The Lasting Flavor of Ambition by GrubbsWriting, literature
Literature
The Lasting Flavor of Ambition
It defines the moment perfectly,
The way you say you love me,
Dancing with a blade in my back.
It's not quite in, the point is only flirting with me.
A tease like its holder, a brush at the ready to paint in running red.
That's a smile only a horror movie would love,
the kind without jump scares
and an abundance of shots ahead of their times.
The sucker I am is the fool for you with which to toy,
a village idiot light on the feet
and out of tempo with a tremble.
I'm something of a professional beginner,
an amateur in the art of getting waylaid
by award winning acts, and stellar screenplays.
Heaven knows the future sees me coming,
Prescription Self Loathing by GrubbsWriting, literature
Literature
Prescription Self Loathing
There's the daily and nightly,
I don't know nothin' but their names.
They have preconceived play dates with my head,
They play cat and mouse beneath the bone.
No one ever bid me welcome or gave me a tour.
I woke up to rumors and stumbled on theories,
Making love in a dream to the notion that maybe
I can get to the peak of the mountain just once.
Blasphemy is the native tongue spoken from over my left shoulder.
I know that challenge of sunny skies that never warm me and
a past I can never turn my back on in a glass house full of personal stones.
I don't know where to go from here
I never knew if I was serious.
I never could come up with
From Your Concerned Reflection by GrubbsWriting, literature
Literature
From Your Concerned Reflection
Tell me how strong your grip is on reality?
Tell me the story of the time and space where you boarded your train of thought.
Tell me about that junkies masturbation called self destructive tendency.
Tell me, my name in exhalation off some shuttering breath from the deeper canyons on the worn down lungs through the battered throat.
How go those shouting matches with yourself behind the wheel going double the limit?
How go the long sessions of sitting without a word with your sights a thousand yards away?
How go the timeless showers where the tears can be snatched up by water swooping down?
How go the lonely strolls through the sketches at nig
The broken windows were like gaping mouths in the silence. That absence of sound broken only by the slow pace of the heels of our boots on the cracked pavement. The worst sight was near the corner of 5th and Oak Lot, where the remains of the playground were still glowing at their edges where the flames had finally given up. We were at such a distance as to allow sight of the crater near the monkey bars. All I needed to see was the bits of grayish cotton trailed up to what was left of a torn up teddy bear. Reynolds and I think it was a teddy bear anyway. Coulda been a rabbit for all I know, but we had to keep moving.
I think what it was that
I’ll never forget the feeling of the night’s gentle breeze as it ran over me like the soothing touch of a mothers running fingers through my crusted hair. Off in some great distance was the source of that breeze, drifting out from beneath a thunderhead whose top was the snowy mountain on a sunny day, and whose bottom was like a Tesla light show complete with waterworks.
“The wrath of God can be a beautiful thing, Joey, ma boy!” said Lenard, “It’s something that man can fear and admire all at once.”
He was right. He had caught me marveling at this broad portrait of nature before I did. I turned round
Bridges make for such great kindling
As the pieces fall, the passing oxygen will fan them and the river down below will cut off their crackling with a smothering sizzle.
The rest of the fire up here will only keep us warm and all the smoke will only leave our screams to be heard. From one side to the formerly connected, we'll only hear screaming and crying.
We'll not surely know the outcome 'til that billow clears, and the chasm between becomes visible in our blurred vision. One side will look to see matches and the other will find lighters.
The bridge will have burned out and away, and those whose screaming was the loudest will be the fi
What I Don't Remember by GrubbsWriting, literature
Literature
What I Don't Remember
There‘s this little patch of land down the street from where I live. Technically, it belonged to the neighborhood adjacent to ours, but that five-foot tall, wooden-rail fence was like a ‘keep out’ sign on a door without any locks. It’s got a creek like a crooked spine down its middle, and the mud around it was full of crawdads if you dug deep enough.
Some kids from my neighborhood and I used to go down there and just screw around for a couple of hours before dinner. Throw rocks at the frogs, try to jump from one side of the creek to the other, or even try to climb from one end of the top of the sewage tunnel to the ot
The land of Nowhere
is a safest place for me to be,
Away from the harms way I bring,
away from the damage I deal.
Effort has always been a virtue in vain,
and here often is misfortune was my hunter,
in the hunting grounds of Everywhere.
I should not own this pulse let alone the
feet that carry me and the voice that builds
my wayward roads away from God.
Dead should I be and dead should I stay,
in Nowhere, where alone I'd belong to
only lonesome and thought.
Oh what a show it must be for Heaven and Hell
watching souls like this one. The working
to keep all sides of me in check.
The God I love who loves me, has tested
me and I have p
A Bit of What its Like by GrubbsWriting, literature
Literature
A Bit of What its Like
As opposed to the typical,
Over and over a dimension, goes the journey.
Each step is the next leap of faith,
Over and over one crack and another.
The inhale is a struggle and the exhale, a scream.
Worn are blisters like medals upon chains,
By the slave of terror at the mercy of closed eyes.
A racing heart comes just before each retreat,
And stays upon the cold sweat out of the hell.
This method of communication is worn out.
Known is never a messenger or their message.
Nothing is known but the flashbacks of
what the pulse made haste to escape from.
Fleeting moments and faint glimpses into Hell
are the low quality evidence to the bigger fis
I Can Only Forgive You by GrubbsWriting, literature
Literature
I Can Only Forgive You
The sarcastic cheer was for the fictional
switches in that old biased call to action.
Oh naive the pride in unsullied perspective,
tested only by what I've envied as temporary.
Easy routes and smooth roads were labeled
with excuses whereas ours are reasons.
Forgive my lack of a desired reaction to the
first thing I once tried and found as a rude awakening.
I tell you, the sarcastic laugh is more or less
a subtle cry of envy from my choking.
Any hate is a petty falsity amidst my weariness
in the undying fog over my figurative eyes.
This is merely that which will only come as
phases to you and be a marathon for me.