The Traveller’s Heart

Lonely-Woman

It searches nights to find its rest
Will one welcome poorest guest?
It smells its own, but can’t get in,
Try in vein to see within.

A heart once beat incessantly
In organic love, romantically.
Yet, now it treads hesitantly,
Lost its way… Never free.

When she sang in truth and beauty
They stripped her innocence inside me.
It molded her, now slave to thee,
A hanging heart that cannot see.

The heart that travels inside me.
Knows no truth, love… beauty.

Written by Randall Evans

This is the Vile Mint.

Giving Blood

I would slit my wrists to give you meaning. I bleed my unformed thoughts to show you truth. Yet, is it helping anyone, or am I as superficial as the next ‘blogger’, posting a premature idea to be an early entry on the daily prompt ?

I was contemplating a creative way to communicate the depth of real relationships compared to surface level, superficial ones. That’s when, in my half conscious state, I made the decision to give blood.


I want to give. I want others to take from me. Get a knife a slice away what you need. I’m a busted pipe, a deflating tire, an empty shell. My selflessness rides on the ironical coattails of ego.


I’m too tired and worn to give any more words. I’ll give blood. My ramblings into the void bear little fruit, but the blood in my veins is a fountain for those I’ve never met.


Superficial


Fashionable

It was a mid-morning start, which meant the traffic was a little lighter and the gangs of retirees were taking over the cafes. I pulled up next to a trendy family car – Upper middle class.

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I couldn’t see the driver. All I could see was the left arm of the passenger.

The wrist was decorated with the cuffs of a women’s power suit and a gold bracelet that was probably purchased in 1993. The bony hand, barely visible through the window tint, was worn and stressed.

Why isn’t she at work? It’s past 10…

Why wasn’t this independent hand on the steering wheel?

She had probably just come from the doctors. An elbow so casually, so… tensely resting on the window could only mean bad news. Her husband, or dare I say, old friend who’s always loved her but never been able to crack through her tough exterior, had driven her for moral support.

He left his car at hers because she’d rather be dead being seen in his bomb.

What’s the point? I mean, what’s the point of that gold bracelet? It doesn’t impress me much. I wonder if she was rubbing it in her anxiety as the doctor told her the news.

I turn up the music in my car. I wonder if I do it to impress the retirees with amazing heavy metal.

The status symbol is too heavy. It becomes a chain… A metal chain that pulls her along.

What hit her the most in her appointment? The realisation that she’s going to die, or the realisation that she’d wasted her life.

The car, the chain, the suit, the nail polish…

The skin, the muscles, the bones…

The heart.

Let’s strip it all away.

She’s protecting herself. The little girl she once was… She was hurt by the world. So, she put on her armor. She wasn’t enough just being a shining light, a pure spirit. She needed to project and deflect. If she fails, and she will, it’s because of the suit, the chain, the car, the lack of skills… never because of who she is.

She’s not a failure… She’s not…

Written by Randall Evans

This is The Vile Mint

 

Fashionable

 

Flashing Back

I feel these moments take us back
To remind us what our hearts now lack.
When we see familiar sights,
Somehow we feel the loss of light.

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Flashing back to happy days
My heart is stabbed as mind relays
What meanings were, and now, are seen
As nothing like they used to be.

Drifting clouds kissed warming rays
I watched it all within your gaze
But when I saw the sky today
All I felt was my dismay.

New meanings need to change my eyes
To force things out and say goodbye
What is it in myself that grasps
To beauty that was in the past?

I say it’s gone and done, it’s over.
But everything reminds me of her.
There is no path that I can see…
From my mind I try to flee.

Am I afraid of letting go?
Or is this merely candles glow?
Flickering on the walls within
Going out with what has been.

Time is changing all of me
Who is the me that soon will be?
I fear that I’ll no longer care
How the sun would light her hair.

Is it normal to move on?
To forget the past… Forget someone?
For who are we but broken hearts
Forever falling to the start…

Written by Randall Evans

This is The Vile Mint

He Makes Us Laugh !

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The clown’s mask drips down his cheeks, but he has no face paint on. Sitting under a lamp in the corner of a lonely street his mind wanders. The waters rise from his heart to his head, making it impossible to get up and walk home.

This man, this, ‘clown’, spends his time exchanging laughter for pain. People want him around. They lean on him, laugh with him and seek him for comfort.

Everyday he cuts off small pieces from his body and gives it to whoever’s in need. Everyday he becomes more and more… empty. He gives what he wants to receive, yet he doesn’t know how to receive what he gives.

He can’t stay above the surface of the water, because the flood is within himself.

Is there ever balance in life? Is the emotional landscape like the rolling waves? Does the happiness that crashes on the shore eventually have to flush out through the rip tide into the sea?

The man, the clown, the ocean, stands up in the lonely street. He doesn’t stand straight like a hero on a mission. He doesn’t stand defeated like a man who’s lost it all. He stands in his pain with his eyes closed.

He applies his mental face paint.

Another man walks past. Concerned he asks, “Are you alright?”

The clown looks him in the eye.

“No. I’m not alright. I have a left hand as well.”

This is The Vile Mint

Written By Randall Evans

Only Your Happiness

I wish for you the happiness,
That I will never have,
For me, my love, I’m left alone.
Cold and in the black.

The shadows cover everything,
That you once saw as me.
The shadows cover everything,
And I can barely see.

One day we’ll meet by accident,
You’ll call me an old friend.
I’ll laugh and smile and play pretend,
My life is on the mend!

Yet, I sit alone… In the still blue night,
Convincing myself… it will be all right…

Written by Randall Evans

The Honest Poet Bleeds The Most

I can not wake,
I can not sleep.
This heart is heavy,
I am weak.

My eyes don’t see,
They only weep.
My love is gone,
And hope I seek.

What is this path you’ve given me?
Where brothers die and lovers flee?
The me inside has but one key,
And now I’m locked in misery.

I heard her pain as she cried out,
Her heart was broken in her shout.
I’ll take that with me ‘till I die.
As well as our last kiss goodbye.

I held her hand and made her mine,
Each day her eyes would light the sky.
My heart I handed in a box,
Without the thought that I’d be lost.

I’m drowning down in all my pain,
Fragmented self is barely sane.
A broken man, I am again,
Cold, alone, in the rain.

I heard your song, it broke me down.
My tears were falling to the ground.
Have mercy on this sinners heart
I need your love, I’m torn apart.

I know you put her in my sight,
To show me love and end the night.
But, now I’m here and no one knows,
Who I am, my inner woe.

Yet, I don’t care for happy days,
Just for her, to keep her safe.
I do not care if I decay,
Just be with her, that’s what I pray.

Written By Randall Evans