She's casting whispers

on waves again,

Lets the sound starve for air

and spread between the tides.

And I'm counting bubbles

within the mist.

And her echoes

wash up and

shape the shoreline

until I find myself.

Walking this tightrope

that only I'm aware of.

She's looking at a dreamboad.

I'm dodging steps

so I don't trample something

I never knew existed.

And the waves are nonsense

but feel truth.

So I'm tapdancing in moonlit blindspots

because I don't want to

stomp on dreams.

I will let the ocean

pool in my palm before

I carry it careful to a flame.

Boil it out and trace the clouds.

Just...looking for clues

I probably let pass by.

And I will miss something.

So I'll show scars and wrinkles

as proof I tried.

Hoping the textured leather

around my heart

tells a story she hasn't

Heard yet.

A lot of maybes

Die within hope.

Guess I'm praying

for chances now.

I'm missing audio.

Still, twisting silences.

Ears bleeding memories,

My moments transparent.

It's about believing

in moments unrealized.

I cannot recreate

this dying sentiment.

She awakes magical

like daylight transcending.

I whisper gratitude,

lost between syllables.

For a syllable challenge. 3 word lines. One then two then three syllables.

My writing is careless at best. I rarely proofread or plan. Usually, I spit some shit out on the page and hope for the best. I wish I could say it's some artistic choice to show the frailty and imperfections of existence, but it's really that I lack discipline. I guess it's a bit like fucking. Give it all the hell you have in the moment of inspiration, but you know you could have done so many things better if the goal was perfection rather than getting lost in the moment. I guess that means a typo is like knocking on the wrong door. Just laugh at yourself and keep at it and embrace the joys of imperfection. As long as the closing sums up intention the reader is left satisfied. So my shits unrefined as hell, but I like to think there's a certain beauty and innocence flowing within my awkward wordings and forced lines or conclusions. When inspiration hits, just spit it out and move on. Wait for the next time a moment cracks you open enough you feel it's worthy of sharing. Repeat. So ya, a lot like fucking.

Don't waste lung

On long words.

Just one breath.

More time to think

In the pause.

The word "she,"

one gasp.

Let that be

The last of my words,

One breath out

To sum up,

All of them.

And all I meant.

is held close

Till lungs

Lay dry,

Till dust

forms a view,

Of her.

And I will have held

All of it

In me,

Like calm

While I rest.

My dog is an asshole. I love the little guy, but he is THEE asshole. He just refuses to do anything but pull when on a walk. I'm stubborn and dead set on teaching him, so our walks consist of about a five foot radius death match of will power. He pulls. I stop. He stops, and I pet him and walk about 3 steps before stopping again. Repeat cycle. Until I get truly annoyed and call him a dick tickler or something. He wags his tail because apparently he's proud of himself or some shit. End walk. So I'm sitting outside with a smoke and a beer contemplating it. It's like teaching a toddler. But that's a bit fucked. I wonder how much of my framework is based on a similar manipulation. How much of me is the product of conditioning? How many times did I wag my metaphorical tale because I inadvertently bent to the will of another? I doubt any one of us want to know the actual answer to that question. End of the week thoughts I suppose. More terrifying still, is how many times have I been guilty of such a thing? How many stones lie within the foundational concrete of hearts and souls, placed there by my own hands without knowing the ripple affect of my actions? A laugh too fake. An expression that got away like a blade and cut more than realized. A generic answer that made someone feel small. Or spacing out and not catching or appreciating the gravity of the moment. Nothing terrifies me more than knowing how many scars my fingerprints have framed. All because my dog is an asshole.

I basically just use my name. When I first started I used Cerebral Emotion because I'm always analyzing the scenery within my thoughts. Eventually, after I got to know the community, I changed it to DaveK. Prose was in a transition back then from group to community, and it seemed more relatable and open.

It is blue because we did it. Bled the sky in faith that rain was what we needed. Once we realized death was required to create, we paid the price of hope. So, the sky is blue. An echo of the bruises of our existence. As every baby stretches skin and leaves a mark, so too we exist within sacrifice. So the sky is blue. And it's fuckin beautiful.

Please don't send me

Flowers.

Send me memories

That feel like

the look of steel trash cans

Beneath florescent lights,

with that little streak

Of shine.

Always moving

towards you Like

The eyes of some

Fuckin haunted painting.

Or the notion

Of strippers

Beneath spotlights aimed

By untrained hands,

Just catching

Shadows

Of what you don't know

You missed.

Because the focus

Is shit.

Delayed Like appreciation

Often is.

And I always seem to miss

The things I almost saw.

Maybe that's life.

You only ever

Comprehend the ass

Jiggling

Towards the curtain

As dreams unrealized

Walk away,

Finished and empty

To the sound of applause.

Like the best tits

You never saw

And wish you remembered

But don't ,

But still brag about

Because no one

will ever know

The difference.

Like these

Stainless memories

Framed by charcoal regrets.

So please

Don't send me flowers.

Send me a trash can

To hold the remains.

The half wilted moments

Between inspiration

And oblivion.

I think they call it life

Or some shit.

He sits there under the bridge hoping to gather dust beneath the nail like it's some fingerprint of existence or some shit. He used to be important and in some ways still is. He's quite wealthy. Just gave up a bit. Left it all in some fuckin mental break or something to find the meaning of it all. It pisses me off sometimes, but like a car crash I can't look away. Or stop thinking about it. Half pissed I work my ass off to buy food to survive and half impressed that there's someone out there that gave up everything by choice. He just sits there and looks at a mural someone painted under the bridge when they were probably stoned or high. I think he's searching for some color that never existed. Maybe some special meaning buried in a spray can-typo. For some dumbass reason it gives me hope. Maybe for all my struggles I'm missing something beautiful. Maybe he's just a crazy, senile asshole that does this for fun. I don't know. Gave him a dollar once. Asshole didn't even look up. Just took it. He probably won't even fuckin buy booze with it, which is a bit insulting. I'd buy booze with it. What the fuck else would I do? But this asshole seems to need nothing. Maybe I'll join him one day and see whatever it is he stares at so intently. Or maybe he'll just be dead tomorrow and this fixation will have been for nothing but a midlife crisis. I just know when I wake up thirty minutes before I'm ready tomorrow, and sip half shit coffee to go make someone I've never met money, this cocksucker will wake up whenever the hell he wants and look at a wall. Just because he wants to. And I'll feel like a dick for not dropping a dollar on my way home, thinking it's the right thing for him to taste my morning disappointment. He won't. But a dollar buys my sanity sometimes. And one day, I won't see him. He'll just be gone. And I hope I get there first, so I can look without anyone around at this dumbass graffiti he's so taken by. There's still a bit of color coming through. Maybe hope lies within the concrete. Maybe that picture of something so common will look like what I had all along. Or maybe I'll fuck a whore in front of it out of spite. Maybe the asshole I've become was what he gave it all up to avoid. I'm just jealous of the person buying paint right now.