The One You Need

Strive to be the one you need,

But search your inconsistency,

For injustice that is thrown on thee,

Reflects your incongruity.

***

What are the traits you have in mind?

Are they the ones you left behind?

As you seek it’s true you’ll find,

Staring back your judging eye.

***

Double standards in your heart,

So within yourself is where to start.

Look deep within and strip apart,

The real sin inside your heart.

***

For kindness to find be kind.

If selfless you seek, rewind.

The values you must align,

Should shine from a place inside.

***

Seek the one who makes you whole,

And be the one you’d want to know.

So when connection wakes your soul,

Your seeking heart can be on show

***

Strive to be the one you need,

But search your inconsistency,

Remember words graced from above,

Your neighbour as yourself you love.

***

Written by Randall Evans.

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Gateway

Unexpected memory of a corridor
Voices roaring down the hall
A birthday held when I was four

Not for me, for the jolly good fellow.
An old man’s song if ever bellowed.
On a night that feels both mad and mellow.

I mused a moment, child’s mind,
Who were his friends there by his side?
They loved him then and so did I.

Lucky were the men back then,
To know my grandad as a friend,
Someone on which they could depend.

I wonder if he would be proud
If he had lived to see me now.
The singing voices growing loud…

He blew the candles on the cake
One day he lay and would not wake
Now floating down a gentle lake.

Nothing in this world will last
Our candles burn into the past
And shadow we no longer cast.

Unexpected memory of a corridor
Voices roaring down the hall
A birthday held at heaven’s door.

Written by Randall Evans

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

 

Depth

Empty tunnels echo pain.
Beating heart and throbbing veins.
Scattered thoughts and shattered soul,
Hatred fills the empty hole.

Where to turn in this turmoil?
Mind in tempest, face in soil.
I gave too much and feel too weak,
And uttered words I never speak.

Without the mind to stay alone,
Or the want for friends I know.
I wish for comfort from above,
But hatred lives where once was love.

When we give to much we’re left in pain,
Yet, I know deep down, I’d give again…

– By Randall Evans.

Written for the Daily Prompt: Depth

Photo Challenge: Details

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Build your tower to the sky,
Foundations solid on the mire.
Yet, nature comes without straight lines.
No boxes, squares or strickt guidelines.

Curves that dance and sway and sing,
That help us dream up anything.
But, life is square for human beings,
Build by those with sight unseeing. 

“We’ll steal from nature! Then they’ll see!
One point 6 1 8 0 3
Square the office! Square the door!
Build the prison behind square walls!”

Bombarded by shapes that should not be!
We look around but do not see,
That the beauty that is in the leaf
Is chaotic, yet it breathes relief.

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– By Randall Evans.

Weekly Photo Challenge: Details

Nightmare – The Tree

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A dead tree alone in a dessert. Burnt, it’s branches claw at the sky. Slowly, the scene tilts. The sky now below, the dessert above. The tree hangs like a gothic chandelier.

The man holds tight, but his grip is failing. White knuckled on the branches as he slides closer and closer to the sky below. Just let go!

The tree begins to bleed. The dark blood rains down on the man. He has no hope. He has nothing.

Useless!

He falls.

A soft surface. Yet, not a landing… He slides gracefully down for miles on a deep red satin dress. The satin wraps him up. It belongs to a beautiful woman. She cradles the man and hums a lullaby.

A nice lullaby.

A haunting lullaby.

A grotesque song.

Nobody wants you!

The satin melts away into an ocean. A rough sea that throws the man under the surface. The liquid fills his lungs. He can’t breathe.

Hopeless.

He falls out from tears that flow from his wife’s eyes as she stares at a tree. A tree that’s been in their yard since they first moved in. Everything is silent. Everything except the tight sound of a rope.

He stands and looks up at the lifeless body. It’s him.

His tortured soul watches his painless body being carried down by his broken wife.

His eyes open and he wakes up in a pool of sweat.

He rolls over and places a soft kiss on back of his wife’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry.”

– By Randall Evans.

Written for The Daily Post prompt – Nightmare