“dreams that are not mine” Loud bridges crossed These waters that were set on fire Wheels driven off Course left with Dead horses Each ride carried expired dreams Arriving at the same time Of common grief Of this fire Burning rubber tied to streets Made to break spirits Let souls die all while the Sun turns its eyes to be brought To principles that were not Of heaven or mine I left the crying out of silence on Bridges that yelled What were dreams for If they were not mine “John’s silence” John did not say much and I do not think It’s because of the conditions that brought him here But that he had conditions on what he would say to anyone Painting broad horizons with ease and focus of his eyes Examining each movement that passed him by Dedicated to the exit and the clock, his mind was somewhere his body did not want and his mind agreed on this reasoning Groups were more like quiet time at a day care When his turn came round He would not even try to utter a response Yet he was paying attention the whole time He would just look off into the ways in which we All would sit in a herd with horror filled minds With excess spit from the medications side effects Always rubbing his hands against his legs I thought with enough friction he might start a fire And burn them off and be better off One day he sat by me and opened his mind In physical recognition then asked why I spoke Up so much in group they do nothing he said I said because I have nothing to say actually We both laughed and I felt his soul echo back at me Until his silence called him to come along he got up And touched my hand and lit it on fire With the friction of his words only spoken to a few “wishful winds of a sparrow” Around days where if being human fits It would fail leaving a state seemingly like anything but dry leaves Where any friction can set it into flames Wanting to be bagged up and tamed so full of shame Hard to contain its lifeless form only moving when The wind forcefully moves it along with time Crumbled by lawnmowers who needs rakes Felt in the tips of fallen branches Visible like the sores in the mouth wide opened Struck like a spot on the clock the hours Have forgotten about life that was once there Fresh in spring and drenching with sweat in the summer blaze On trees hung strong for years, decades, even centuries But not the leaves they resemble the low tides in the off season of oceans with waves toasting to match the skies with The wind questioning the sparrow’s intent and direction with time ill spent The wind wonders where and when will the sparrow get the weathers hint The seasons are changing off on a limb a sparrow lifts its chin To the wind and resides where it began as an egg In hopes of seeing its mother again As leaves drift from branches and fall to the ground like ashes the sparrow loses its home along with anything that it can hold “burnt out spots in a confused mind” Bringing down thoughtful riots that are muted on occasion Their intentions are to destroy these mental pearls revolting inside of me Burn this rebellion in the essences of my being down In need of more assessment They gather around me like a pack of wolves one by one Observing me like the next meal To them either way I was a meal ticket No different than the fees earned for every head counted in the jails at night Lazy with one of my eyes Fighting constant injections round the clock filled with their legal dope Maybe with my sedation they can find an answer to my equation Locked in a rhythm less thought process My jar is dropped, with a mouth full of liquid from my body Falling onto a pool that looks like my chest is Unable to get up dropped on the ground layered with patients before me stories my mind swung into a direction That failed to mention that as young as I am I would be better off with dementia as a diagnosis For I do not even remember the hours I had before Realizing again I was in the same place Before all this occurred Begging to exist beyond these walls Fighting for better days I lay in horrid nights With the sounds of broken arrows aimed at my heart stumbles mid air and falls apart to a harden ground in the nurse’s and doctor’s chart but I am still caged here Still Marked as another target, my bed remains a coffin for any thoughts once flowing I was alive only to breathe their medically induced air “give in or let go” Rather than coming too soon
He laid late and stubborn stuck at noon Staying in blasted peace Should have given in or finally let go Children yelled for the revolution Adults cried for their future While the aftermath rested In graves of deserted evolutions Cushions that held borrowed bodies Used as toy soldiers in wars No one could find a use for He broke me, left me Flying below whatever I was above The love left in a stove Past dinner time where it remained Burnt by his stubbornness Questioning whether to give in or let go
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