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365 Group 10

Recovery Chapter 6: Gluttony

Our fantasies and desires can negatively impact those around us if our pursuit is too relentless.
Jack reflects of related experiences in this poem.

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Give in for he’s all consuming
Ideas, themes, perspectives, He feeds on them
A pursuit for enlightenment
Absorbing all the useful
Whether relevant or not
Ones and zeros must be extracted
No shield or sword
Hopeless to the lustful desire
Hungry for it all
Better self
Better mind
Better…

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Recovery Chapter 5: Pride

All our problems are indirectly our own faults.
This poem is a reflection of that.

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Larger than life
The presence that fills the room
Energetic charisma and intelligent display too
Raunchy, flirty, playful
One man party
Quake at the sight
Never a dull moment
Always right
“Here’s how”
And the crowd goes wild
For miles of denial

Stubborn
Never learns
Delusions of grandeur at every turn
Always right and deaf
Introverted at will
No new information
No progress
Stuck still in time claiming correctness
And claiming correctness
And claiming correctness
Should correct not just be apparent?
Static in the air
The static is in the air
Lightning strike the fool refusing submission
For Zeus cannot be wrong
Says the mortal man to the mirror
To an image opposite to the objective truth
Opposite to the view of others

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Recovery Chapter 4: Wrath

We all hurt one another without knowing it. We don’t even bother being aware of things.
A short poem about it.

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Chin held high
Critic to the straight line
Fitting villain when sane
Snaking the wit relay
Stickup with a freeze ray
Building hidden word traps
To catch those slipping
On how they’re living
Wake up lesson
How to be impressive
Hold the mirror up
Singing how emotions riddle us
Ridiculous
Unreasonable treason of peace
When feelings are the disease

Bully
Violent
He doesn’t mean or try
When the moment is right
He can stop and fight it
He’s tried it
Verbally intrusive with illusive conclusions
Abusive emotionally using “reason” as a reason to do what he sees fit
He’s rude as shit
Claims logic and includes no cold
Then wonders why everyone is coughing
With sore throats dodging him
Poor fool
He’s damaged
Anger driven living in denial sizzling with a fire
Saying saints don’t play kind they play right
Crumbled portraits of friendships held tight

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Recovery Chapter 3: Greed

In this poem, Jack reflects on the manipulation of the people in his life. How his greed and sense of ownership have left him.

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Knowledge and beauty feed the absolute
Collection provides the erection attention and truth
Manipulation of the state and ownership too
Surroundings fabricated as a way to masturbate
Ejaculate at the easy coast by the hard life
Slide by the fast lane
The rest stand by
Toys and pawns die at war
Won’t cry over broken eggs for omelets
Reason won’t be…

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Recovery Chapter 2: Envy

Short poem exploring the frustrations and struggles of being emotionally closed off and the envy it invokes when witnessing others being expressive with ease.

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Trying to spit out
Growth stinting feelings
The ceiling continues close
It’s filling up the boat
Half full is half empty when one’s lost all hope
Can’t expose what is lodged
Stuck in the throat

Poets and musicians open up with such precision
Appears they speak directly to the peak of embodied insecure mystique
Endlessly study the…

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Recovery, Chapter 1: Lust

A poem about obsession with learning and gaining perspective. How always chasing it has both educated and elevated, but left in its wake a lifestyle of constant change and little familiarity. Opportunities missed and wrong choices made. Always because of "The New Thing"

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Slave to curiosity
Vicious animosity to static
Turned on by havoc
The chaos of knowing is not knowing
And so is not knowing
In love with phases of brain waves
Gain perspective and change lanes
Dark incentives and odd ways
Uncomplacent with the path most walked
Want more thoughts talked
Verbal exchanges are sex word play games for the deranged kids

An addict to ideas settles on no ground
Fear to slow down drops the volume sound
Muffled inside the vehicle
Windows up
Touch no ground
Fool steers clear of all shots to veer near a way uphill

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Driverless Country

Short Poem on society’s current confused state.

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Lightning is bright at night when they're frightened. Heightened senses tense tightly, senseless. Defenses up when just about had enough. Brave cowards showered with towers of lies hidden behind flowers meant to deny the fact they want to cry. Be told “It’ll be fine,” but know that’s not true, that’s the true lie. Haunted they’re coasting, no one in control. When the ship tips and flips, capsizes, sinks, no one’ll know where it'll go.

