I also decided to put up my 'experimental' take on TIW Challenge 88...can ya see what I did? It's just an exercise on how far you can go if you really try...hehehehe
TIW C88 - (Richard Russell Challenge) - Experimental
Anality
(A bouquet of flowers in a trash can, Draw
inspiration from “The Pretender” by Jackson Browne, A critically important
secret military message, Encroaching storm clouds)
I
did it.
I
left that place.
But
you never ever do.
It
has you in its grip.
From
the first moment to the last.
A
bouquet of flowers in a trash can.
That
was the end of the line.
In
the shade of the freeway.
I
rented myself a house.
And
got a job.
Watching
the moon.
Sometimes
it’s too much.
But
mostly it’s too little.
It
will not leave my soul.
It
crushes me to think this way.
Though
I get up and do it again.
Until
the church bells ring and howl.
In
the wink of an eye.
And
lay my body down.
To
the dark night.
Encroaching
storm clouds.
They
crush my mood.
Make
me remember those times.
Destroy
my waking hours, my days.
When
the morning light comes streaming in.
I
want to know what became of her.
I
want to know where she is.
Whether
she is happy or sad.
Where
I can find her.
But
am I right?
Do
I care?
Do
I really hurt?
They
were only fitful dreams.
I
am aware of all this.
But
my heart does not comprehend well.
It
struggles in the laughter of lovers new.
Waiting
for others to bring a chance.
And
take my hopes and dreams.
I
wish for a halt.
I
am a pretender.
Just
a pretender.
With
my dark glasses.
Smiling
through a deep melancholy.
Sitting,
watching those of lesser worries.
Crying
through masks that are my face.
Tearing
at the world with all my might.
Striking
foes of which I couldn’t see.
Contending
with what could have been.
I
died too many times.
All
for one mistake.
A
secret message.
An
important secret note.
She
would be here today.
I
would see her smile shine.
Watch
her dance the way she did.
Believing
in what may lie before it comes.
But
optimism falls in the great awakening.
Caught
between the longing for love.
Gripped
in the last fight.
Dying
in my arms.
Out
of sight.
And
out of mind.
I
have become a ghost.
There
is little left to say.
Perhaps
it will all end too quick.
Or
perhaps they will stretch time over time.
Increasing
the suffering, the pain and hurt.
Ripping
my soul from drying bones.
Cutting
my chest open, bleeding.
My
heart torn out.
Beating
no more.
Waiting
for a reason.
In
an unreasonable uncaring world.
A
world full of selfish images.
Will
it end, will it finally stop?
And
then all this breathing is too much.
From
all this impoverishment comes nothing.
Then
there was a knock.
And
a silence ensued.
So
it begins.
I
wait for them.
Those
temptations of happy idiotism.
They
may come at any time.
I
keep a warm drink beside me.
A
welcome relief for the lonely broken hearted.
And
I say let them come all.
They
may take what is left.
And
I say let them.
There
is no more.
Nothing
is left.
I
cannot go on.
It's obvious you put a lot of thought into this; it was introspective, and sounded like a narrated dream sequence in free verse poetic form; definitely different. I liked it.
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