FM Tuning (Underscore point Underscore)

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…

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The Primetime of a Teller’s Vision

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?

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… in the eyes of a confidante

Treasured Visions

By: Uriah “The CivILLian” Walters: The Escribe Adventurist

The pupils of my peers house museums
Accented by unique Irises and tears
The depth of their sight seeing is a temptress to their mouths
To which often times their lips must perform it in a shout
WOW!!!
But as seas of skys spiral to and fro
And the Seasons find a time to bloom and to doze
So goes the cascading of the lids
A vast fading in the lens
Taking breaks in dark slumber
from the Masquerading Images
Spurts of rejuvenation from eye candy land
So as to not irritate the migraines and flash attacks
and seizures with delusions of grandeur
and jaundiced galore corneas
The eyes sleep
The I’s would speak of pulchritudinous wonders
Vivacious in the essence of their syntactical structures
One could hear the intimacy in their expressions
Relieved of the ulcerous legions of lesions they intercepted.
They would wring out of their ducts
Puddles worth of tales
That by each rolling dew
A slew of sip-sup-sobs would imbue the trails
The mechanics of their woes and wails
crystallized in turpentine cones of pale
Turned their faces into portraits of autumn
Until what blossoms in the gloss of their twinkles
Projected on the palette oh so radiantly
However,
Recently they insisted on wearing shades.
Opaque reflections channeling an unplugged
Cathode-ray tube television screen
So the I’s eyes’ liquid crystals
wouldn’t display trickles of
what hope underwent abrupt cancellation
The framework excelled at jotting out the vulner-abilities of the able-minded
And magnifying the lowkey pose which
really is a cover to hide the sudden unreasoning fear that propped itself
within the midst of the projector
This panic was,
it was a tainted scene
Perhaps headquarters made a technical difficulty in which
The world is supposed to look like it’s turning upside-down,
Frail, bottoms-up, with its cheeks spanked lest that it not be alive.
And one would want to say to it “be at peace, be pacified, for as a child, you weep at simple times”
However, it never listens. For it cries, and it whines and it throws tantrums with its spoiled, hungered belly
And it screeches something immobilizing to the will of man that tends to break down his build, starting with his I’s.
His I’s, the center of his pride
Plucked with lashes worth of lacerations ’til his lashes lash down to hide his eyes
The demise of his drive, captured in some somnolent REM cycle ride.
Like, this is where dreams die
But what would happen if the eyes weren’t so affixed on “I”
And wherein developed a fixation for “I AM”
Rather than shouting I CAN’T
Plentiful times as a mind chant
For the tongue to wind and encamp in?
What would happen if the shame could be lifted
By knowing the fearfully and wonderfully made frames existed?
They would be sported fashionably
Adding purpose with visions of masterpiece

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