The Aces check their sleeves,
Hearts rippling across the breeze.
The Queen arises
Torn dress ripped at the knees.
The Jack saw his fill
And quickly took his leave.
Stood trembling in a doorway,
Mind struggling to believe...
The King was an alcoholic,
It was widely known to be so,
Each eve he would sit solemn,
Wine in hand and sword on show,
Clapping to the Jokers' japes
As he danced and sang
About love and fate.
But how was the King to know?
Not two rooms away
His wife had lain,
With a smile and a spade.
Creating a cuckold and a fool...
The Jack had had enough
And promptly marched
Into his room.
Armed with only knowledge,
To unleash the inevitable typhoon.
The winds will rise,
This house shall succumb,
Till the house is done.
And all that remains
Among ash and decay,
Broken hearts and broken spades,
Is the Jokers last laugh.
A mockingbirds call as daylight fades.
the one I call home
the place I wander
and squander my time
watching fawna and flora
in the midst of rain at dawn
where misty haze meets the clouds of grey
my eyes tempered to the meeting gaze of stars above
the dew brushed upon my brow
the silty runoff stinging my burnt skin
stories that sleep on the beds of my nails
the tiredness that hangs below my pupils
oh cometh sweet winds of summer
let you linger within my soul
carry me away within your gentle arms
set my heart a blaze
let me seek what I desire most
my dear world
keep me nomadic within the depths of your untouched landscape
keep me lost within your lonesome charm
It's mothers day,
and I have nothing for you
cause nothing is better
than what you gave me
They say you can't give what you take,
but damn mom, I swear
that's all you ever gave me-
take, take, take.
Here's a math problem Mom,
a 0 takes nothing
and a 1 adds to it
but you were a negative
and just couldn't get through it.
I swear to God
I work so hard every single day,
to be a positive,
and learn how to pray
I work so hard, Mom,
every. single. day.
but I have nothing for you
because nothing is better,
than taking away
dim green light
from behind a heavy curtain
bright white moon
pushing away clouds
in between black steal
lime green fish
through aqua water
circles in my mind space
blue and yellow
pull out parts of the sky
Closed windows, pretty flowers,
Beeping machines, no loose threads.
TVs running, nurses waiting,
Painted rooms, well-made beds.
The atmosphere is clean and open,
Yet stuffy and enclosed.
And the nurses here are smiling
While patients grasp their crosses close.
The temporary homes are painted
With animals and desert view.
Anxiously waiting to see if the
Person will go soon.
The hallways: long and deafening.
The rooms: screaming with fear.
The walls are closed in, watching firmly,
For miracles also happen here.
A child sees his first glimpse of the world;
A cancer survivor leaves happily after the fight;
A lucky person lies relieved after surgery;
A suffering man closes his eyes.
Artificial home-like furniture, hands sanitized.
A life is lost and tears appear from words they wish they'd said.
Luck or blessing, yours to name, and flower scent in the air.
But once a body leaves or fails to give away a breath,
Nothing is changed.
The life that lay upon the mattress now ceases to exist,
And the chamber stays a chamber;
For all they are are painted, lurking, killing, curing rooms
And tucked-in-well-made beds.
"Eärendil was a mariner
that tarried in Arvernien;
he built a boat of timber felled
in Nimbrethil to journey in;
her sails he wove of silver fair,
of silver were her lanterns made,
her prow was fashioned like a swan,
and light upon her banners laid.
In panoply of ancient kings,
in chainéd rings he armoured him;
his shining shield was scored with runes
to ward all wounds and harm from him;
his bow was made of dragon-horn,
his arrows shorn of ebony;
of silver was his habergeon,
his scabbard of chalcedony;
his sword of steel was valiant,
of adamant his helmet tall,
an eagle-plume upon his crest,
upon his breast an emerald.
Beneath the Moon and under star
he wandered far from northern strands,
bewildered on enchanted ways
beyond the days of mortal lands.
From gnashing of the Narrow Ice
where shadow lies on frozen hills,
from nether heats and burning waste
he turned in haste, and roving still
on starless waters far astray
at last he came to Night of Naught,
and passed, and never sight he saw
of shining shore nor light he sought.
The winds of wrath came driving him,
and blindly in the foam he fled
from west to east and errandless,
unheralded he homeward sped.
There flying Elwing came to him,
and flame was in the darkness lit;
more bright than light of diamond
the fire on her carcanet.
The Silmaril she bound on him
and crowned him with the living light
and dauntless then with burning brow
he turned his prow; and in the night
from Otherworld beyond the Sea
there strong and free a storm arose,
a wind of power in Tarmenel;
by paths that seldom mortal goes
his boat it bore with biting breath
as might of death across the grey
and long forsaken seas distressed;
from east to west he passed away.
Through Evernight he back was borne
on black and roaring waves that ran
o'er leagues unlit and foundered shores
that drowned before the Days began,
until he heard on strands of pearl
where ends the world the music long,
where ever-foaming billows roll
the yellow gold and jewels wan.
