Eyes Drowned In Soap

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Thrillers  |  House: Philosophistication Poetry

Poetry and Life



Eyes Drowned In Soap


Beautiful life isn't it,

still young and chasing skirts,

still boys fighting a system that

they believe they can punch into

the wind,

smoking joints and jointed in

union with other boys,

falling asleep to the beats

of the deck,

comparisons of beauty and sex in essence,

enchanted by life,

knowing it all, painting on walls,

delinquents and finding fame

to be a cool act to be involved in,

soft skin, belief in ourselves,

the truth is buried behind the teeth,

walk a journey in new shoes,

everything is beautiful,

we can take over this world with

this Poetry thing,

we write with smiles, fulfilled,

divinity in our hands,

boys saying goodbyes to manners

from grandma's lips,

we laugh at reality,

we are the Kings in this game

of thrones,

forgetting that life has been

lived before, forgetting that life is

still taunting and we're merely

victims waiting to be corpses on open streets...


Years go by,

we're men with wrinkles now,

depressed faces, eyes carved

with distress,

we now just sit and contemplate

with bags under our bloated eyes,

we now have jobs, children and

wives, bills to pay and wills to write,

poetry has disappeared, it doesn't

bring food on this broken table,

so we answer calls the whole day,

locked in boxes, we can no longer

think out of the box,

some of us now limp,

some have been divorced and are

left fighting the courts for custodies,

we call each other and calls are rejected,

we smoke our depression by the

corporation entrances,

no more kites with written poems within,

no more poems as letters to

other planets,

now we are changing diapers and

no longer changing writing styles,

we are cuddling our little daughters

when they scream in nightmares,

we've become empty dolls,

wishing to run into our tombs,

we're tired of living,

so we feel like leaving,

torn suits with patches,

shoes with soles that fade with

the wind.

We now sing lullabies for

our children, read stories and

wish time would be turned back,

but the clock is made of thorns,

we're floating with the time,

visiting taverns and texting wives

and lying about overtime,

trying to escape what we failed to see

from afar, our eyes were drowned

in soap,

it's sad, we didn't prepare,

we sleep in the same bed with our

wives, but conversations are merely small

talk about bills and Billy not getting

an 'A' in his past exam,

so everything is our fault,

so we accept and wish that

one day happiness will pay a visit.

We cry in the shower,

we use to give ourselves pen names

in crews, our allegories were cynical,

but the colossal became too irrational

to follow for eternity,

so we've lived and yet not lived

at all...


Tired men,

falling asleep on park benches,

marveling at pigeons,

no more fights left in us,

we feel like we've been sucked dry

by life,

boys to men, now we understand

why the elders listen to jazz,

sometimes we need something that

speaks to us without actually speaking...

So we're Poets, and no longer Poets,

all has become a once upon a time

memory to your grandchildren,

I was once a Poet, but...

But we have grown old and we no longer

have a good memory about anything,

alzheimer, sadness, pain,

wearing old sweaters,

depressed, blood pressure rises,

eighty year old chappy,

rushed to the hospital,

on the way the heart attacks,

you whisper into the wind,

'I wish I could've lived better,

I wish...but wishes are merely like

stretching your wrinkles in front

of a mirror and believe you're still young,

the wrinkles will go back once you

let go...

Are we still Poets and are we

willing to walk this journey

through the thickness of the thin,

we're still boys with eyes drowned

in soap and giving ourselves

cool 'pen' names like 'Philosophisticater',

aren't we... well let's dream on,

like Passenger put it, 

'We're circles, we're circles you see, 

I circle around you and you'll circle

around me!!!'


By Eugene 'Philosophisticater' ©


Submitted: December 25, 2018

© Copyright 2022 Philosophistication Poetry. All rights reserved.

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Add Your Comments:



But though we waste away in body every single day...
The stains we leave upon the pages, don’t have to be decay!

No, I believe we have a voice & one that can be good...
The words we write don’t have to be only from the “Hood”

Wed, December 26th, 2018 5:14pm

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