"Get right down! From that horse," he said,
As high and as proud as the champion's stead.
"Come right out, and we'll settle this fair,
And the folk all around will hide from the square.
Draw on three and we'll see who's best,
Loser gets to leave and the winner gets the rest."
One, two, three, and the bangs hit the sky,
And the ranger hits the ground and I leave him there to fry.
"And if you decide to come back 'round,
Just remember that the sheriff has a hold of this town!"
That boy runnoft back the way he came
Cause this devil's just a girl, but the sheriff just the same.
A friend to you
...Laughing with you right now
over stupid things that are funny
...Listening to your troubles
and offering advise
...Picking up the phone
(like I have a hundred times before
but then I always eventually place it back down
remembering how when I have called in the past
our conversations were awkward
and you made it quite obvious didn't want to talk to me)
(but that's not my style
I don't want to not reach out to you
if you need me
why would you need me?)
( since this is what I go through almost daily
these conversations with myself over
what to do with my feud between
my heart and head over
what you mean to me
The best thing to ever happen to you
i've always been a fan of clichés in movies
because it gives me hope
i might end up
the breathing's too hard
but most of all
the walking view
is so twirly swirly
like a one person waltz
in the best ballroom
fuck it who cares
the alcohol's too far
mentally and metaphorically
[drink to that]
but i grab for the bottle anyways
and tip back a little
how it burns and cools
how it sears
how it kills
but i still won't know how it feels
baby, i'm empty and i'm cold
(maybe a sweater will fix that)
but i don't care
in fact, it's pretty nice
to know that something urges you
to go and lie down
punch a pillow
something that tells you
i guess this ballroom dance
just never ends
what a shame
because i really wanted to get home tonight
oh, this isn't a pretty cliché
more like a twisted fairy tale
won't you take my hand
and come home with me
because i could really use some company
and i might just die
if you don't
i might find you again
because then maybe
i can be
[and they all lived happily ever after]
Through all my lives I've loved you.
With each one you were my constant. You were always there.
In this life I only have the dream.
There's never a face
I feel you,
I sense you,
I know you.
This life can be no different.
You are out there.
I keep thinking I've found you, but.....
it's not right,
I think I'm learning though, I need to stop looking for you.
To stop the search and just let it happen.
It's not I who has to find you, it's we who will find one another.
It won't be right
You won't be right
We won't be right
Until we find each other.
Then, the face that is missing
will be seen.
i'm alone right now,
blogging and writing about
my daily life.
i feel like Cinderella.
i'm cleaning the
floors and i'm
crying over the fact i
can't be with my
but, in reality
he isn't a prince.
he's a teacher.
and in reality,
i don't really want to
be with him anyways,
would it be correct to say that
i actually would like a
You confuse me.
2 days without talking to me.
I push you away,
Tell you goodbye,
That I can not be your friend.
A hug from you the next day.
I lost all my friends.
I pushed them all away.
I have done this before.
You are the first to refuse to leave.
I don't know why.
It's not like you love me.
You are a friend.
And though I cannot stand this torment,
I love having you want me.
We will always be just friends,
But right now, we're together.
And that's all I could ever ask.
When we are separated
I miss you
I just want to run my fingers up and down you
just to feel you
and my mind gets a little hectic
and i really wish that i can just neglect it
but i think my sadness is engraved into me
i want you to play me
i mean take your hands and put them on my body and play me
play me like im a guitar
string my body along
i have these dark moments
and i really want romance
and i want to turn off all the lights and drown in the music
throw flowers all over in the room and make love through the night
baby, we can make this feel right
i want to run my fingers up and down your spine
and just tickle you
so i can make you mine
for a long period of time
i want you to feel me
make my body go in shock
make these whispers in my head speak out loud
its been on lock
for too long
and my moans can be so sweet
i can make you feel these things that you wont ever want to speak
it can be silent
or you can hear me moan through the night
i can make it sound so beautiful
like a song that's on repeat
we can go at it for hours
make the room smell like flowers
i got a sweet flowerbomb
baby put me out
run my fingers through your hair
kiss you all over
i can wrap my legs around your body while i feel those hips go...
id look good on you
that's just for us two to see
we can make it rough we can go slow this is our world no one has to know
i want this forever
i want to make love.
Welcome to the dawn of a new age,
open up the book and turn the page,
Be amazed by what you see, it's only the evolution of humanity
Who has the answers?
Lets ask the question,
it's as if no one is even paying attention.
Is it money? Which was created by man,
it does separate people, now are you starting to understand?
It's a trap, set by death, it wont stop,
till we breath our last breath,
That's right! Not even death is free, is money the mother of poverty?
overpopulation, segregation, a messed up nation, usually leads to mass anialation,
wartime, many battles rage on ,
Is it about hatred? Or is it a politicians song?
Time and space,
are they our final frontiers?
bombs explode and people run in fear,
a culture wiped out, to the future they are unknown,
will aliens from space ever invade our home?
Will we pledge allegiance to their flag?
Whatever may wave, whatever they have,
science there's the fiction and the fact,
but sometimes it is hard to believe all that,
Who will do it? Who will find the answers?
Prophets fall but not from cancers,
Who will stand up? Who will be the one?
To bring about change without firing a gun?
Every generation builds off the back of the last,
Sacrifices made but ignored,dooms us to repeat the past..
I can't seem to place you in a little box,
With a nice pretty bow attached,
You're just not the type of person
Who I can figure out so easily
But I woke up beside you,
And you were still smiling,
So I figured I had done something right
And although there may not be any more mornings,
Know that I gave to you what I could,
What I thought you needed
We grew up in the muddy puddle
That was our coffee
In a begrimed little café.
We ate in little bites of each other,
Rolled our tongues in our mouths,
Tasted each flavor and each seasoning.
I gulped you down and digested each little mishap of you.
I undid all the sordid belongings residing in your mouth,
You were the embodiment of shame and failure,
And I made it all such a part of my gut,
That I haven’t shaken it off
Thirty years hence.
How did I make it to here?
This is such a foreign rest.
The only familiarity was that,
Which settled around the corners of your eyes,
In the crevices beneath your breasts,
And the clarity of your skin.
There were snacks,
You had your brown sweater on.
Your moist brow was so restless that day,
That I was reminded of all of my desperation,
All the stories I hurled at myself,
All the children I knew were all right.
Your brow vanished all that I held true,
Even you, Nara,
Your brow swallowed you whole.
You killed a part of me that day.
You exploded into chemicals,
That stuck onto my skin.
Into hot tea that surprised me every day.
It crept into the jasmine oil smell of her hair.
In the sweat of her neck,
Into our lazy evenings filtered through with years
Of careful exclusion.
Everything I owned was only me
When I was naked, and writhing,
A baby in the womb of something so desperately motherly,
That it forgot to give birth.
She noticed, Nara, she noticed me.
She noticed these hands shaking through everything they did.
And she hid.
She hid into her red, pleated saris,
Into cookbooks and cakes,
Into soft butter, and hardened cookies.
Everything has been seeking to destroy itself since, Nara,
Cigarettes would paper itself into existence.
Now it burns smoke and blindness.
The trees move in fast forward,
They are arthritic fingers
Grasping for something,
Long since out of their reach.
Acid has been running in the veins of this house since years,
The wood is out of place.
The rot in the bamboo tables is only concealed
By the tinted glass.
And sometimes, I sit at the cadaver porch,
You are a mindless zombie of a woman,
Who decides to stay with me,
And leave me alone.
Destruction had become your favourite hobby when you were that real.
When did poetry become so important to you that
You quite forgot me?