Jettrainfan

Memories can be fuzzy through a fish eyed lens. A second chance at life can be worse than death. There really isn’t a rhyme or reason to the beginning of the end. A goldfish was swimming around his tank. The water was comfortably warm as he explored his home. While Bubbles waited for his master to arrive, the goldfish checked his reflection. Orange and vibrant as always. He then went about tidying up his castle. He moved his neon rocks around until they were in a satisfactory state. There was plenty of chores to take care of before the sun peeked through the bedroom window. As the sun revealed it’s glare upon the wall, a loud screech rang out. The cry of the siren shook Bubbles to his core. His fins froze as he gasped at the feeling. The world turned upside down as the goldfish felt himself rising. Recollections of his life blinded his eyes. To heaven his soul ascended. His body was left behind to skim the top of the tank. A cry of realization rang out. Nature took it’s course and

Alcoholic tendencies are a way of life. You don’t really have a choice if it’s that or unleash Armageddon on the poor bastards you’ve been damned to dictate over. Am I as bad as my people portray me as? Well, they’d be happier if they bowed to me the first time around. They call me a liar, and I’ll set their pants on fire. That’s what they get for calling my bluff. Beggars can’t be choosers, hence why I’m the one who calls the shots. As I sip my wine and ponder where it all went wrong; I suppose a little back tracking is necessary. As a young girl, I grew up as a princess in a castle with my father. Never knew what happened to my mother, and I was a single child. Having no one to look up to other than a deranged tyrant took it’s toll on my mental health. Father always wanted a son because that’s how the family would keep it’s power. Being a female though, the best I could do was merge with another royal family. He went out of his way to search for the perfect prince for me to marry. I

Nature's call Says to drop them all Autumn is here And in full swing No longer green with glory Their time has come Colored veterans In the season of wither Lack of resources An hour of sun lost Something had to give By the masses they fall I stared at the onslaught These leaves are out of control! They're descending from their bosses And taking no prisoners They're hitting the ground They're striking automobiles They're clogging gutters They're crashing into trees! All the while the evergreens Laugh their branches off Armed with pinecone grenades They bluntly drop their seed One hit the back of my head Obviously I'm not dead Civilian casualty PTSD poetry I can't help but wonder Where did it all go wrong? The wind dispatches new recruits Whenever it decides to blow Clouds thunder eastward Over the battlefield Those that have perished Roll with the breeze Looking up to the rapture I question what's to come I'm struck in the shoulder The world feels colder A snowflake

I fancy myself a poet. Not the kind that gets their kicks from blooming flowers or political talk. I’ve more so lost my marbles and portray fever dreams. It’s not so bad. I merely ramble on as I smoke my pipe. A gothic home can’t warm a cold heart such as mine. If you want to light a fire in your soul, you look for the material to do so. Only downside to that is you gotta dress accordingly to Autumn’s chilly breath. God, I hope my scarf doesn’t try to strangle me this time. To be frank with you, I didn’t have anywhere particular in mind. All I did was tell the wife I’d be gone till supper time, and out the door I went. The plan was to follow the wind. That would’ve sent me spinning because this gale was giving me whiplash. My stubborn self finally settled on marching towards the east. I’m not young anymore, so I sure as hell won’t go west. The wind didn’t like my decision. A gust tried to steal my hat in retaliation. Falling leaves attempted to wipe the scowl off my weathered face.