Category: Writer

Gold mine drive

I got something sitting 
On either sides of my forehead 
A thought attached to my temples 
Tempting me to think about how
I’d really like to feel some stability once and a while 
So No one be blamed 
For the things caused to crash down 
Drowning in the pooled up blood
On the bottom of the bathroom floor.
I always allowed this to happen to me.
So if the sound of 
 bear traps snapping 
Down Upon
Frowning brown bears
Is the only thing comparable 
To the kinda dread 
An end to the mouth can bring.
Then please provide me with some rope.
I’ll try to tie my self high
Feet floating over ground…
Out there on Gold mine drive
Many itty bitty houses 
Our Stuffed full of  fat spouses
Just trying to make a family 
“The family” 
out on a walk.
They Walk down the gilded glittering road
Holding close all those 
morales and Memories 
Giving them nothing but
A childhood chocked full
Of them making every attempt to destroy 
 What they call the “informal class”
I believe Thats Classless in fact.
Cause they feel details 
About any kinda slip up
Should be walked past faster 
Then a thin tin cup
In the  hands of a homeless man.

I took a trip to one side of the city
And felt a heart start to crack at kids walking 
Barefoot on Christmas Eve, breaking apart 
What little love I had left for that next day.

On the inverse 
I meet a man who was mad about not having enough 
Stuff to fill the inside 
of his little boxes, 
on the hill side 
just tossing 
the first rocks 
At everything 
He was told to see as  
“Strange” in the world 
I guess we all got are own problems?
One feels a little heavier in the hand,
But man…
Seeing streams of steely 
painted Boxes, Not a single one ever 
 I really wonder what  Miss. Reynolds was saying?

By: Chase Jones

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