hot shots

we have weapons floating in our skulls
some call them “brains”, and if we
take shots that miss the mark
people think we’ve gone “insane”
yet if we don’t even try at all –
to think for ourselves,
the pain we feel is all the same
as a knife impaled in the forehead
without gaining a thing –
simply hell for nothing –
trapped in an eggshell for a head
yet we all walk around life like
we’re “something”

time demons

guitar chords pluck
slivers of rhythmic motion,
rippling the air, revealing
vulnerable emotions
drawn tight, glinting in the light of the room
my mind is chaos, but your melody
brings me in tune, carefully crafting
melodies which twist and wring out
the demons of the past
trying to linger about
written by Tiny Fawns for daily prompt: rhythmic


i had a western style showdown
with the moon, across town
he swung open the saloon doors
poured out some moonshine,
i watched it roll across the floor
before taking the shot glass
filling it up with stars from
the celestial mason jar, picking
them out from the tar-colored
sky – your polluted clouds smell
of cigarette ash, the moon drawled
then left, riding the shadows of the sun
into the sunrise

dead air threads

i wonder if the threads of your
voice could stitch up the wounds
of the dead air between us –
if we cared a little more for
that distance between our shadows
we wouldn’t have just let our regrets
stretch so long in front of us –
on those old roads,
washed in a thinning
sunset gold, reminding me of
the orange rust sticking to
my cast iron heart – must burn it up
and throw it out in order to restart

where does existence go?

it’s when we are older
that we realize the value of a tree house
with passwords and hidden tin boxes of cookies and chips
when work, money and life slips us the finger –
hacking our life accounts and pulling it apart and into shreds
our heads become our only hideout, quite sad –
instead of filled with dreams now filled with lead and ink
we’ve gone mad with
the things we believe we should think because of
societal status quo
when in reality who really knows
where it all goes, where is everything‘s hideout?
the one we all know is out there but know nothing about?

written by Tiny Fawns for daily prompt: hideout