A friend of mine stopped by,
A girl I thought long since dead,
Comes back in the flesh to find some rest,
But there never is any for her,
Black and white pictures now pass me by,
Of a girl who has yet to find,
Her shade of grey in all the tone,
Huckabee's own,
But we've both found ourselves grown,
In different ways neither of us could ever show,
But put us in a room together and watch it go,
Because we now know more about the great unknowns,
And things seemed better when we didn't.
But how smart can we be?
I still have a heart that plays like an American movie,
Many men you know do it just like me,
A circle of nonsense that sets us free,
From feeling okay,
From finding our way,
From seeing eyes with honest thoughts,
In friends like you.
You care about both her and me,
But the real trick for us three,
Is to care about ourselves enough,
To care for each other,
For once.
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 12:46 AM UTC
Desperate, reaching up from my pedestal,
Strange, lazy only to keep me cool,
Mad at me for seeing only madness too,
Trapped in thought, allusions of me and you,
You feel like my own history,
Eerily familiar to me,
I'm feeling the same old things,
Regretting what fear did bring,
And it gets me...
Carried away, my God its not right for me to be,
Carried away, but I want to run back to you and stay,
Carried away, when you wake up next to me we get,
Carried away, carried away, carried away.
Please don't feel the need
To give or take a thing,
Just let me sing to you
Like you sing to me,
In the dark green trees and the wind in their leaves,
That gust wakes me up, and settles in me,
Like the birds in the sky and the love in your eyes,
Or the way that you feel, when it's too dark to see,
And it gets me...
Carried away, my God its not right for me to be,
Carried away, but I want to run back to you and stay,
Carried away, when you wake up next to me we get,
Carried away, carried away, carried away.
Mistakes that I make I made to escape
A vexatious place, of less happiness,
But more than enough love.
Sep 10, 2014
Sep 10, 2014 at 8:52 PM UTC
I speak sensibly,
Wonder often about what they see,
Mark perfection only as a nominee,
Find a way to make everything out for me,
The older I get the more confusion I achieve,
Like a fledgling, green, senseless thing,
Who are these people wheeling and dealing in well-being,
Refuge, degrees, friends and family,
These are the things that are supposed to be comforting,
But I am in the cellar,
Looking too closely through wide open glass,
Squinting at the lights of the self-proclaimed insane,
Effected for a second giving myself away,
Oh what I would give to have more art up on display,
I would let it be the only thing I want each day,
Let it change how I behave,
Let it live without a frame,
Find the way it likes to hang,
Handle it until it caves,
And colors confined by lines are freed,
In the lair of the fauvist fiend.
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 4:02 AM UTC
I would try and describe her,
But the air around me gets colder as my heart moves further away from its purposeful place,
My prelude, oh muse, my dearest darling dancing in my thoughts,
Like Ebenezer’s ghosts she flies with me through places I’ve been,
And shares with me the places I have always wanted to find.
I would try and describe her,
But I only looked on her once,
Of all the time that I allowed,
I stole only one part of one second to fully fill my eyes,
Too narrow of slits to take in all the things I saw in front of them,
Like heat emits from the sun beauty pours from this woman,
Naturally there, overwhelmingly there, endlessly there,
As if beauty swiftly leapt from every cherished thing in this world,
To rest effortlessly within the eyes, the voice, and the smile of this woman,
I would try and describe her,
But description is impossible,
As she belongs in Plato’s cave,
Where perfection is bland and pleasure is boring,
Where merely the thought,
Of another stolen part,
Of another stolen second,
With my emitting sunshine love,
Is painted in rich oils on every surface.
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 2:48 AM UTC
Every ounce,
Every inch,
Of everything I could ever give to someone,
I would give to her.
Throughout nights,
I flinch,
At the dark craters left swiftly in my chest,
By a wild, Whirled Pie, tempest,
Out of time or memory,
Moments stolen with my emitting sunshine love,
Stain my heart with streaks of gold and green,
Granting gazes into gaping places,
Where I pine to be,
With her.
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 2:47 AM UTC
A spontaneous late night poem for my brothers and sisters in nerdom.....
I am a mudcrab,
Strangely out of place,
Where is my mudcrab love?
My sweet and perfect crustacean,
Come with me to a cozy inn by solitude,
Or down a warm, golden, path to a city of talented thieves,
Lets chase foxes,
Make fun of guards,
And get away with ******
Lets think we are clever by cutting through the marked path,
Only to be blocked by snowed on mountains sprouting,
Lets hug the left wall to find our way back,
And scare away monsters with words we hear dragons shouting,
Lets laugh at how the Jarl sits like a lady,
Lets gripe about how the Agonians don't look as cool as they should,
Lets say that all the Stormcloaks are crazy,
And hope that one day they make a Star Wars game this good,
But in the end,
My hard shelled friend,
Lets return to our beloved swamp,
Where the giants and their mammoths don't stomp,
Lets gaze up at a sky that's not our own,
And count up our perks to show each other how much we've grown,
Since Helgen fell, and life was hell,
Lets share this road,
And be happy to note,
That at least we're no longer alone.
