a colorful creation
keen to careful condensation
in your crystal-ball eyes
at fairy tale lies
Growing to despise
and princes in disguise
Wipe your eyes
the stoic cattails
that reside along the bank
and the cursive
on pages once blank
"Why is a raven like a writing desk,
"Would you please tell me?"
"I haven't the slightest idea!"
A raven is black.
So is the ink.
A raven has wings.
Imagination does also.
© Timothy 19 June, 2013.
It's okay to be a crater in the moon
The sidewalks sleek slipperiness
Teases my vulnerable boot
One false move and I'm
Face down in the gutter
I need to be the lone, cumulus cloud in the sky
The black ink of an unidentifiable
Breaks my white, puffy monotony
It's important to be thrust into the cluster on those who walk too closely
A pungent pallet
Of too many different smells
sway like chopsticks against mine
The end of someone's coat
grazes my outer thigh
I need to be thrust into the cold cave that is my loneliness
I need to hear my own breath
flowing with the rhythm of the cars
cruising through the unread chapter of the
dark, quiet streets
the evil captor
I need to be sorry
and, oh, I am
A thousand times over
My apologies are bigger than
every Redwood tree in existence
I'm so out of controlWhiplash
Five cuts in your back
I'm right there
to heal them
before they even had a chance to bleed
I'd rather leave you banging on the back door
Even when the sun sinks
I won't listen
to your pleas
The road ahead of you
I won't be the lantern that fuels your unctuous behavior
I can't run with the rats forever
The mirror feeds me a different reflection every time I look into it
my hand doesn't shake in fear
It rests in quiet resolution
Soundly over my other
Poetry soothes me, at other times it moves me
They tell stories like books, plays and movies
It’s personal and public, some hate it, others love it
Some use it to manipulate like puppets on strings
Some sing, some talk, they can run or they can walk
Ink, lead, electric or chalk
From London to New York
It’s a sport and a hobby, or a life’s work
It can make you speculate on what life’s really worth
Painting pictures with scriptures of literature
Read it Monday but it takes till Sunday to hit ya
And make you wonder how could a poet write
So succinctly how I’ve felt my whole damn life
My troubles and strife, my happiness and joy
Look back just like I do when I was a boy
Put into words so well how my first kiss felt
Summer time 99, I remember how the air smelt
Fresh cut grass and baking tarmac
As I turned to walk away the girl I kissed pulled my arm back
She looked at me and said that roses are red
Violets are blue but she like tulips instead
Ever since then poetry’s been stuck in my head
Those words that she said
That’s why I touch paper with lead
It is always the most unexpected people
that we fall in love with
for they blossom and bloom in our hearts.
If I had met him sooner,
we could have created an indestructible us.
If he had met me sooner
perhaps he could have been the drug
prescribed to me by cold-skinned doctors
who see depression in the form
of green and yellow pills.
When I met him
the only darkness I knew was
the colour of midnight
and black ink
but now it is a raging storm over me,
an abyss I can not fight--
Darling, I have become the darkness.
He was too late
to save me from drowning
in the pitch black of my broken mind.
I am my keepers' diary – My covers bear a likeness to her resolve
My pages are like her fragile heart,
The ink on them are the secrets from the depths of her soul.
In me she confides that which no one else knows
Her joy, pleasure, happiness and pride,
Her anger and rage, her sadness and sorrow.
I know my keeper well – I have felt every flick of her pen
I can tell when she smiles by the gentle turn of a page
Or when she cries and her teardrops fall into me,
I dutifully soak them and hold them forever within.
Her rage! Oh God! Her anger, it stings like the snap of a whip,
As her pen moves swiftly and sharply again and again.
Just when I think I can bear it no longer,
She softly smooths her hand over the freshly scored page
And in that moment, I know she needs me
Like anyone needs a good friend.
I am my keepers' diary – My covers shall never betray her resolve.
We sell two albums on itunes if you search loud with love thank you!
I think this life isnt always what you make of it
seems like other people always got something to say
truth is, the people of this world are hella bored so they do what their told, then get lost inside the globe
i see clear as can be, dont let no thing bother me,
got a backpack, guitar, and harmony
speak spit heard only phonically
got words in my head that should keep me a trophy
number one spot i've had it
since the 4th grade
key is never let um know you have it
to some degree, you paint your own reality
i keep my eyes and mouth shut it's a good habit
i speak softly only when spoken to
try and stack cash like the government says im supposed to
i'm fed up with the push of others
those who make make me wake up early yet pretend to be my brothers
i want a house, i deserve it all
painted my own reality to get me far
another dimension is where I'm headed
tv cameras, coo cook clocks, and stanzas
running around like a chicken with my head cut off
they'll call me a celebrity, but never will my label of fell off
got a world of people yet to know me
imma come out to the town and say hello
see i place commas and my dots are honors
every t i cross is worth infinity
my words bring definity
painted my own reality
worked ten thousand times too hard and made a dynasty
its about time to look me up, my musics so good it's impossible to refuse it
i write fine, pen straight to ink what i think while i drink til its complete
i paint my own reality
Theres this chemical found
in the books you love
that makes the smell of turning the page
Reminding me of every word I've ever learned
that wont fit the smell of a number two pencil
with the language given.
I will try.
Because I was taught elementry things that I still dont understand
like how to give up.
What is taught isn't always blowing through your sense.
So lend me your ear and hear this.
Help me remember the miracle
of tragic wealth,
where oppurtunity in the ventures of wallstreet
is worth more than everybody else
and somehow still
no child gets left behind.
Leaving only our parent's nuerosis that become our friends
inability to write poetry.
The form of a child is something to be ashamed of
and you better believe that the ink can't speak
because growing up
that lesson that did sink in
under your skin is how you've never been able to say what you mean.
So run along lil duckling
traffic wont wait in this brisk pace
of a life you better learn.
We don't have time for nature.
A mother we grow to think we were born into
but out of?
the biggest lie to convince us
that such a thing as original exists
when the closest to original you'll get
is the collage of your human experience.
Turning school children into ducklings
reality into god
war into novels
spanish harlem into charity abroad
body language into a farewell to your fear
and journal studies into truth
but if I wanted to talk about the absolute
it's poetry I'd read to you.
Because when I saw god
I had to
To even come
every bead of sweat evidence of
the good work
the lessons learned
and all the things that I must burn.
To keep pace in this place
climbing a catalogue
when my time comes
Dirty water sky,
Trees dipped in ebony ink,
Night, my lover now.
I felt it
creeping through my fog
white and shining
treading the light
kicking away the gray
nipping at my toes
but I couldn't stop the black
from tickling its fingers
up my spine
funny, how such
can turn this lovely white mist
into a deep
I'm walking on ink
staining not only
but my worn out
how could I believe
that something could really
I was treading the light
but now I'm drowning