The Surface

So here we go again,

With the loopty loop,

And the long drawn-out,

Typography letters,

Trying oh-so-hard,

To make an impression,

On complex minds,

Or simple minds,

Cursive, half cursive,

Bunched up,

Upside down letters,

Trying to be noticed,

And to make awe,

Or maybe trying to be,

Unique or boring,

Something along the lines,

Of insanity and serenity,

All wrapped up in one,

Big and bold,

Tiny and thin,

There is no,

Making sense,

Of these compilations,

Of letter and arrows,

Stars and squiggly lines,

Making an impression,

On a train,

The side of a building,

A canvas or notebook paper,

To be recognized,

By other young urban folk,

To call out your name without sound,

And to shock and protest,

To lie and steal from your mind,

It does not hide often,

But it can be sneaky,

Oh the urbanity,

It creeps along city streets,

Galloping and hopping,

From eye to eye,

Near or far,

It awaits attention,

Craves it,

Until covered up,

Only to present,

A new blank canvas,

To be further worked on,

And in due time,

Under construction it may be,

It will be revealed,

To further grab you by the shirt,

And say "HEY, LOOK AT ME!"

Creativity.

Mrs. Misery

She wants to leave so bad,
But he won't let her.
All she does is sit around the house,
Looking at all the dingy objects,
Looking at all the books she's read 5 times over.
Her face is bruised,
And so is her dignity.
There she is, like a wallflower, just waiting.
Waiting for 5:00 to roll around,
So she can start cooking the roast.
He's home, and hungry,
He's tired, and angry.
She sets the table, and smiles sweetly,
He doesn't even acknowledge her.
She looks down, and leaves the room.
She cries momentarily,
Then returns to the kitchen.
He's in his Recliner, watching TV,
So she fixes herself a plate.
It's cold.
She does the dishes,
Then sits on the couch.
She's not interested in The Ed Wynn Show,
As she secretly glares at her husband.
She's lonely with him around,
Ugly with him around,
Sad with him around.
He's an all-around Misery Maker.
She leaves the TV room,
Going to the closet in their bedroom.
There, in an old hat box,
Lay her solution,
And she already feels a weight lifted.
She moves the box under her side of the bed,
And dresses into her nightgown.
She puts a change of clothes
Under the bathroom cabinet.
Walking in the kitchen,
She grabs the Cream of Kentucky Bourbon,
Pours a glass,
And sits on the couch.
After-while, they retire to bed.
She lays, with her eyes open,
And when she thinks he's really asleep,
She quietly pulls out the hat box,
Opens it, and
Grabs the .38 Revolver.
After making sure there's a bullet in the chamber,
She walks over to his side of the bed,
Pointing the gun right at his head,
She wakes him up.
"I just want you to know,
Before I kill you,
That you made my life
Miserable,
And I wonder why you
Even married me. But I
Don't believe in divorce.
'Til death do us part."
He was so shocked,
He didn't even move.
He just held his hand out,
As if signaling her to stop.
Before he could say anything,
She pulled the trigger.

A Place I Don't Want To See Again

There's this one place, a hotel, where beds are messy and things are scattered. Tools and objects. No good.
Another place, that smells of cigarettes, an apartment, with bedbugs under the bed. Nothing but beer and chicken in the fridge. A place of indecisiveness and hate. Filled with sarcasm and "couldn't-care-less" attitudes.
Another place, a run-down house, filled with people I don't know. Drugs. Dirty. Awkward. Strange.
Another place, a street, where others' doings are private, but not secret. Hoopin' and hollerin'. Loose, careless bodies. Blood was spilled. People, me, hurt.
Another place, a facility, where lost souls are taken in, droves at a time, and nurtured back to life. Where they are given guidance, structure, and a second chance. Some people take it, some leave it. Filled with people of all kinds; differences, but still the same.
Another place, where mentally unstable people go to figure out their troubles. Friends are made, but never kept. Where some workers are mean and strict, and some understanding and loving. They hold yoour hand in all but the physical sense.
Another place, a place where lives are saved, but unpleasant nonetheless. Uncomfortable. Awkward. Boring. Sedation.
Another place, a house with rooms packed with beds. No room to breathe. Requirements and responsibilities. Thieves and shape-shifting, conniving women. You want to be friends, but it's vulnerability they feed on, luring you in for the taking. Taking advantage, that is. Taking serenity. No room for peace of mind.
Another place, a city, made up of country singers, drug dealers, homeless drunks, and all the other entrails of a big city. Its familiar streets make me want to puke, and I don't ever want to be there alone again. Too close to old people who use and abuse. Mistreat. I try to think of other things, but that's essentially all I can think about when I'm there.

I need my soundness. My serenity and my family. Because, that's where I really want to be.