In These large Veins
from 
JoeUser Forums
JoeUser Forums
These large veins,
give me better circulation,
but what I circulate through them is limited,
by the build up of incomplete abbreviations.
Steady diets of dandelions and rainwater,
the result of flowers vs. weeds warfare.
The casualties are the child with the boquet
whose efforts yield not a single positive thing to say,
from those who reveal...
"those are weeds."
Like finding out Santa Clause was
never who who he was made out to be,
a well marketed tragedy
passed on to validate our own disappointment
and loss of innocence
where we found our distrust and intollerance.
When did life's stories become filled with
a second party's red ink,
and margin comments,
it would be proud to make marginal profits.
But we're all better unedited and average,
unclothed and savage.
Now others can see
our veins,
and what travels though them
remains,
oblivious to their route or
destination,
well aware of mur-murs
and palpitations.
Place two fingers on my wrist
watch the clock,
the arm to hand juncture,
the beat is what is left of this
minute hand stops.
the second hand leaves 60 punctures.
Where time ticks,
but makes no record,
we see it move but it's unheard of.
To distiguish our existence
from the rest,
from the second hand,
to the beating in our chests.
give me better circulation,
but what I circulate through them is limited,
by the build up of incomplete abbreviations.
Steady diets of dandelions and rainwater,
the result of flowers vs. weeds warfare.
The casualties are the child with the boquet
whose efforts yield not a single positive thing to say,
from those who reveal...
"those are weeds."
Like finding out Santa Clause was
never who who he was made out to be,
a well marketed tragedy
passed on to validate our own disappointment
and loss of innocence
where we found our distrust and intollerance.
When did life's stories become filled with
a second party's red ink,
and margin comments,
it would be proud to make marginal profits.
But we're all better unedited and average,
unclothed and savage.
Now others can see
our veins,
and what travels though them
remains,
oblivious to their route or
destination,
well aware of mur-murs
and palpitations.
Place two fingers on my wrist
watch the clock,
the arm to hand juncture,
the beat is what is left of this
minute hand stops.
the second hand leaves 60 punctures.
Where time ticks,
but makes no record,
we see it move but it's unheard of.
To distiguish our existence
from the rest,
from the second hand,
to the beating in our chests.
