the flag, no meaning
baseless and tattered
the president, so deceiving
no savior to intervene
my soul, quite defeating
can't bring myself to care
what is this world
without the truth
was it ever really there
Truth is, the best go mad.
It's a hell that many dare to not enter, but not many have a choice. Once you visit, there's no turning back. Nothing will appear sane anymore. You're exposed to the horrors many are blind too. Everything you thought you knew, is everything it's not. Your mind has been stretch with the truth. That no one will understand. They will say "You've gone mad." But in reality they are the mad ones. They are the ones that are truly bonkers. Embracing your sanity, isolates you from their madness. Which makes you insane, the one whose gone mad.
I couldn't count the times
"I love you" rolled off my tongue
In a bold and wicked lie
The mountains of regret
Are forged with the same deciet
Because in Truth I hate you.
I could tell you a thousand times
But you are so damn foolish
You fail to see the only truth.
I'll play ball, this tired game
With showered materials gifts
In return for a failed fable
Like the ring of a bell in the distance
some trance which in an instance
can seem like it lasts an eternity,
I embrace the natural wild just as much as I can,
I know it's not a normal thing
but life is short and I am happiest free.
Lost in the moonlight halo or entrenched
in active chaotic madness, it's all the
same to me. A vagabond, a fool,
I earned this by word of mouth alone,
never again truly kissed, scarred and yet my poor
living is sacred, there is no place I can call my own,
this all I am thinking as I drift off to sleep
for the very last time, as you hold my shaky hand,
there is little I'd have left for my journey while
they take all they can that is left
of my world all for the sake of greed,
of nothing but selfish sentimentality,
I am already guilty, instantly proven guilty,
so for once let me be.
My insecurities are mine, you try to heal but do not feel the insecurities that I conceal, I store them deep within myself, inside a jar upon a shelf, wear a smile braced like a Sheild, protect yourself, fight not too feel.
But you have broke me, mind and soul, kiss the imperfect make me whole, and in return I'll let you see, her who I so wish to be, I'll let you love what I cannot, for you are what I've always sought, perfection in its place a man, with loving eyes and gentle hands.
There's more to life than living to die ; there's more to death than dying from living. We die to live just so we can live, then die ? Or do we die to live just so we can die?
Running through the city lights,
inside a rock jazz with blues music.
They begin with holding hands,
driving with one hand.
As they're getting wild,
John Mayer's songs get loud.
He began to kiss her,
she continues to jump on him.
Again, through the city lights,
without no one knows
they make the best foreplay ever.
These little birds go for a movie,
get some alcohol.
Basically no alcohol needed to make it happen,
for they make the best game ever.
But that night, they are walking through
a bigger city with beautiful light.
End up on that bed that he miss,
with her make up on.
She stares at him with those eyes,
that he always trapped on.
He opens her buttons one by one,
end it by licking the last button.
Every breath, every soft sound, every mimic
she makes just drives him crazy.
And he admitted it, the sex is great.
If it’s the people that make it here,
I’ll leave a black frame around it
and cash in a polaroid on the subway
to call it even.
The colorless stands between
young couples and their drug deals,
much like the fragments of ourselves
waiting for us all over the place.
Beverly knows this and hides them in her pink.
Stayed up for days just to miss the sunrise
and fall asleep on the L.
Then there’s that one girl
and whatever is left of that broken heart.
These are the sounds you’ll never hear from the 30th floor.
It’s for your own good, trust me -
and on the subject of diplomacy,
it’s snowing blow on 48th.
But now it’s back to the busy busy,
with the third in the backroom of a speakeasy.
Got thrown and bent up as shit got gritty gritty
so as to remember what it felt like to find myself
in New York City.
For visual represenation of this poem, visit here: