Unobstructed Viewswe never quite know
how to start things out.
then again, who does.
and we are us,
never quite right.
we are warriors.
i -- we fight,
emotions that we can't control,
situations that get out of hand,
what we must do,
what we must not do.
we are wars.
our left side tears apart
from our right side and
part of us screams and
the other part laughs.
inner conflictes mingle
with outer conflicts and
all we do is watch.
all we can do
we are the gazers.
all we do is watch.
all we can do is gaze
upon the difference of
yesterday and today.
we watch the blood spill,
the endless loathing,
the bridges burn,
the forests burn,
the mountains change shape,
the cliffs get smaller,
the sky gets darker,
the sky gets lighter,
our skin gets deeper whilst
the ocean grows wider,
and our feelings
we are incomplete.
day in, day out.him.
he wakes up and lights a cigarette.
he slaps his alarm clock and
flings his blanket to the wall,
rising and stripping,
walking in nudity towards warmth.
she wakes up and tossels her hair.
she sets her walkman to indie rock
with a side of synthisizer,
and makes her bed.
she picks out clothes and
undresses to redress,
getting ready for the day.
he gets home and lights a cigarette.
he plays a lilt on low volume of
violin and piano and acoustic guitar
to play via his vintage record player.
he sits on a lazyboy and
pilfers through today's paper,
mentally commenting on
society's worsening state.
she gets home and tossels her hair.
she sets to play a mix of trance and dance
on full volume.
she strips down to lingerie and
sips on champagne
whilsts dancing around her room.
waiting for reality to hit her hard.
he gets tired and lights a cigarette.
the newspaper longsince folded up,
a book in his right hand.
he sets it down and
clockwork sorrowthat odd habit of
fingering the bags beneath their eyes
crept in more and more
as the night would drone on.
and on, and on.
gentlemen would stretch and groan and
ladies would sweep their hair to the right.
the whole lot of people would fidget
like movement was going out of style.
and it sort of was.
a clockwork orange
would be a better title for this
and somewhere between
the chimes striking just past midnight
and that disco ball making its way into the crowd,
alligator-lips would curve
just a kiss sweetly
and spill secrets
the world called resolutions
into the gutters of their thoughts
and maybe some of them stuck to their guns,
but most let chap stick slick promises
get swept away.
light is breaking in but
they still act as if in the dark.
people can only pretend for so long,
before the truth begins to seep out.
talking is over rated now;
whispers have gone from
not quite there at all.
voices are lower than hushes and
those slick a