You know I never really understood
Why they wear their pants that way
Pull them down to their knees
And walk around all day
But they say this is the fashion
It's a new trend I should try
That underwear is very cool
And catches peoples eyes
So I decided I should try this
I pulled my pants down way too far
Then to show the world how hip I was
I walked through Central Park
All the children were excited
I saw them point my way
They even told their teacher
She made them look the other way
Well then two cop's they came running
I assumed to see my style
I thought my trend was catching on
But the cop's they didn't smile
Those cops they'd start a new trend
One I didnt like as much
They put my hands behind my back
And slapped on silver cuffs
Now this jail cell seems so small
With this big man next to me
He says he'll be my best friend
And that he likes just what he sees
So glad to see the courtroom
Filled with people from the streets
They yell, rethink your fashion trend
If you're wearing a G-String
Now the judge he was not happy
But he did not give me time
He said wear a G-String where you want
No one can take that right
You see the Judge he wore a G-String
Underneath his long black robe
He did not find me guilty
A free man I could go
So I walked outside of the courtroom
As a free man once again
And became so very famous
For my new found Fashion Trend
Carl Joseph Roberts
The three of us,
Driving in your car
Passing yellow lines
Underneath yellow stars
I’m your passenger
Dancing with my seatbelt on
Sailing down the streets of fire
We’re dangerous, but do no harm
The three of us,
Passing green back and forth
On the verge of losing innocence
With the compass reading north
old souls cast aside by immature thoughts
encrypted speech, hide passion
that blood flow? runs too red
common is not plagued locus or antibody rivers...
there are no makeshifters! when collectiveness is used wrong
the world of the majority supersedes that of any other
we are a mob.
without tommy guns...we run the streets, bat and knife
utensiled to our palms.
never breaking knees for payment--or dumping bodies in mucked water
but hunting down that which is corrupt
that which needs change
because what we consider loose?
is not the only thing that should be contained
To bed I took, in habitual slumber,
cursive prayers die at my cynical tongue,
all pinned badges of the day cast-off
to the floor, only for my sorry soles to
impale upon, come morn. ‘Come morn!
I called, to the chasted walls;
‘come morn!’ I sang,
hoping to fill the thinned curtains
with a filter of light.
In oil paints, old dreams coloured themselves
in patient, kaleidoscopic hues. Though
withered of form, they delight in me,
promise to deliver in utero joys,
connection to the Great Mother;
all that was lost in the fall.
The fall of man,
so gravely reported, and so
limiting to humankind.
I fell. I fell to sleep as Romans did peace.
With grudge, with dissonance; mind-silence apparent
only upon the death of the day.
With stubborn regard, my ears tarried in vigil,
I awoke to each pine of the hallway,
each tremor of heart, pulse of thought,
and Lord of sound.
‘Come death!’ I sighed,
to my life’s rushing blackness,
‘come death!’ I cried, to my stars.
In cannabis, I attune, only to calm;
to bask in the light of some meadow-less dawn,
and in pains, I pray only for dullen thoughts,
to poison my days in some indolent mess.
And of Ávila, Teresa
shelters my mind. She comes to me
in sorry demise.
‘My child,’ she calls, voice echoed since,
‘fellow child,’ she pines, entrusted sphinx.
Spawn of Thebes, she riddles through centuries,
all panicked pores, all sickening spirals,
forgotten in the present, all-eternal.
A shepherd am I, amongst my thoughts,
she calls thus that I am not my mind,
rather, a chosen observer,
to be confused not upon the
idiocratics, more, ‘what is.’
A lowing at my window, she calls unto me
in reverberated tongue, nutritious tone,
a cyclone of holistic power.
Bright glimmer of light, she calls once more, ‘my child!’,
she cries, ‘my fellow child of the Lord!
Please, rain unto me your sorry state,
lack of appetite,
cooling plate. Oh, you that live so solemnly,
you who knows not of the arbour of life.’
