves and underbrush, finding a good place and burying the nut there, and finally darting back to the hole. He stops walking as another squirrel that was hiding on a tree branch scuttles down and goes to the exact same spot and unburies the nut, eating it right there and then, leaving the waste behind. He pictures himself as the nut that was left buried, abandoned by the first squirrel, and is immensely grateful that the second squirrel came along and unburied and ate him. The nut was lucky the second squirrel found it, he reasons. When the squirrel comes back, it will be terribly sorry to find his food gone and will have no one to blame but itself. He knows squirrels bury their food for the coming winter when resources are scarce and it’s part instinct, but wasn’t the first squirrel taking the nut a little for granted? Isn’t it a bit arrogant to think that the nut will just lie there quietly and diligently while the squirrel looks for other nuts until it’s ready? The nut does not owe anything to the squirrel; it has no reason to jeopardize its own survival for another species entirely. And when the first squirrel returns it has no right, no right at all, to act surprised and hurt about the lost food because really, what did it expect leaving his nut there, alone and forgotten? When the other squirrel came it offered the nut a purpose in the immediate future. I won’t bury you, I won’t leave you waiting, I will use you right now, and you will never be alone again. Why shouldn’t the nut let itself be dug out? The first squirrel obviously had no time for it at the present moment, here is another squirrel that does. The second squirrel did not bother with pointless “in the future” statements. It wants the nut, and it wants it now. Just because the first squirrel buried it and is waiting to return to it does not mean the nut should wait too! What if the first squirrel doesn’t return? What then? No. I had no idea if she was ever coming back, I was alone and forgotten and who can blame me for going home with someone when—A tree branch snaps.

The man puts a hand over his eyes and takes deep breaths. His heartbeat has accelerated and he focuses on the faraway squawking of birds and the forest’s smell to calm down again. He realizes he has been standing there for some time looking at a bunch of squirrels playing hide and seek, and feels a bit embarrassed. Turning towards the path, he looks up at the sun and goes to look for some ice cream.

You've made a mess of my crystal clear mind,
Scattered debris of a once full picture,
These decipated fragments reform
Colored red from my vained attempts to hold,
But as the red clots and I have a temporary threshold,
If there is a God above,
Please bestow upon me,
One more step forward.

He is so happy and so enthused

he plays his violin and is very amused

everyone tells him how good he can play

but he says he cannot play that way everyday.

People wonder how that could be

when obviously he can play, you can see

but when he is sober he is scared and afraid

that he will not like the song that he made.

Even though it is beautiful, and even though it is pure,

he says he needs the alcohol, and that is for sure,

to help dull his senses just enough

and make playing the violin a little less tough.

I hope that one day he will learn to play

the violin in a less threatening way

so that he too can hear the sound

 without all of his other senses bringing him down.

Apples and pears
Under the stairs

Apples and pears awry

Apples and pears
Nobody cares if you put them both in a pie

can it be

that writing these few words

in empty space

will make me feel less

hollow