Where the Tired PeOple Go

Where the Tired people Go

I've been there

seen where the tired limping people have to go....

shadowed watchers

hiding fickle tricksters from a progress never spoken only sold

inset, like gold smiths forming fascinations

of a burnt misery in a two bar molten tension

Listen

as music draws breath into out of lungs long gone, distressed

from achievement thrusting hands

upward empty too glad pushed then leaving always left.

Thankful cords discontented fully forced

steeled eyes that looked to long on their fabricated effort

finding it crumbled disposable – forsaken

then the music plays to take them away

so tired a people they play at laying their broken heads

waiting.... waiting... for the smoldering,

smell it? Yes I failed at something was it long ago?

Now I'm pissing under overpasses.

Its lostness found

coddled with vodka, the remnants of what was born dead

parental mischief – wrapped in rules to make

to disappoint, beat at the door that burned the neighbors house down.

I watched it.

In this tired place full of fruitful addiction

I could see it clearly in the siding hanging from the basement wall,

just south of the interstate.

my mother, many years gone,

once told me that humiliation and embarrassment was something,

would serve me well, offer me character if only I would go there

so, I rage with words and listen

tell me something...

tell me its been a good life, listening. I've meet some wonderful people

I care for them now. on their behalf... I choose.

I choose to humiliate myself, and show you outloud where they've gone.

by Mountainfirefall