I call not in terror and I call not in my fright,
upon the window, that ghostly glimmer,
she heals the walls in half-light, swimming
in opal reflections of ripples and chimes.
And, she is calling for beauty,
she is singing unto me,
‘come morn!’ she weeps,
‘come morn, and with it, the tidings,
of your blessed life to be!’
Stumbling, I trip over the apparition’s words,
she speaks not in life’s shadows and sinister plot,
but only in those that speak like a God.
In the awful haze of light-polluted skies,
auspicious streets and government plot,
her prophecies fair, but yet
‘Come now!’ I say, in no hope, ‘come
now,’ I say, an adult.
‘There’s no space for me here in this lifetime,
there’s no soil for my roots to embed,
in painful years past, I’ve been in sorrow,
and I’ll be expecting them in all the years, hence.
So what, if I’ll join the army,
or some other capricious,
All tributaries lead to the river,
as all humans to their torturement.’
Teresa, she radiated with colours,
and Amy, who lived within my chest,
they called out as one in my silence,
as a union, a conquest of the childhood mind,
to abolish the present tense.
As one, they sang unto me,
They sang, ‘be born!’
under the moonlit streets, ‘be born
to all that you are, and ever you could be!’
And from this dream I came out in denial.
From this dream, I appeared to awake. I awoke
to the song of the starlings, and to
the precious pleasure of life’s augment.
With this groggy thought I’ll admit that,
in separation I fell apart,
I call, ‘come out!
‘come out and greet me!
Old Eden, my eternal womb.
The union of mankind and nature,
and the union of our pasts combined.’
what they call a heart, my every anchor chained
what the pages make my story, every loss explained
like words in letters, as if they retain it, like they make it better
as if the knowing of it loosed or broke these fetters
eight ways the shapes of my only alphabet spells s-u-r-v-i-v-o-r
infinitely too short a word and leaving me to wander again if I'm alive in her
they think it breeds strength to outlive the beatings
they think it makes a great chase never retreating in the pursuit of what's fleeting
just once couldn't I rest and feel safe like it could all get clearer?
in the haze of aging when I'm sure it isn't my real smile in any mirror
in the crowded, faceless streets of having to stand on my own two feet alone
with all the hurtful, hateful, squalls this living condones
everyone thinking they know me because they know my name
know the face that's a mask over what's hollowed out by the aches I don't explain
and someone asks me to come near, to be dear, to love again
and they give like gifts and they mend the rifts and they care and then
the cycle of costs begins again, the loss of the friends again breathes
and makes every swallowed wine taste less like escape and reminds that it never relieves
and every candle on a cake burns another year I waited to start over
and every green field yields beauty unnoticed in my frantic search for a lucky clover
the pages pile with words wasted on hoping for better
and my few days waste away with so much time lost in trying to understand "forever"
so if you think that you know what made me then you haven't been listening to the words I didn't say
and if you've ask me for love then you've never felt what I already gave away
so put the times you've felt greatness on one side and see if they outweigh the hurt
or if the scales tip in favor of the ways you've failed and it still hurts
and trudge the horrible roads to the edges of the maps and see if you outrun the hurt
and see if any hand held or risk taken or affection given dispels the way you hurt
all the slivered glass pieces of my heart just cut me to blood as I try to pick them up
and all that my view of what could have been does, is lend tears as I watch those doors shut
and all another line will explain
is how it will never be the last line if I'm trying to write out the pains
I can never explain the hurt
And we're purging to be pretty,
and smoking to stay thin.
Starving until our bones feel light as air.
Wearing make-up like a mask,
using clothes to advertise the goods, to
make the boys want us
Mistaking life lessons for soul mates.
Physically putting out and
emotionally shutting down.
And we're dumber ourselves down.
Acting stupid because it's cute.
Hiding our wit because it's unattractive.
They want lady in the streets and
freak in the sheets.
But on their schedule, not yours.
But the lady has to be a tramp
And the tramp has to be domestic.