He saw the Mountain silent rise
where twilight lies upon the knees
of Valinor, and Eldamar
beheld afar beyond the seas.
A wanderer escaped from night
to haven white he came at last,
to Elvenhome the green and fair
where keen the air, where pale as glass
beneath the Hill of Ilmarin
a-glimmer in a valley sheer
the lamplit towers of Tirion
are mirrored on the Shadowmere.
He tarried there from errantry,
and melodies they taught to him,
and sages old him marvels told,
and harps of gold they brought to him.
They clothed him then in elven-white,
and seven lights before him sent,
as through the Calacirian
to hidden land forlorn he went.
He came unto the timeless halls
where shining fall the countless years,
and endless reigns the Elder King
in Ilmarin on Mountain sheer;
and words unheard were spoken then
of folk and Men and Elven-kin,
beyond the world were visions showed
forbid to those that dwell therein.
A ship then new they built for him
of mithril and of elven-glass
with shining prow; no shaven oar
nor sail she bore on silver mast:
the Silmaril as lantern light
and banner bright with living flame
to gleam thereon by Elbereth
herself was set, who thither came
and wings immortal made for him,
and laid on him undying doom,
to sail the shoreless skies and come
behind the Sun and light of Moon.
From Evereven's lofty hills
where softly silver fountains fall
his wings him bore, a wandering light,
beyond the mighty Mountain Wall.
From a World's End there he turned away,
and yearned again to find afar
his home through shadows journeying,
and burning as an island star
on high above the mists he came,
a distant flame before the Sun,
a wonder ere the waking dawn
where grey the Norland waters run.
And over Middle-earth he passed
and heard at last the weeping sore
of women and of elven-maids
in Elder Days, in years of yore.
But on him mighty doom was laid,
till Moon should fade, an orbéd star
to pass, and tarry never more
on Hither Shores where Mortals are;
for ever still a herald on
an errand that should never rest
to bear his shining lamp afar,
the Flammifer of Westernesse."
~ The Fellowship of the Ring, Many Meetings
This too-big sky that does daily darken
and indulge less romantic hearts than mine,
caresses sad, ragged man to harken;
he lay there on the coastline, breathing brine.
So far away, he did fail to mention
that the sea had made his fondest wish true.
So close, it was plain his main intention
was to season as he sat down to rue.
Fail me now, somberly habitual
crest-fallen snow, gingerly coloring
his fingers and face. Finding ritual.
He has lost the ring and is souring.
When the last of the mighty waves have crashed,
there he lay, waiting forever -as asked.
I can't stand anything. Wasting away. Going on with a heart beat in my chest. It all ran cold and shredded beliefs !. Breathing just to wake up desolate and broken like a fracture and hating everything. No escape. Nothing is golden and bloodshot eyes are keeping me awake at night. Cold, and lifeless hope, hangs by a string.
Your eyes that sparkled then dimmed away. The days where we touched hands and my lips touched yours. Death is coming and I'm screaming on the inside , but quiet on the out. With nothing left. Shattered. Bruised. This sinking feeling runs past me, digging deeper, eroding time, lacking courage and hating myself. I have died.
What ails the face
of the sun,
that its smiley countenance
doth suddenly change?
Why should it run
away which slays darkness' rage?
Clouds of sadness stroll
across the surface of the big ball:
dull substance of despondent sigh.
Unshealth at once
the ray of thy glittering sword, spare
nay thine eternal skill.
Contend and combat:
fight with zest and zeal
For weak and tired and weary,
shalt thou eventually be;
when with faded
you bid the day, goodbye.
Dark and stormys anybody?
Ohhhh noooo I'm turning into my mother
No I'm not... She sucks and I'm awesome
So on that note I'll let the world know:
I'm sick of cleaning up crushed cigarette packs, broken egg shells and meatless rib bones.
I don't want to chase mice from the stairs and flick ants from my pillow. I don't. Shit like that is not amusing anymore.
Being trashy was fun drinking 40s in laundromats. Doing nothing was easier in a windowless room with a wall collage of landscapes of Michingan. Or Wisconsin... Montana? Or wherever. I helped pick them out, tape them up and rip them down.
This isn't fun anymore. It's never fun anymore. It won't be. We both know this.
What was it you said?
"Love you no matter what. That shit ain't gonna change. We will always be on another level together and you know that."
I do know that. And I know that as ridiculous as it sounds I can't be as happy alone as I am when we are alone. Or not alone.
Dammit can we just be back to normal? Come on. I can't laugh like you made me laugh. And that's the only thing that can make this pus filled incision and my tingling thumb bearable.
I've been sleep walking and day dreaming away all the days between you leaving and my life beginning. The pipe is rolling and there's no one to pass it to. I try to count the bags we've shared. It's not possible. I miss you and you are still here. So let's do something again and make it big.
Because...you are my best friend and I never realized how much you meant to me until there was no one farting beside me.