~Dovahkiin
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 2:45 AM UTC
Poets go blind from writing by moonlight,
But my artist smites the moon with her luminance,
I write by her subtle, cyan, rays
And would gladly go blind for, with her, my eyes find their fill quickly,
She is the unexpected wind bouncing off the water’s surface,
And my chest is the sail,
Lifted, pushed, expanded and fulfilled to its most righteous purpose,
If the world is a stage than she is the red velvet curtain,
Commanding a sway so slight and savory
That other rags rent and burn,
No matter how mesmerizing the performance is,
A sudden hush or vibrant ovation is demanded in her wake,
A sultry swirl of goddess and girl,
Too precious to be stored with other jewels,
Elegance with every hinting glance, every rowdy inhale,
And every placement of those sinister legs,
That rams would think twice to scale,
The bend in her back is the stroke of my oils,
The pout of her lips is scarlet meat to the lions,
And the feel of her hips sum up my surreptitious desires,
Like good jazz things seem to pull back
Before the cathartic crescendos,
But to put it bluntly dear, the next time you’re here,
It may pay to freshen up with a Mentos.
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 2:45 AM UTC
A simple fire,
Dowsed in the flammable decisions of a simple man,
Even the act of putting his words onto paper gives him the narcissistic relief of being closer called an artist, to himself, by himself,
He sees faces daily that are like ghosts now to the simple man whose mind meanders and thoughts get foggy,
Hours go by like seconds in his catatonic state,
Everything he does is a simple man’s choice where input is minimized and outcomes are swiftly forgotten,
Where memories from years ago bleed into what happened yesterday or the day before,
Each experience becomes an island,
Waking up with no connections,
Just an oceans worth of uncertainty,
Like a composer who hears the music of his orchestra for the first time and, oblivious, leads them into crescendo with a simple man’s insincere talents,
Absent, in many things, he tries to live as comfortably as he can with routine becoming a safety blanket that itches like hell in the middle of the night but still he manages to sleep most of his days away,
Every regret for everything he could be doing but isn’t,
Everything he shouldn’t be doing but is,
Lives on his scalp and the insides of his decaying cheeks,
Maybe it’s all just the summer heat getting to him.
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 2:44 AM UTC
She came with a timble to my lumish critch
Through borms
and grups
and a large, lectish, dish
‘Don’t bore me with your seminoad you Satin-Sir said she
‘So cobble twibe! I replied for a gal as vimbly as thee.
‘Crickets are my namesake as they grift and leem with ease
Out in the plimmelday
where
ahoppybug should be.
The Plimmelday with sun and gaype
A simplement of shine and life
Forever twibe on the high and narrow
A place where burdeves fear to bite
A gate surrounds the plimmelday
But Miss Cricket will be safe
A hareth ***** and Mr. Crick
A goodfar ways away.
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 2:42 AM UTC
How would I know it was her if she tried to hide in disguise?
As clever as she may think herself to be,
With a mustache as thick as a Redwood Tree,
I would hardly need wits to peg her identity,
Because I have learned a few truths that require her to be,
And they are as follows:
She is a herald,
Of inspiration and joy,
Moments merely mundane made miraculous by her being,
Make me write and smile.
She, a vision, floats again into mine,
Simultaneously sitting beside me she turns every jagged edge in the world into soft colorful things with all the warmth of a sparkling room filled full of familiar faces and old piano songs,
A girl whose eyes talk more than her lips and say things like, not so fast,
So just try and say that to me.
Thinking back now,
I have never seen her walk,
She seems to glide, to float, to hover, like she does in my mind,
And I would consider myself a fool,
A green, spontaneous, pup of pitiful perceptions,
A flight of short stairs without poignant reflections,
If not for the wild burning inside,
Caused by my dredging artist bathed in light,
I lose my heart from time to time because she gently leaves it for me to find at the bottom of the ocean,
A place where distance has not yet been conquered so nearness is still cherished,
In these depths I often see cankerous beasts swimming slowly among me,
Orbiting lazily like planets in space,
But I do not writhe in the deep,
And the beasts swim away, always onward to other prey,
So in the dwelling that I feared, I now want to stay,
Until I remember not to leave myself in such a dark place,
Without the presence of my perched herald there to say,
That even though the push and pull of the tides above are much to bear every day,
There is still the moon to calm the Seas,
And to light the thoughts of the men who will dream,
Of her.
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 2:38 AM UTC