CAT KING’S \WORD \VOMIT – Questionable Questions

Photo by Sterling P Taylor


I couldn’t drown anymore-

a pounding racket was recklessly knocking

at my ears, and my eyes wished to see light,

and my voice keeps disappearing –

“It just has to be the truth knocking at my door!”

I wandered streets dark and empty

following nothing but my gut

at long last I figured out what I had to do.

Questionably asking questions all along the way.

everyone is sitting, waiting, watching for the words to just come out

but the truth is magic and the future is unknown.


Illuminating nights of –

liquor-filled treason,

I swore I had exited the city

in order to hear more clearly

where the noise was coming from

shades and shadows

were weighing down my spirit

and in seek of light, I drifted.

We’re animals babe

and the hunger was growing

to find a setting to better fit my mood.

I am all about new beginnings

the kind that hold no old relics to lug around

because the weight of the world has begun

to take it’s toll on my now fragile frame.

I couldn’t tell you if I found the sunlight, or it found me

but the palm tree-lined streets here must

understand that green is my favorite color.

I feel a frantic panic on the streets

everyone is so desperately trying to hold on,

to hair, skin, nails, beauty, youth, an image-

a projection of what life actually is.

The things that garner attention to an exterior

of an empty house.

Life is knowing that we are all empty houses

until we can prove that we in fact know:

It is the attention to detail on the interior

that makes a house a home.

I know poor rich men

I know rich poor men, too.


The panic grows as the distractions,

they become more apparent

and the fear-pushers are everywhere we look,

especially and most frequently at the machines

who so conveniently seem to hold all of the answers.

Nothing in life is meant to be so easy.

Sitting across from across from a man with a hunger

to be given a reason to understand a lot of what we see

isn’t necessarily what it seems.

Why do we wish to destroy everything we have ever worked to build?

Be honest for once with yourself and re-read my last statement and

tell me who is the real victim in that situation?

Do victims need to exist?

Do humans really only use ten percent of our brains?

Is that a reason to stop a hunger for truth and knowing?

War is formulated by the men who sell the guns.

The ones who profit on the narrowing down of human-existence

while the ones who sit seemingly unaffected,

with heads down filling that possibly tiny portion of usable brain

with things that don’t actually matter, being used as stickmen

while innocent people lose their lives.

Drooling over mansions, and porn, and gluttony

filled with nothing but an idea.

The mass of an object is what holds it’s meaning

in the space where it is stationed.

Empty houses take up space for no good reason.

While people sleep on boxes on the street.

Doesn’t this make you guilty,

even just a little bit?

Does it really matter if you hold someone’s hand when you are jumping to your death off of a cliff?

Are you a spirit that is uplifting or are you dragging others down?

I refuse to believe that ,as humans born with legs in order to be mobile,

we’re meant to spend so much time sitting down.


There is no follow button to click about swimming to the shore

were the truth calls your name with a promise to never let you down.

I’ve already said too much. I better get to swimming now,

because it’s gonna take my whole life

and that damn clock just keeps on ticking.

© Cat King


Photos © Sterling P. Taylor