Love doesn't rhyme;
the rules imposed,
the frames we chose,
do not apply,
although we try
to tame its flow
we sink below,
salvation by escape;
we bravely dove
but there's the threat
and the melody
it's giving us,
but do we
to find them,
or is it them
to find ourselves,
I cannot help
Well, its not going very far,
trying to escape,
it thinks if it could just
across the smooth ceiling
one centimeter at a time,
that somehow the tiles will just
open up into
But what then?
Is floating into nothing,
really better than constant incarceration?
here it has a place
it has people watching.
Sure, I've ruined it again!
Follow me around like I'm the actual
And only problem. You'll eventually get yours!
So you think I'm the ultimate biggest of fools?
(Well, for once and for all, check yourself!)
Nice people finish last, and there's nothing nice
About going around with personal problems, that I
Have to fit your personal standard, even when they
Are following all of the standard rules!
Rules, regulation and form, allows for the greatest accord.
A ruse, my elation, at the shore with the bravest of swords.
Let me explain, poetry should be like a storm, a war of the words.
But Treat every one like a worm: your encouraging your curse.
You can't move forward without inertia at your back.
It's just the set of rules that allow Us to teach that.
So yes, the form and regulations enable the greatest of sets.
But unless you use them you will just be a sadist at best.
She can’t walk alone
Her skin could not be shown
Her knowledge is useless
Her success is fruitless
Her earnings are not well off
She cannot trough
Her legs should not be spread
She shall not lie in any men’s bed
She better be home by six
If not she would be considered as sucking dicks
Her opinion never mattered
Her dignity should never be scattered
Her thoughts and body should be innocent and pure
She shall not be dressed well otherwise she has someone to lure
Yet she smiles to herself as she wanders the dark alley
79th street valley
Her fingers intertwined with hers
Dollar bills over flowing her purse
She lies sprawled on the dead street her hands pulling at her risen skirt
Tugging at her girlfriend’s shirt
She munches on the Coney dog famous in Michigan
Leans over and whispers “at least there is 1 rule I have not broken”
A Way with words
A Way with wonder
A Way with thoughts
A Way with ponder
A Way with daydreams
and lucid reminiscence
A Way with bursting at the seams
with thought's threaded essence
A Way: The wrong way it is
for seriousness to attend
A Way: The wrongness from righteousness
of so many acceptences to bend
Nobody wants a body
When given so easily.
He will fail to see
What is dormant
In the soul and heart
Of the hands that touch
And the mouth that kisses.
And the advantage lies
In his taking.
While she is overlooked
Because society says something else.
And the rules were broken,
Just like her heart will be.
Because he can’t choose her.
He can only have her.