Around a rust encrusted, paint chipped, downtrodden
old green barn
run quickly in slow motion,
make daisy chains,
catch fireflies.
Fall fast asleep.
Just close your purely innocent, light hearted, unassuming
heavy eyelids
and
sleep fast through bomb droppings,
dream of sugar plumbs.
Never wake up.
Never wake up.
They'll come for you too, do all that they do
they'll keep score.
The battle grounds are blemished; everything's on fire.
The souls of hundreds of thousands
would be could be should be
children.
You would be could be should be
but now
kill the souls of children,
the battle grounds are blemished; everything's on fire.
Come to just keep score in all you do,
you come for them too.
Wake up.
Awake your rust encrusted, paint chipped, downtrodden
heavy eyelids.
Drop your bombs then sleep fast.
Around a purely innocent, light hearted, unassuming
old green barn
run slower and
look at daisies and
watch the lights.
Never wake up.
Never wake up, you drop
bombs on your own bridges.
Don't let your bridges drop bombs on you.
Let the field carry you on a bed of grass to sleep
and child,
Child,
never Wake up.
July 9, 2012
July 7, 2012
Clover
I guess I forgive you and
yes, Your point is valid.
Trust is like a tree.
It takes a long time to grow,
one rip of a chain saw to tear down.
Let's just say it doesn't rain often around here and sunlight is scarce.
Good luck.
yes, Your point is valid.
Trust is like a tree.
It takes a long time to grow,
one rip of a chain saw to tear down.
Let's just say it doesn't rain often around here and sunlight is scarce.
Good luck.
Still Angry
I trustED you,
you know it's true.
I hate poems that rhyme,
but I'll do it for you.
This blog was for me
I showed it to you
Not for you to comment,
but for you to see true.
I'll change because I love you
not in a weird way, I promise
However it seems,
a divide is upon us.
I trustED you.
You know it's true.
I hate poems that rhyme,
but I'll do it for you.
It's not you I promise
It's all human-kind.
I thought maybe you'd get it:
a rare person to find.
I see now that I was wrong,
I'll go back to being caged.
Nothing you say
will make my rage and hurt assuaged.
you know it's true.
I hate poems that rhyme,
but I'll do it for you.
This blog was for me
I showed it to you
Not for you to comment,
but for you to see true.
I'll change because I love you
not in a weird way, I promise
However it seems,
a divide is upon us.
I trustED you.
You know it's true.
I hate poems that rhyme,
but I'll do it for you.
It's not you I promise
It's all human-kind.
I thought maybe you'd get it:
a rare person to find.
I see now that I was wrong,
I'll go back to being caged.
Nothing you say
will make my rage and hurt assuaged.
I trustED you.
You know it's true.
I hate poems that rhyme,
but I'll do it for you.
Angry, Part 12
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
maybe you have a point,
but you don't understand what I do.
Violets are blue,
maybe you have a point,
but you don't understand what I do.
Angry, Part 7
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
Who cares about structure?
This all is for me, not you.
Violets are blue,
Who cares about structure?
This all is for me, not you.
Angry, Part 6
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
I won't respond to your texts,
so read this all, won't you?
Violets are blue,
I won't respond to your texts,
so read this all, won't you?
Angry Part 4
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
But honestly, why did you do that?
I ask, "how could you?"
Violets are blue,
But honestly, why did you do that?
I ask, "how could you?"
On Nautical Adventures
Reach out your dozen-diamonds shimmering
shaking trembling hand and
grasp the place you call home.
My dad told me once, "You can't have everything;
you have to choose."
So I chose the epitome of my tomorrows
with the feeling of today,
the rambling of a small child,
and the sharp knife of a pen on my skin.
I draw on me.
The only reason I want a tattoo is so that
I can forever show the world
I'm goddamn lost and
this ink is my fragile anchor.
This skin is parchment thin and hard as steel,
so good luck putting needles through.
I want to be your parchment thin
fragile anchor.
Actually?
Fuck that.
I want to be anything
to bob with the tides but never sail further
what a miserable poor ship.
Sharper than the drop of the atomic bomb,
loud as a basilisk's fang,
these walls know more than
any of us know.
Keep my secrets.
Hide my woes.
Keep my dreams encrusted in yellow paint.
I remember the first time
my mom
read my poetry written in ink
on my walls.
She said, "Go to sleep...
you need it."
So I replied...
"Don't we all?"
Don't we all?
