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Date: Mon, 26 May 2014 18:53:10 -0700 (PDT)
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Subject: Poems: 260514 - May 26th, 2014
From: Robert Morpheal <morpheal@yahoo.com>
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110514A
------------
Some people get dirtier than others
and once they are covered in dirt,
they might as well roll in it,
as none of it ever really comes off.
----------------------------------
110514B
-----------
Between a noose and a hero
there is the thinnest sort of line.
Sometimes everything hangs
from nothing more than a dime.
It is the call that you never got,
or the call that you never made.
You try the only number you have
but it has already been changed.
You feel out of place,
and you feel out of time.
They ran out long ago
as to anything you waited for.
You never have what they want,
but they take all that they can get.
It's a take where nothing gives,
until it's cut to the next.
You get to be the has been,
before anything really got started.
The silence gets so deafening,
you can't stand your own heartbeat.
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260514A
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If you cannot go up,
then you try to go down,
to somewhere
other than hanging around,
caught in between,
while everything goes up
and down around you.
Always looking for something
that you would want to look at,
other than the ugliness of mirrors.
Always too needy of something
to relieve that feeling,
that has no name,
and that no one dares to mention.
There are those who no longer think,
and are content
to repeat the past forever, and again,
as their particular submission
to the dominance of Hell.
The sort that would bury you
in anything trivial and meaningless.
You wait to meet someone,
but no one ever actually shows up,
leaving you in the middle of a dream,
that you suddenly awaken from,
only to find you are no further ahead,
always falling on hard times
as a complete unknown.
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