I'm a big fan of stream-of-consciousness prose. It helps me refocus. Here's what came to mind during a free period sitting in a fake leather chair.
The shiny floors of the hallways breathe to me in miniscule ways, whereas the carpets suck me in. Good Lord, where was I when this dream started?Good Lord where was I when I heard the cries beneath my head?Crows scar my eyes with their claws in the middle of the night,I break down and cry during the end of the fight, if a needle takes away the pain, then a drink removes only nothing,I'd rather stand the sight of poorly tied ties,than watch down on us all with careless prophecy.
I saw a woman walking with a scraggly young man,
she seemed thin although I only saw her from behind.
She walked in his arms like he was king, she the queen,
regardless of the strange apparent in his face.
I've always wondered the strange reality of need,
and who poured the chemicals of our inner desire,
if God was a chemist he tipped over my flask,
because something went wrong; madman chuckle.
Person across from me complaining to aging woman
about nothing, it doesn't seem important;
I got out of bed, put my shoes on, walked through the door.
The cool burns my face like my life burns my heart,
a rack of neckties, a rack of shirts I left untouched,
I didn't feel like looking at them or myself today.
I appreciate the beauty of modern life,
but I wish it was within another time I lived,
where women were women and men were men,
with the common courtesy of care for one another.
It has occurred to me that with time equality
has differed slightly:
men are feminine for wearing the things that once made them a man, and women strive to be like the men. Do women not look in the mirror and realize their beauty is much more than that of a man?
A man can only wish for beauty,
his only hope is a courtship of a beauty so kind.
Just think, back then it was fine to strike a woman,
not that I think that's right,
but now looking wrong is signs of sexism,
this ain't a man's world anymore.
I guess I am fine with that, it doesn't matter to me,
I wasn't raised to be a man, I was raised to be a human,
that's how it should be done for the most part,
with proper etiquette and care.
I live in a world of contamination.
The need for emotional-mind cleanse is apparent,
I need it for the sake of sanity.
Everything is a sin, everything connotes itself,
thought about using my head as a baseball bat,
but I fear I'd lose much more than my scrupulosity.
Why am I not in a time of care, of purpose?
I feel as if I would be something, a man.
Today I am just a fool, someone to laugh at.
Maybe men don't wear their neckties anymore for fear
of strangulation, considering we have much more
I suppose that means I have less fear than the common
man, or maybe that makes me a fool for showing the difference between a man and a boy.
What is a man? A man is a man.
Today a man is a breadwinner.
Bed women, go to work, pay the bills, be the hero she needs. O! Poor girls and their sadness! They need a big strong man to make them well!
When did this mentality come into place? A woman can take care of herself. Sure, I bash the sight of what I write about, but in reality I see no wrong with it.
What was man, though? Why not ask Beau that?
He spent fifty hours a day tying a cravat just to have the perfect bow (which, by the way, contamination manages to get to).
When did flamboyance, or at least the idea of general style become something of the past. Like it or not, it's much more of a woman's world now, but sadly it hasn't really helped us men who weren't ever a part of the old generation.
Maybe that's the curse of being French:
the Italians have the short angry women, the Germans get accused of Nazi worship; us French tend to be too much of lovers, such a silly soul of ours.
Poor French, though, always accused of giving up. Who formed underground forces and stopped those pesky Nazis from advancing? Oh, I do believe those French! Ode to the French, laugh at them if you will, but just remember, when you think I gave up, I may be planning for my new attack, I know just what to do. I'll blow up your bridges, oh I'll really ruin your plans. Your Hitler ain't no match for our Frenchly pride.
Better remember, and I am no pretender, they shaved the heads of their women. My thoughts? I don't know. Depends on the woman and what they did. Sleeping with the enemy for survival? That's rape. Other reasons? Oh, sure, I understand their anger.
And, no, I do not condone abuse, never in a million years,
we all make our mistakes in life, and in times of war those mistakes become overly abundant.
I'm face is hot. I'm not a bad person, just a sneaky one.
I may not have Romeo's face, but God may have blessed me with the tongue Shakespeare blessed him with. O may thy enemy fall with belittlement with the sufferings of our elders; an ode to a dream we had once before where they bit our thumbs at us with disgust!
Meaningless words, yes, but words nonetheless.
This guy is getting tired of writing. It's empty this brain of his. Think I'll learn French or something, go back to the motherland. I hear they have some amazing wine, although I do not partake myself. Take me to the Louvre, to find my lover (her name's Mona),
we share the same dismal smile.