Don't we al need to be an anchor, a
mooring, a
black night sky stars build on the
blades of grass fireflies ignite,
the bed on which you lie with me.
Lie with me and take walks through
gardens and brimstone
heaven and hell and
when we are done I swear to God I'll
fuck you like a prayer.
I'll be your fucking safety line
anchor
canvas
mooring
chain lock hope key life love girl me
Why?
Locks break too soon.
Ropes fray too fast. Hopes.
I know I should get some sleep,
get over it but still.
You were my anchor and
now I'm drifting about.
The total deaths of a broken
mind spirit soul
is not just one but one million.
What is the value of a human
soul?
Extend your hand and close your eyes.
Get some sleep,
side by side.
If you're the sky, rest easy, I'll be your stars.
If you'll be the walls, sleep tight, I'll be the poems.
Extend your hand and never leave.
It's harder to
end
than it is to start.
shaking trembling hand and
grasp the place you call home.
My dad told me once, "You can't have everything;
you have to choose."
So I chose the epitome of my tomorrows
with the feeling of today,
the rambling of a small child,
and the sharp knife of a pen on my skin.
I draw on me.
The only reason I want a tattoo is so that
I can forever show the world
I'm goddamn lost and
this ink is my fragile anchor.
This skin is parchment thin and hard as steel,
so good luck putting needles through.
I want to be your parchment thin
fragile anchor.
Actually?
Fuck that.
I want to be anything
to bob with the tides but never sail further
what a miserable poor ship.
Sharper than the drop of the atomic bomb,
loud as a basilisk's fang,
these walls know more than
any of us know.
Keep my secrets.
Hide my woes.
Keep my dreams encrusted in yellow paint.
I remember the first time
my mom
read my poetry written in ink
on my walls.
She said, "Go to sleep...
you need it."
So I replied...
"Don't we all?"
Don't we all?
Don't we al need to be an anchor, a
mooring, a
black night sky stars build on the
blades of grass fireflies ignite,
the bed on which you lie with me.
Lie with me and take walks through
gardens and brimstone
heaven and hell and
when we are done I swear to God I'll
fuck you like a prayer.
I'll be your fucking safety line
anchor
canvas
mooring
chain lock hope key life love girl me
Why?
Locks break too soon.
Ropes fray too fast. Hopes.
I know I should get some sleep,
get over it but still.
You were my anchor and
now I'm drifting about.
The total deaths of a broken
mind spirit soul
is not just one but one million.
What is the value of a human
soul?
Extend your hand and close your eyes.
Get some sleep,
side by side.
If you're the sky, rest easy, I'll be your stars.
If you'll be the walls, sleep tight, I'll be the poems.
Extend your hand and never leave.
It's harder to
end
than it is to start.
A narrative, a poem, or something of utter insignificance
Sometimes I wish I wasn't different.
Sometimes, as I sit alone at lunch I wish that my two
best friends weren't a pen and paper.
Sometimes I wish I could show myself;
come out from behind a curtain,
and allow hundreds of pages to fan out.
Sometimes I wish I could sing so that maybe
who I am could be more beautiful.
I wish I could leave.
Take the key off the shelf and just leave.
Run
Fly
Where somebody could see me.
Really.
Possible?
No.
Tortured?
Yes.
Sometimes I wish I could feel sixteen.
Sometimes I wish I was a firefly.
(Sometimes I wish I was beautiful)
Fireflies.
Nobody has ever once complained about them being
unbeautiful.
The juxtaposition is astounding.
A world of opposites I live.
I breathe.
Sometimes I wish that somebody
anybody(?)
could understand.
do I make myself clear?
Sometimes, as I sit alone at lunch I wish that my two
best friends weren't a pen and paper.
Sometimes I wish I could show myself;
come out from behind a curtain,
and allow hundreds of pages to fan out.
Sometimes I wish I could sing so that maybe
who I am could be more beautiful.
I wish I could leave.
Take the key off the shelf and just leave.
Run
Fly
Where somebody could see me.
Really.
Possible?
No.
Tortured?
Yes.
Sometimes I wish I could feel sixteen.
Sometimes I wish I was a firefly.
(Sometimes I wish I was beautiful)
Fireflies.
Nobody has ever once complained about them being
unbeautiful.
The juxtaposition is astounding.
A world of opposites I live.
I breathe.
Sometimes I wish that somebody
anybody(?)
could understand.
do I make myself clear?
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