Why when you're leading the pack do you want to drop back is it something about being ahead?
Do you fear the lead is it that which you need,
is it fear that brings you such dread?

For every win do you lose is it failure you choose or
is it the failure that brings you success?
And if the test is to be second best are we
and the rest of the runners at fault?

I muddle my way through this quagmire each day,
to be, not to be, an industry
in the making
and I am but a fledgeling
in the safety of my nest.

Don't want to go out there
in the thin air
where
I'm bound to fall
don't
want to do that at all.

But
they push me and rush me
I complain and they shush me.

If I could fly, if
only I could fly
the sky
would be my oyster bed
I wouldn't have to be ahead
I would only have to be
an industry
in the making

Was it me or was it you?
At some point it doesn’t matter,
We’ve gone our separate ways
And nothing remains but memories:
Our playful give and take,
The laughter that softened the tears,
The bedroom ballet that kept us smiling.
So many smiles that we thought
Would be emotional cement.
I can’t muster any bitterness
But I can wallow in the happy times
That touched the edges of our lives
And maybe never penetrated deep enough
To sustain what we imagined we had
Together. Forever.

Kisses, killed, and mementos –
The years prior – remain as lipstick
Atop fossilized paper, archived eras,
And stuffed in drawers that
Still bedevil
Whilst I seek –

One last pluck, one last taste,
Or one more, "good night,"
From lips never more,
Never to be tender, nor tended,
Never to taunt again.
And it was “then,”
That something was stolen.

I stumble atop subliminal,
     One bourbon
     For – Her,
     One bourbon
     For – Me.
     Over and over,
     If only and later
To saunter before granite.

Sure, she’d have been my bride,
Someday –
Promised and carved in oak.
And sure, I’d have been her groom,
Someday –
But epochs come and go,
Papyrus fades and presses fail;

All and parallel the coma wished for –
Prisons beholden broken records
That make the memories hurt;
Agony, like a shard of something,
Not in my brain,
But in my everything.

Running with my pals
No thought of going home.
Anything is better than
Being there all alone.
Nobody cares back there
But with friends I’m someone.
We laugh and talk together
Nobody ranks on anyone.

We get a little bit drunk
Or ****** when we can
But mostly we just visit
And look out for the man.
The cops like to hassle us
Because we look like kids.
Not because of what we are
Or from something bad we did.

We sit around empty houses
Where people moved away
And party in growing numbers
Some have guitars to play.
We sing songs we all know
And some original tunes.
But if the weather is good enough
I like to walk under the moon.

The street can be a scary place
Or it can be an amusement park
If you are careful about things
And not afraid of the dark.
And, of course, when I go home
They never notice I was gone.
It won’t be too much longer
And I’ll be permanently moving on.

I am from crazy, extravagant clothes
From the music a little too loud
The bloodshot eyes and long sleeves

I am from slamming doors, screaming and crying
From runny mascara and covered up bruises
The fake smiles

I am from love, too
From a warm home, filled with the smell of fresh cookies
The crinkled eyes and echoing laughter

I am from six Christmases
From an abundance of birthday presents
The millions of Thank You notes

I am from hot and cold
From this house to that house
The four parents and two siblings

I am from others
From what they have done to help sculpt me
The girl who’s done it all

I am from.

Glass of ***** windows hides a multitude of sin.
Ain't no way you're looking in.
Never gonna let you see.
Secrets hide behind them panes.
Black eyed girls and blue eyed boys.
Can't see through, just hear the noise.
The clock face atop the tower is seen to show thirteen.
Listen very closely, you can hear the children scream.
Foreboding walls of council caverns.
Manor houses.
***** parents hang in taverns.
Or slug from bottles without tops.
Cider or *****,
Who knows what.
It's a closely guarded secret.
Behind those filthy pains.
Never ever, hell on earth.
Will I, the secret poet,
Escaping from the closet.
Ever go there again.
For I am not a drinker.
Never ever was, because!
Instead, I am a thinker.
(c)LIVVI