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Under the Bed

Charlie, a young boy, faces his bedtime fears alone for the first time in this Flash Fiction narrative.

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It sounds like breathing, Charlie thinks. Scared, he pulls the blanket way over his head. Eyes wide open.

He notes that it’s quiet, too quiet. He’s is freaked out at the fact that he can’t hear the breathing anymore and thus can’t determine if the monster is still under the bed. The terror of what it could even be has him paralyzed.

Screaming for mom or dad is Charlie’s first impulse, but he’s more reasonable than that. If the monster is still in the room it might have not yet noticed Charlie which would change if he was too loud. He stays quiet and devises a plan B instead.

Reaching into memory, Charlie remembers any other time a monster found its way into his closet or under his bed dad destroys them by turning the light on. “That’s what I’ll have to do!” he hypes himself up searching for the courage to accept and accomplish the task at hand. Inactivity isn’t a long term solution.

“Turn the light on!” Charlie yells hopping right out of under the blanket and off the bed. The monsters roars giant and breaks from beneath the bed flipping it somewhere behind Charlie.

Charlie’s sprinting like an Olympic track athlete after gold. The monster hot on his tail closing in. They bob and weave around toys scattered across the floor. It suddenly clear why mom always said “pick your toys up!”

The monster begins to open its mouth when Charlie reaches the light switch. He flicks it on just as the monster reaches him and it vanishes from the universe.

Charlie turns to see an empty room. The universe corrected for the monsters actions and put the bed right back where it needed to be.

“I knew that would work!” Charlie assures himself. He felt like a big boy finally. Fighting the monsters without the help of dad.

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Broken Bees

A thought on people and society.

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It is unclear what should be done
There is no map for the jaded
No heart for the abstract
Yet, want exists without an object
Being driven without an obvious purpose is common
Strange creatures
Moving towards nothing as individuals
Towards glory as a collective

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Notebooks

Jack reflects on his old relationship with notebooks versus his new one with the laptop.

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There’s a safe comfort which comes from writing in notebooks. The keyboard feels cold and uninspired. A lot of effort goes into coming up with fresh ideas. But here in the notebooks it’s liberated and easy. Even emotional displays come as second nature when hand written. The skills acquired for expression as a child were developed in notebooks from the start. it’s home.

Losing sight of the simpler things in life that matter the most happens to all. Forgetting that joy and satisfaction come from the things loved occurs often.

I’m guilty of forgetting where I come from. That writing is what ultimately matters. That there is no right or wrong way to do it so long as it gets done.

I have to remember, when I struggle, that the notebooks always welcome me.

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Cold

A short poem about struggling to express emotion.

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Black taped lips
Nothing spills but the cup overflows
It grows with reason
Built up pressure
Tight chest hurts
Words like zeroes and ones say no better
Metallic letters
Connected to the cloud
No pulse loud
Hope goes down and drowns
Makes no sound
Quiet screams underwater only bother once swallowed water floods
Can’t swim in blood that won’t pump
Stuck it’ll boil and spoil the blood black
Oil dirt, it won’t work to grow the earth
Tar slime leak

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Storm The Troops

Flash Fiction story of a lone soldier.

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Collective battle cries, massive as they fall from the sky armed and ready.
Nair drops at hundreds of miles per hour. He watches fellow troops explode into misty clouds and disperse. He swears theirs spirits are visibly rising. “It won’t happen to me… It won’t happen to me,” he says closing his eyes as he nears the ground. Opens his eyes to the realization he’s drifted too far right and lost sight of his squad.

One after the other, millions at a time, troops land. The closer to the bottom the more hopeful Nair is he’ll survive, he won’t be vaporized.

He crashes in the middle of the street and is surrounded by unfamiliar soldiers.

Even down here troops are exploding into ghost like clouds. Nair feels a panic rise in him.

“Save as many as you can! Save as many as you can!” Squad leaders yell through their lung’s capacity.

This snaps Nair back to reality and he sprints into action. If one life is saved before getting vaporized his life was meaningful.

He hops over the giant craters in the grounds leading down to nowhere. Dodges the quicksand-like dirt.

All the loners are dying, but squads don’t seem to be harmed. “The weak are being picked off. I need to make it to the woods before It’s me!” he tells himself.

The heat on his arms begins to build up, but the woods are right ahead. He can make it. Sprint on.

Alongside thousands of other soldiers Nair makes a final reach for the woods but evaporates shy of the grass.

