Wednesday, April 04, 2007
the past will stab you down
The Return
She asked to me write of the city
Yet I felt betrayed not by the strangers
But by the city that seemed to pass me by
I never quite grasped what had happened
But it had occurred and at one point
I just decided I wasn’t returning
Yet the city wanted me to fail
It wanted to hold me captive
In the bars til last call
But I burned up the temptation
Rotating sickly motions from my fingers
On the keyboard the words bled out
The city asked me to float on by
Just for a drink and see what could happen
The invitation was tempting but my car would not start
Because I refused to fill it with anything that would tempt me
So I replied to her that my words on the city
Would be just from the past and that any further experience would not occur
Until the one night on the way home I slid back
A step by step method to resist was faltered
And my hands shook on the wheel as I returned
The trumpets blaring were not a welcoming party
But a white taxi cab unpleasant with my current position
Sitting in front of the green traffic light
I smiled and knew this was where I belonged
To prosper in daily occurrences
or to stumble upon my imminent ruin.
Confession
When I hear the voices I usually head to bed
Because all the great men & women are usually mad
But they channel that into some outward creativity
My niche is still a work in progress
But I acknowledge it could still be genius
A real writer would never even hint at this design
So he threw the keyboard across the room
And told the most honest and pure thing he even wrote
About a boy who never liked himself
Who never liked the world
Who felt betrayed by everyone for no reason
Who couldn’t love until it was mixed with hate
And than it was often too late
Through his tribulations he suffered
And toughened still it was just a paper thin shell of vulnerability
The quietest people are the ones that speak the most in their minds
And when words cannot do justice to the situation
His mind put the scenario into the perfect pitch and cadence
In the group he rubbed the wrong way almost anyone
He left any confessional tale to be one layered with one liners
And impersonal observations, people expected more.
Nothing every changes
It was funny how the place never changed
And in 8 years the same smells were still there
The faces always change as people come and go
Only two or three familiar faces everyone else barely recognizable
Cognition was a physical detriment
As a ukele served as more of a joke than a threat
But the hawaiin singer’s fingers still bled
Like the rooms often feels dingy and dirty
Common adjectives for a place of this magnificence
3 chords with a rhythm bashing
the stairs shook as the bar stand often did
tapping with the feet of drunks and aspiring drunks
and ponytails were never meant to be offensive
Memories
My junior year of high school
My best friend and I decided to take journalism
We made up our minds and were quite passionate about this pursuit
In our heads it would be so easy to become these infamous reporters
And we would research these fanatical stories
Our friends would come to us to help them expose the truth
I never wrote one article that made it into the paper that year
Every article I wrote for the paper was deemed --
inappropriate
dangerous
artificial
revolutionary
The editor was a jock and refused to print our words
We wrote about punk rock
One article reviewed the anarchist cookbook
Another the latest misfits album
An editorial on how the school favored the sports program
Over other aesthetic pursuits
The editor’s face turned red and laughed after that one
Every article more professional than the next
We truly crafted our skills and enhanced with dictionaries
And other media tools found in the classroom
Every word more potent than the next
But the trash piled up with our articles
I had honest ambitions that I could change the world with my words
And I learned the lesson that year
When everything I wrote made the editor and the teacher more offended
I discovered how to offend people by writing
My words no shock value words like fuck, cock, pussy
But my articles were disarming until the end
When the point I made hit you like a blunt fire extinguisher
Like a locker being slammed on your hand
Or at times a toilet lid hitting you over and over the head
She asked to me write of the city
Yet I felt betrayed not by the strangers
But by the city that seemed to pass me by
I never quite grasped what had happened
But it had occurred and at one point
I just decided I wasn’t returning
Yet the city wanted me to fail
It wanted to hold me captive
In the bars til last call
But I burned up the temptation
Rotating sickly motions from my fingers
On the keyboard the words bled out
The city asked me to float on by
Just for a drink and see what could happen
The invitation was tempting but my car would not start
Because I refused to fill it with anything that would tempt me
So I replied to her that my words on the city
Would be just from the past and that any further experience would not occur
Until the one night on the way home I slid back
A step by step method to resist was faltered
And my hands shook on the wheel as I returned
The trumpets blaring were not a welcoming party
But a white taxi cab unpleasant with my current position
Sitting in front of the green traffic light
I smiled and knew this was where I belonged
To prosper in daily occurrences
or to stumble upon my imminent ruin.
Confession
When I hear the voices I usually head to bed
Because all the great men & women are usually mad
But they channel that into some outward creativity
My niche is still a work in progress
But I acknowledge it could still be genius
A real writer would never even hint at this design
So he threw the keyboard across the room
And told the most honest and pure thing he even wrote
About a boy who never liked himself
Who never liked the world
Who felt betrayed by everyone for no reason
Who couldn’t love until it was mixed with hate
And than it was often too late
Through his tribulations he suffered
And toughened still it was just a paper thin shell of vulnerability
The quietest people are the ones that speak the most in their minds
And when words cannot do justice to the situation
His mind put the scenario into the perfect pitch and cadence
In the group he rubbed the wrong way almost anyone
He left any confessional tale to be one layered with one liners
And impersonal observations, people expected more.
Nothing every changes
It was funny how the place never changed
And in 8 years the same smells were still there
The faces always change as people come and go
Only two or three familiar faces everyone else barely recognizable
Cognition was a physical detriment
As a ukele served as more of a joke than a threat
But the hawaiin singer’s fingers still bled
Like the rooms often feels dingy and dirty
Common adjectives for a place of this magnificence
3 chords with a rhythm bashing
the stairs shook as the bar stand often did
tapping with the feet of drunks and aspiring drunks
and ponytails were never meant to be offensive
Memories
My junior year of high school
My best friend and I decided to take journalism
We made up our minds and were quite passionate about this pursuit
In our heads it would be so easy to become these infamous reporters
And we would research these fanatical stories
Our friends would come to us to help them expose the truth
I never wrote one article that made it into the paper that year
Every article I wrote for the paper was deemed --
inappropriate
dangerous
artificial
revolutionary
The editor was a jock and refused to print our words
We wrote about punk rock
One article reviewed the anarchist cookbook
Another the latest misfits album
An editorial on how the school favored the sports program
Over other aesthetic pursuits
The editor’s face turned red and laughed after that one
Every article more professional than the next
We truly crafted our skills and enhanced with dictionaries
And other media tools found in the classroom
Every word more potent than the next
But the trash piled up with our articles
I had honest ambitions that I could change the world with my words
And I learned the lesson that year
When everything I wrote made the editor and the teacher more offended
I discovered how to offend people by writing
My words no shock value words like fuck, cock, pussy
But my articles were disarming until the end
When the point I made hit you like a blunt fire extinguisher
Like a locker being slammed on your hand
Or at times a toilet lid hitting you over and over the head
# posted by Bobby Bobson : 7:52 AM
