sicness84

If I asked you to be honest, would you lie? If I asked who you are, would  you retort a name? I think you would… If I offered you a gift for your two cents, would you reach for your wallet? I think you would… If I asked, "Why did love cross the road," would you assume it a joke reply, "Why?" I think you would… If I asked for the time of day, would you glance at your watch? I think you would… You would. If a man tossed a pong ball in your cleavage, would you pick it out and hand it back? I wonder if you would… If he asked to eat out with you, would you blow his mind then drop your pants? I wonder if you would… I wonder. I

"A quiz not a test", I thought hours after acquiring a license, behind the wheel and no one could stop me, with nothing to fear. I was in a rush, to who knows where, with music pulsing in my ears; driving faster than reality, with nothing to fear. Then, I was caught off-guard; The car lost grip as my heart skipped and the trees became the road, permeated by nothing to fear, This was a test of my best car control; no trust in technology, it was all on me, to keep my body and soul in one piece. There is nothing to fear… Steer with your eyes, guide with your foot; accelerate past the first objective, turn before the next, on t

A pioneer in a vacant lot, awaiting acquaintance with guidelines of paint, and I rebel. Three feet in and one left out, innocuous crime let slide, or thus far, overlooked in this park. With my hand held to my ear, looking like a schizo, inviting acquaintances to meet in the dark. Dreaming up a reality of exotics bought by the pennies we pick up or profit of Goodwill, we take it. A common recipe with a touch of personality, our cars are our identity we hide behind and our dream to capitalize, we make it. With criticism and harassment as fuel, our engines roar, tires spin, smoke rises, brave souls, boisterous and boundless

Ignorance tortured him everyday, wrestling. He was twice my size yet I would always win. Thrusting my knees deep into his backbone. One day, Mrs. Montgomery didn't come, nor did he. Now a week, and I asked "Where is Jeremy?" They said that he was hurt, a tumor on his back, and I wouldn't see him anytime soon. Whatever a tumor is, I couldn't ask. I couldn't tell, anybody I didn't want them to be mad. We never meant to hurt each other, but I did. Months later, he returned In a chair. he wheeled right up to me, and said "It's ok, I'll walk again." So we rolled away, giggling. Gone, again, the next day. His back made him

I cannot read until I write. What's on the page doesn't make sense; but do my thoughts? Maybe they aren't even thoughts, but emotions, separate entities; the times when my mind more jumbled than my bed sheets. Awakened from a Nightmare that entirely possessed me, and this it is. My hand not compiling thought, nor emotion, but my Nightmare and Jumbled Sheets. I can't find the ends- not necessary anyways, the sheets cover me, not the ends. So I lay these words however they come to me. Slowly, Gently- after a long day or Vigorously Tossed- with Anger, Spite, Insecurity. Just get these Damn words down! I need th

I need this one, not so much. so I take it all in, in habit. Although I hurt myself, and still grow. Grow I addicted and lost. I lost my soul.

Well here I am, ( Recluse in my grave,) Everyday I dream of your visit. Just one late night, sitting there, speaking the words I hated to not hear. Tribute to my life and how you miss it. Open your yearbook, remember 11th grade. (But theres no time for that,) as I watch from below (more than six feet it seems) it's clear your too busy for me. (Can't blame you though,) college aint easy, I should know. and so in school it's popularity-I see... I loved feeling that too, thanks to you. I'd go home to messages waiting from you (everybody) waiting- for me. Now I lie in your backyard. WAITING, patiently- Make your breakfast

It is an imported cigar, the finest tobacco, a sophisticated expression of class. It is Clark Kent wearing his sports coat while manipulating words, describing himself, on paper for the city to see. It is protected by the richest coat of fresh blood. Sitting in the garage it appears no more intimidating than the worlds strongest mans' baby picture. Creeping into the field, stalking a herd of cattle, it studies its prey preparing for a grand feast. It lays low in the brush waiting for the prime oppurtunity, then pounces. Before they can blink their eyes it has consumed them and continues in search of its next meal. My car is no Herby the Punch