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Moment In Time

Narrative Driven Romance Poem on a Brief Encounter

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Across the counter. Soundless, so profound how she stares through my soul. Accompanying smile and green eyes locked lips with mine, frozen in time.

I stare back stuck still, unable to peel away. Frail to what her eyes are trying to say.

She just stares.

Frozen in time.

She just stares.

And I’m frozen in time.

She questions why she doesn’t open her mouth. A subtle unsure smile. Asks if she making the right choice in keeping her mouth shut, but she’ll never know. Eventually, she’ll move on and wonder what would have been had she given it a try, given in when the…

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Writer with Excuses

A Rant on writing, writer’s block and writing excuses.

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Running out of ideas. Time to gather new ideas seems short, slippery. When visualizing time I’m looking at the wrong things, seeing it in reference to life instead of the moment. But how useful is a long life spent working and collecting money, never having enjoyed life before death?
Priorities need to be better aligned. To consume as much as is made. As it is, I have more output than input and the tank is headed towards empty. As all the juice is squeezed out of the same withering thoughts, they become abstract and raw. Emotionless information. They’re dissected beyond purpose. They’re just parts. A car brought down to its basic components.
With organization it should be possible to compensate. I have to get over myself. Too much, “I’m too good for this,” or “I’m too busy for that,” going on. If there is time to waste there is time to spend. I need to bring the courage to settle my mind and make drastic changes without dreading the adaption process. The period of change where one feels lost. I should be chasing that feeling as if it were the guiding force. That feel of unfamiliarity is important to inspire and it’s the muse I’ve been missing.
I get too comfortable in my ways and methods. Although they work, there should be new material as often as there is new method and craft developed.
Sometimes a story needs to be told. I need to paint a picture. What good is having shiny freshly sharpened tools if they never get put to use? Hanging out in the tool shed polishing and sharpening, but never using? All this talk of purpose and meaning, yet, here I am avoiding change that’ll supply stories with purpose and meaning to share filtered through my lenses.
I need to get my shit together and be the goddamn writer I pretend to be.

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Jaded Creator

Poetry on the addiction of creation while feeling uninspired.

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I’m jaded
There’s no meaning
I hate it
Stuck in a slump
Yet, I don’t give a fuck
I can’t give up
Scratch at the wall
Claw away at it all
It’s madness
The choice to struggle
Wage war on the mirror
Sink in a dark place
Let the thoughts get unclear
But that’s the point, I think
When I conquer the monster
With my moves and dancing
When the battlefield is a shrapnel infested graveyard of failed ideas
Scars
To hone the new skills learned
Laws
Squeezed the wisdom from the stone brought home
Analyze the flaws
The sculpture left behind
Proof that I came out the other side the victor
To the crazy
To the mirror
That I faced myself
When I quivered I pushed through
And delivered
Nothing stood in my way
I can say “I’m still here,”
It remains true
Introspection
A writer writes
I find a way and stop whining
There’s always a way

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Learn to Create

A thought on creativity.

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Neither Skill nor Talent contain the capacity of Wisdom afforded with time and effort.
Understanding breeds method and method affords freedom.
Freedom then fuels creativity.

Do to learn.
Learn to understand.
Understand to improve.
Improve to perfect.
Create.

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Stupid Americans

Poetry commenting on the current state of the U.S.

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Alright
I know we all see the crazy
Pretend we don’t
We just sit and hope the whole show stops cold
And goes lost
What cost before we hop in?
What loss before we give in
Forced to behave like the villain
To win and stop blood from pilling?
It won’t change the strange atmosphere this deranged insane clown premiered
This ain’t no tame game
And we have to play to steer clear
And get the fuck out here
Veer for fear can’t be what drives
We have to strive to stay alive
As time goes by old ways..

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The Boss

A Poem commenting on America’s current interest in power displays.

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Iron tipped arrow smoking the side
Walk in with nothing but pride
While the stars align
Echo of the nagger
Not good for the office her efforts go to making better
Back up
Back up
Trouble
The office her strapped hand had gone to triggered
Banging headache, figures
From the office her lingering quiver slithers another one up and pulls even quicker
Hit the target with a giant middle finger
Proper execution of the duty happens when rid of the naggers
“Let’s just slate this out of the way so it doesn’t need to be dealt with another day”
Don’t be sleeping away
The office her dreams come from ain’t okay
A building of little cubes packed with slaves
Mindless it stays from day to day
Put on a blue suit and play the game

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