A poem
A paper water pistol
filled with emotion…
fluid feelings found flooding
the pockets of his parchment shell
super soaking the contours of the cavities
where his headaches thudding
from the night before
the retrofitted facade
of a man
barely holding back
the impassioned puddles
forming on his brain
the episodic attack
insecurely trickles
in droplets of consternating rain
seeping out of his ears
he, the paper water pistol
purpose built
for living
wondering if this is all there really is
as his soggy sentimental self slumps unforgiving
a pulpy mulch upon his mattress
built to fulfil - to feel he has
a purpose
yet, it all seems so…
pointless
limp and jointless
a completely random animal
instinctually protecting himself
from anything that scares him
vulnerable to sharp objects
blunt objects
projectiles
objective objects
of all styles
infectious diseases
and all trials
one must face
to be a complex creature of
the human race
thoughts turn with a regrettable tinge
to the flashbacks
which make him cringe
dismounting him
from those worn tracks
he tries to stay on
a runaway
mirroring his a departing youth
the mirror always tells the truth
when he stares
it stares back
he digs his pupils in
to the landscape of yellowed skin
crows feet perched beside ashen bags
trashed
by another boozy night
a sickly sight
down the road
from the bright lights
and flashing signage of adolescence
he can’t jazz it up
he’s faded
perceptions, jaded
writing off his character
the Bleeding Gums Murphy
of evanescence
not good for his health
or, his happiness
he knows (them)
as if they weren’t the same thing
nosediving
the quivering white (k)night
who serves the king (of impulse)
“Has't thee cometh to saveth mine own soul?”
or, scratch that itch
drawing his sword
to get a whiff
of the green pastures
on the other side
“… and so,
we celebrate
the triumph of our hero…
Arise, Sir Knight
the alarm is about to blare
and you’ve been lying there
feeling sorry for yourself
for far too long
this isn’t the chivalric romance
you were after
and being somewhat of a crafter
of poetry
I will confess to thee
it doesn’t get any easier
to be
a paper water pistol…”
he, the paper water pistol
impaled by the spear of his alarm
manages to disarm his combatant
and peel his pulpy piece
from where it’s drawn
to (e)merge on the…
Mudane Monday Morning
crack of dawn.
© Darius the Mate
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The art is yours, right? I saw it in a different post. Different color. I remember it. Very nice. Keep going. Thanks foe the poem. xoxo
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The image is an edited stock photo of a origami gun, from Google. The post you’re remembering, may be my previous post, from the day before; Paper water pistol, from where this poem continues, and loops to.
Thank you for the comment, I’m very pleased you enjoyed the poem, Selma. 😊
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