Is a poem a song you speak?
Is it the music of the soul?
Is it a random, over-analysed hypothesis?
Does it have meaning as a whole?
Does anybody care,
About the words we post on sites?
The pain that makes good poetry,
Does it make us parasites?
Do we **** the blood of sorrow,
Till its bitter juice is done?
A ton of bloated leeches,
Belching back the pain we've won?
Is my anguish worse than yours,
Because I write it like a song?
Do you care about my heart,
Because my sonnet reads so long?
Are my poems just graffiti,
On the tombs of poets dead?
Is a poem really better,
When it's torment that's been said?
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 5:33 AM UTC
Butterflies like flying songs,
Leave trails deep inside,
Fluttering with nervous haste.
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 5:31 AM UTC
Ashen hair encircles her head,
And a face that could do with a wash.
Yet above the chipped teeth and the grimy brown hands,
Sits, throned, a crown of gold.
A waltzing skirt, trimmed with ribbons of dust,
A bruise of an amethyst hue,
She mutters the stories to ***** grey walls,
The girl with a crown of gold.
The peasants awake, splitting heads, withered throats,
From their bedbugs and blankets and beer.
The princess stands firm, she will not be moved
From her crack-mirrored bathroom seat.
*The peasants are worse than usual this morn,
But you have to expect that from them.*
The mirror reflects, in its own shattered way
The torn, crushed crown of gold.
There once was a prince, in this faery land.
A baby too brave for his good,
A trip away, up the silent back stairs.
-
They can't batter his new crown of gold.
The streets try to drag her back into the world,
But she only sees carpets of red.
In a fairytale land where no evil is seen,
Sometimes paper's more precious than gold.
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 6:04 AM UTC