the pen would write
in modern light
a scribble of sentimental frippery
and the painters can
in the anarchists hand
makes prose into bold graffiti.
a pencil scribe
or desk-carved diatribe
a bitter note writ angrily
a lovers note, secret passed
prayers and hope encompassed,
words the weapon of beast and beauty.
a tiled wall
in a crowded hall
where quotes can swingvote cities
a stickered note stuck under seat
words of anothers in coda repeat
revolutions begun in paper graffiti
Mar 19, 2011
Mar 19, 2011 at 7:40 AM UTC
in Andalucia, past valley and dale
run the golden, sunflower fields
and a hut is a house that stands all alone
ivy and flowers have overtaken stone
and the rusty, old Santa Fe door
and warm, pink clay floor
this is the home I've seen these years
a dream welded with passions tears.
Climb the peaks of the Rockies tall
off the edge, don't tread or fall.
Hear the sound of the bald eagles cry
the flash of summer lightning in the sky
breathe in deep the mountain air
come to my cabin, find me there.
Home is where the heart is
that is what they say
dreamers dreaming escapes,
every single day.
I've built mine on the sands of my sleep
water my gardens with the emotion I weep.
Swim in the blue seas, fair and calm
the salty air a warm, sweet balm
feel the sand, clinging to your feet
walk the golden expanse of a deserted beach.
Find a hammock, swinging ever more
who needs a key to a sunshine-built door?
Roll in the grass of a swollen, green plain
made lush after days of endless gray rain.
Wicked sun, both hot and cold
the breeze runs rampant, the fields unfold.
Wheat meet Wood, tall and strong
trees that grow, bows lush and long.
Build me a palace within these leaves
a kingdom of green amongst these trees.
Home is where the heart is
that is what they say
dreamers dreaming escapes,
every single day.
I've built mine on the sands of my sleep
water my gardens with the emotion I weep.
Home is where the heart is
that is what they say
escapes etched in cavern walls
in the sunlight of the day.
Scribe a vision which never was
plot it in the starry sky—
Home; the dream, just because...
it hurts so much to lie.
Feb 26, 2011
Feb 26, 2011 at 7:38 PM UTC
empty houses, pouring rain
listen to the news today
red coats marching, off to war
knock once left, once right
on a barricaded door.
empty the chamber into a platoon
read their palms in the ****** lagoon
sing sweet nightingale
night and day
“Here the bravest
of the fools will lay.”
Breath of life, a fleeting thing
who the pawn, who, the King?
Paper lanterns in the sky
wishing stars that live to die
promises from a lovers kiss
withdraw your soul, now remiss.
empty houses, pouring rain
have you heard the news today?
The birds are gone, the lights are out
silence follows revolutions shout.
Bellow bravely, cowards all
we will stand as the Empire falls.
Feb 18, 2011
Feb 18, 2011 at 1:09 PM UTC
words of promise, silent, forgot
empty days of passions knots
loop my fingers, tangle my hair
keep me close, just be there.
The world scares me, so keep me safe
as sundown ends, don't make me wait.
I see monsters in the dark at night
kept at bay by blankets and light
if I can't see them, they can't see me
but I must be careful they don't grab my feet.
You think I'm silly, that there's nothing to fear
but feel my heart, for if you know, right here
that is where the greatest terror sleeps
which gives me pause, makes me weep.
One day, it's over;— a dream to vanish in time
a dream I loved. A dream when you were mine.
Feb 18, 2011
Feb 18, 2011 at 1:07 PM UTC
I am in love with the words on the page.
Every emotion quietly engraved
yet read it aloud and get a twinge down the spine
echoing tales of heroism and love divine.
Magicians, the writers of the world all are,
wishers granted their desires by stars.
Their worlds are their’s and theirs alone
Every kingdom with a golden throne
Every planet with weather fair
Oh, how I wish I was there!
I am in love with the words on the page.
Each a history of a mythical age,
each a prayer for a new beginning and happy end
to every desire the words will tend
and I am in love with the stories they told
They keep me alive, they never get old.
Aug 21, 2010
Aug 21, 2010 at 9:39 AM UTC
What if the worst, what if it's not?
what happens when they find out
I'm caught...
what happens afterwards
and what yet to come
even as I flounder
I cannot run...
the game is been played
and it may well be the last move
hard to predict
hard to get in the groove
and a feeling of loneliness
so full of despair
I reach out for God
I hope that He's there.
Jul 30, 2010
Jul 30, 2010 at 7:36 PM UTC
I'm supposed to write of flowers
of the song that summer sings
and tell of ladies in towers
covered in luxurious things.
I'm supposed to talk of spring time
and the violets in the yard
the evergreen of the creeper vine
or the mystery of the tarot card.
I'm supposed to sing of perfumes
and the vibrant color in soft twilight
of rose and almond blooms
as they grow more lovely in the night.
But instead I find myself counting stars
in a sheep-less vision of sleepless rest
wishing on spheres of silent fury so far
to send me on some kind of epic quest.
Because, you see, the music in my life
soundtracks and the very like
have made the norm seem so amazing
that, cue the tune, and I'm ready to fight.
Against dragons or demons or wizards or harm
to win a crown of glory and charm.
But I am a nobody, in a nobody age
no Knight, no Princess, no Warrior Mage;
so don't ask me to write tales of which I know not
I am the Hero the world forgot.
Jul 16, 2010
Jul 16, 2010 at 7:17 AM UTC
love as fleeting as the words
the poets would use to protest it
empty promises made in dark rooms
the only working sense that of the skin
a farce to behold, all of us liars from 9 to 5
lodged firm between life and sin.
Jul 5, 2010
Jul 5, 2010 at 9:41 AM UTC
it's over
there's no worse feeling
than that point in an argument
when you realize you're wrong
but don't want to let go of your guns.
it's over
there's no worse moment in time
than that moment in your life
when you realize you're "this" old
and have wasted "this much" time
with the wrong people...
it's over
there's no worse admission
than that confession you tell your pillows
that you aren't jaded or wronged or used
but you're a selfish little nobody
that nobody else likes
because you remind them too much of themselves.
it's over
as you hear that final sound
not the whining of a noose or roar of a gun
but that ragged whisper of your last breath
your eyes shutting down like a screen whose backlight is going out
and there is nothing there
and as you realize it, what a mistake it was to die
you fight the hardest you ever have
in the bit of the time you have left
to remember a single second
of the life
you wish
you'd lived.
Jul 5, 2010
Jul 5, 2010 at 9:35 AM UTC
take my heart
I do not care
it does not beat
it is not there
my souls gone missing
where it once was found
it won't return
buried in the ground.
my eyes have lost that love-struck shine
my gaze is keen for a missing mind
my feet won't walk
and my voice won't sing
that which might talk
will never speak.
The words within have dried and burnt
a thousand pages
I once wrote.
An empty saga of sonnet prose
a withered thing
where there once, a rose.
The hands grow old
the body, weary
all said and told
the eyes grow bleary
despite my efforts
however valiant and true
I can't believe it
when you say "I love you."
Because if love was what you meant
then a future we might have
and one without the other
is just a temporary salve
to a wound that will not heal
a heart-wound left in wake
of a dream that you would steal
from a prayer that you'd take.
Empty lovers and promises forgot
a world of victims soulsearching their lot
poetry leaving graffiti in the schools
convincing lovers that they're simply tools
for this generation there is no maturing
no growth or care or truth
just flourid words that, waning
cause collapsing of the roof.
And you wonder why the tears fall
why the beat in my chest goes weak
these are the words of a lover
that she never got to speak.
Apr 15, 2010
Apr 15, 2010 at 9:10 AM UTC