It's a trap.
And we're used up
We're twenty something and giving up on the world.
We're twenty something and dead inside.
And taking it all in stride.
The world bleeds colors for a girl who can only see shades of grey
She sees in particular 50 shades
She walks with pain and dignity
The type of dignity that screams
the type of dignity that is silenced by tired fingers with a smack to the lips
She is a walking contradiction
Her conscience fumes with words that only she can hear.
They paint her canvas with colors so dim that it is surprisingly impossible to hide.
She wants the world to know of her pain; she is seeking.
Acceptance but Approval.
It is with precision that she is
It is with precision that she is
Her canvas is a replica of Da' Vinci
Carefully crafted so that enough smiles can hide her tears
She blooms with effortless screams.
She does not walk to be seen
But to be heard
And she cries
Only because her comfortable canvas has now been brushed with
And for the first time in a long time
The world bled Red for a girl who is used to seeing grey.
She can not find words to express what's been drawn.
She cannot lift a finger to the skin she has..
-Galleries of displayed art
she is seeing 50 shades of colors
Not only on herself but on other's
she stops in the middle of the street
Her pupils look at the ground blurry as she falls sobbing.
She pleads for grey-
As if the color would respond.
"Please, I'm sorry"
Mutes the women and paints
A new canvas on her naked body
"Anything but red"
The woman said.
"If you wish for grey,
stop painting red"
The woman opened her eyes,
looked at her stained knuckles,
opened her shackled hand,
Scoped her Canvas,
Felt the delusional ground,
Her mind screamed of colors.
RED RED RED
"Put the brush down,
this is not Art."
|And she did|
The feeling I can never explain something just ingrained within you.
I can't explain what I never could understand.
We are the dreamers and suffer those who are awake.
Tragic are those who lack vision, misfortune is yours please spare mine.
The blade is now a pen my blood now Ink .
For whom it is lost is more found I.
The rejects of night are but misfits of my day.
As the poison seeps in as my creativity flows unto a void created in chaos none of which
was of my choosing.
Were all dreamers caught within a nightmare's grasp, losers of a game we chose not to play.
But we dam sure tried in spite of it all.
The blank page remains a suicide note to the forgotten chapter in a dust collected manuscript.
Secrets are best left buried like shipwrecks on the ocean floor.
Why be the judge when none are innocent or ever so guilty as I.
Dam the nights for bringing the memories upon me ,
and curse my thoughts for remaining after all these drinks.
Haunted are the souls of the living simply empty vessels that fill the streets.
Many years of passed.
Yet these thoughts never age .
Goddam the nights and winters empty chill!
The fire now only seems to smolder a dragons bluff to wolves such as I.
I hear the others howl I simply choose to ignore the sound.
Taking refuge in my thoughts and torment in scars past.
Empty are these thoughts that I unearthed tonight.
I hear the howls outside my door.
They are my burden and none else to understand.
In witching hours of lost hopes and broken dreams I find my solace.
I've ran with demons and slept with many angels, to burn only in the cold of ice.
Tomorrow is always a dream as from this nightmare maybe I'll wake.
Treasure the silence in it we find our true selves.
I hear the howls I simply choose to no longer answer.
You are the ice that laces these winter streets
and I am in a car going faster than I need to be
to get to the bar, and waste away in the moonlight
in the back of a tavern with a few shots of whiskey
and we salute the kids as empty as their fathers
and praise god for the girls who sin for our acceptance
and the hairs on my neck stood straight up
when the thought of you walking across the dimly lighten room
creeped its way through my thoughts, again
when this night ends, i'll be taking shots of sin
while ambience is killed by the sound of ambulances
and only one thing is for sure;
i'm not going back home tonight
I prance around the streets
with a four door Mazda,
the two door Mazda
for a family five,
as the snow lifts
my car like a tornado
to whirl, twirl,
and swirl in a slow,
gentle manner so
I can focus
on the traffic