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More from ~8l4ckH0l35un

April1 What Is This Dream?                                                      Qué es este sueño?
                  That I cannot
Awake from           nor
                  remember.
                                 Bits
And
 Pieces
A cat        laying             dead
             Alongside
 You.
         And hours             seemed
Like                             days   without
       The                     sun,
             With a  child
Screaming

                          Fuck.
Breath15 a minute, 900 an hour, 21,600 a day, 7,884,000 a year
This is how I breath.
In my 15 breaths, 20 children die.
And in a year I waste 7,884,00 breaths
Breaths that could save a life or a love or the world but instead I waste them.
I don't understand.
Because I don't stop there
No!
I waste your breath as well.
And so I don't object when you take the breath from my lungs in a rush of passion
Neither of us comprehends, because it belongs to you anyways.
In my wasted 126,144,000 breaths, I have done nothing worthwhile,
But the future is a big place (supposedly)
StarsI found stars of tea this eve. They were almost beautiful.
I realized these stars held my future, and
Try as I might to arrange them into my desired constillations
They move no more than the dead.

My belly becomes the holder of my
Future, now that I've sipped half the tea away,
and all the stars are gone and because I took so long the tea is cold and I wonder, Like the night I sat with a girl I wasn't sure I loved by the river
I wasn't sure existed; I wonder
If this is what G-d feels like.
Does s/he stare into rivers of tea and stars and wonder about the future?
Does she want to catch a body whilst coming through the rye,
Or would
J'eris en FrancaisJ'ai écrit dans français aujourd' hui,
Parce que quand je fais, je sentis
Bel.
Je sais ça moi ne suis pas,
Mais tu je laisses j'ai mon amusant.
Sempiternal            George Proulx awoke to a banausic morning. This particular Tuesday morning, George dreaded getting out of bed; not to say that he didn’t dread getting out of bed every morning he had to work. Thus is the life of a cubicle worker.

            While dragging himself into the shower, George decided he would go out for breakfast that morning, since he was out of artificially fruit flavored cereal. (He never really understood why “fruit” was included in the name of such cereals, since the cereal tastes nothing like fruit, but he didn’t bother to ask.) George was the sort of man that did the majority of his day
I-37A gentle lullaby belted by our engine
Accompanied by the asphalt orchestra.
Life reveled by a flashing red light.

Fuck. We forgot to stop.

Our baptism into the church of the Bodhisattvas.
Performed by the street lamps while
Verses found
On the inside of a restroom stall
Showed us the path to wander.

I've found my religion, after losing it for so long.
Now if only I could learn to hold on to it,
While light-heartedly frolicking through life.

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April 8, 2010
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April6 Comfort

:icon8l4ckh0l35un:

Some nights I
Find comfort in that
I am not

The only one
Who is a failure
In love, life

Writing, joy
Friendships, art, speaking
And all else.

Other nights,
A sweating, weeping
Mess, I wake.
:icon8l4ckh0l35un:
I know it's not a technical Haiku, but I stayed with the 353 structure.
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