The CivILL Step

Drivel

Have you ever once stood in a blatant
cripple of a silence?
One so bold you’d fold and grown
And implode to your toes from
the woes
nibbling its ire
I’m talking one that engulfs
at a pulse’s embrace
while you froth at the painstaking aches
chastened to
tickling the iris.
It’s fascinated at your lacerations
your rapid pacing
& rabid berating towards a masked elation
in a grasp of hatred by a gasp of anguish
where you harass in a language
that the pain is
crippling the mind

It’s the inn of the world!!!
That’s the place where cynicism goes to start its day.
Caffinated theorists with lips for daily specials
whip cream and other tasteful delicacies of info.
They line up with newspaper bibs fashioned like ascots
outlining primitive finance sections and unfinished Sudoku.
Making sure not to get bitter juices on their brand new rioters costumes
made of translucent blamelessness
Amongst other things.
I went in and tried out the place.
Rented a room two Square inches less the size of a closed mind.
Cozied myself in the body numbnesses caused by cluttered spaces
then said “this isn’t so bad.”
It’s like a therapy
A discipline of sorts to harden one’s perception of world woes
and creates a tough as nails exterior.
It’s like a window to a Twilight Zone of soul reaping proportions
threatening to curse the very naivete that fed your imaginary.
Customer service was a but spotty though.
Alot of staff members apparently quit in June.
More threatened to leave in January 2013. It’s sort of a sad place to vacation in
unless ofcourse fear is fun at the expense of sanity.
But hey, who can be the say in that?
You who have never been there
or they who’ve never left?

In the centerfold was envisioned hope
gold, miracles, and a living soap
coated in the bliss of knowing
the goals you hold would sow
in you a different mold
The clay of spirited folk
Now glazed and pickled and polished
and sprinkled with glittered tones
as if it were dipped in potions in
vats of intrinsic wholeness
buffed and waxed of the fleshly
acts, thus perhaps it is holy
Though its innards bring a livid
message that says “Please hold me”
And the void is fed with poison
dread in the form of soul cleaving
To that which just lacks
life enough for growth and feeding.
Suppose this seeking is detrimental
to development, clothed in grieving
gnashing teeth and other embarrassments
posed as traching you or insulting
your intelligence, Its hold is
breaching your retort
inviting in reticence. Do you let it in
or is that option really of your authority
silly, you can’t afford to be willing
to even plausibly pillage the thoughts
that’s bossing thee, reel it in like
a carp and be spilling its guts
apart to see if it were a
real hardened beast.

…There’s a relief that removes itself
from the limelight of anatomy’s relevancy chart.
Citing overwhelming activities
not properly prefacing prep time as it’s not as preferred as precision-inclined decisions
whilst personal prerogatives are profoundly frowned upon as it is believed that such maintenance
deals damage to the ability to self-soothe.
It is of an illegal substantially orgasmic exstacy kind of nature
encouraging incorrigible circumstances and enchanting incongruity
over verbal contracts fluent in incoherent speech.
It hums when it kisses
hoping to inculcate a reason to cease a tantrum
by way of melodious mechanistic methods as opposed to
lingering
logical
lectures

It’s subtle in its slurred accent
as though the salivary glands release only enough to slightly dampen the scaffold of an expletive ridden jaw
Imprinting a morse coded smooch on the frame of a softened cheek
Signaling spinal vibrations
Breaking abrasions and
Pasting a patience with a savoring fragrance by the taste of this language

But, suppose it’s a bit too sweet for naïvetè’s tastebuds…

In-between-Stations
By: Uriah “The CivILLian” Walters; The Escribe Adventurist

All that could be heard outside was static
The fuzz of phonetic fashion

It was a coveted earmuff
Drowning out each moment of silence we’d got accustomed to
It was a cozy hiding place with tantalizing acoustics
seducing the very drums too
uninspired to play since the heart’s beat broke
It was a mind boggling, awe-inspiring
oxymoron of simple complexities
that could arouse the envy of child prodi-geniuses
Because its tunes played notes of rage

It was an honest pastor’s sermon detailing
the bruises he inflicted on the flesh that wanted to consume him
like wrung out brains used to wipe down rock-bottom’s feeders
It was a filthy rag where all men saw themselves
and what righteousness they thought they had
It was a symphony
Because its tunes played notes of rage

A lapse of irrational wrath fed the orchestra.
Professionalism, Ettiquette, Lowkey,
mattered not to the sounds we heard.
Only the feasting on the disproportions
the imperfections
the woes that stabbed deeper than lingering insecurities

Then the sun rose…

Sitcom(ed).
By: Uriah “The CivILLian” Walters; The Escribe Adventurist

So long as our stride is tucked
within the casings of limp egos
pierced by the critique of Pinoccio noses
Leaking the blood of a once healthy morale
With no novel incisions to resuscitate its
Now pathetically pretentious build
Nothing will ever change

I know we asked for this last week
But if we could just have 30 more minutes
Just 30 minutes
We could explain to you ourselves
Our plans of conquering the woes of a (recycled alloted) time
where everything was Prime

The glamour of our mishaps, we despise
And out of spite, we repackaged them
Dressed them up to fit any style
entertain any bored face
And nothing changed

We were still the same hollowed out puppets
Drowning out crickets with unwarranted encores
Dressed down in spoiled flower-collared tuxedos
Reciting the famous lines of our bland scripts

I will I will I will
I am I am I am
But nothing changes

We did however feel renewed with each seasoned resolution
We made speeches and declarations once again

Awaiting the signal to act when the nothing is changed

But when will the nothing change?