# battle

Globes

Oh atom bomb kiss them sweet,

yellow paper skin, but we all come from

the same beast, or Eve got a sunburn of the womb, depending on your thinking.

 

Over time we see ourselves as high art

because we pine for Eleanor Rigby and her lonely people. Looking back to where they come from is

only half the key, more comes from what gets bottled in times loose capsules

.

Little battleship, your sad crusaders trapped, corked in dead space while Napoleon's manhood lies in a glass case,

under an admission fee. A punch line made of a tyrant; would Josephine love him now?

History knows us well, playing on infinite repeat while we’re nostalgic for trash and hungry for the moments we steal from the back pockets of winter tableaus.

Skate away on me, the river, sitting with one eye closed, fearing what’s behind

These daily triumphs.

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Without

Living life without vices, in vises

pinching these niches already covered with stitches, 

triggers to live, never dabbled in ideas of binges. 

We crawl under a rock despite what they convince us 

away from the trimmings, away from the fixings.

The crumbs at the bottom left for the wishless 

enough is enough when talking about richness,

the only way to survive here is to own your own business

 

Let's run from the taxes and dance with taking chances

to ballads locked in capsules shot out into the blackness

knowing you're good no matter what the fuck happens!

Hearts buried at the opposite side of the atlas

in dirt that bleeds red in the mountains that I imagine.

Rolling hills on this canvas, while we duck in these barracks 

 

Blowing out each candle that lights up these battles

far from a bandit, or a captain leading the masses

I don't have the will, the patience or the malice.

I tried to identify but all it did was show me the buckets

a mask that weighs down the luggage

like writing poems that just rhyme, doesn't make me a poet 

ask the poets, writing about the things you'll never notice

leaving the reader in remoteness, lost in the novas 

that bright light, that slowly tortures 

these words make up another opus, simple enough to focus 

to sit and take notice, even if it isn't a "poem"... 

View kevynestrela's Full Portfolio

Without

Living life without vices, in vises

pinching these niches already covered with stitches, 

triggers to live, never dabbled in ideas of binges. 

We crawl under a rock despite what they convince us 

away from the trimmings, away from the fixings.

The crumbs at the bottom left for the wishless 

enough is enough when talking about richness,

the only way to survive here is to own your own business

 

Let's run from the taxes and dance with taking chances

to ballads locked in capsules shot out into the blackness

knowing you're good no matter what the fuck happens!

Hearts buried at the opposite side of the atlas

in dirt that bleeds red in the mountains that I imagine.

Rolling hills on this canvas, while we duck in these barracks 

 

Blowing out each candle that lights up these battles

far from a bandit, or a captain leading the masses

I don't have the will, the patience or the malice.

I tried to identify but all it did was show me the buckets

a mask that weighs down the luggage

like writing poems that just rhyme, doesn't make me a poet 

ask the poets, writing about the things you'll never notice

leaving the reader in remoteness, lost in the novas 

that bright light, that slowly tortures 

these words make up another opus, simple enough to focus 

to sit and take notice, even if it isn't a "poem"... 

View kevynestrela's Full Portfolio