there's a note on the door
that tells you where to find me
there's a gun on the floor
that put my thoughts behind me
Jul 5, 2015
Jul 5, 2015 at 1:06 AM UTC
The strands of smoke that pour from her lips
Blend with an atmosphere dimly lit;
The sight of the scene would make a man bewitched,
For it were as if her beauty were some sort of trick.
Her aura of importance, vanity, and fashion
Are comparable to an openly adored fascism.
She regards the rules as much as possible
To make herself look as good as a model.
Spending hours at a time to look her best,
She relieves the stress with cigarettes.
There's hope that they will make her forget
All of the mistakes and all of the regrets.
Though most of her relationships were abusive
None of them yet have brought her story to conclusion
Now she's hiding all of her problems as if they're delusions
Behind smoke and mirrors--the perfect illusion.
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 3:52 PM UTC
emerging with wings.
up the waterfall he rose
The humble koi swims
Jun 25, 2014
Jun 25, 2014 at 4:23 PM UTC
Every time I speak is a waste of words
I could talk and talk, yet I'm never heard
You say I should always speak my mind
But when I reveal the truth, you avert your eyes
What is it you want?
Do you even
know?
You take the twisted path
when I show you the road.
I feel we're losing touch,
we're drifting away
And I don't know
how much longer I'll stay.
Jun 25, 2014
Jun 25, 2014 at 4:07 PM UTC
Like a martyr to the world,
he gave in to their greed.
Like a ****** of crows,
on his flesh did they feed.
He showed pity towards their ignorance
To a world full of demons.
They deemed his feelings irellevant
while he quietly held his grievances.
Instead of harvesting the crops he planted
they consumed it in one sitting.
He sat and watched their lives dismantle,
a slow destruction he assumed fitting.
As they struggled to rebuild the earth,
he observed them from afar.
His time, no longer were they worth,
was now spent gazing at the stars.
The humans searched for him on every mountain
and in the deepest of the canyons,
as they were the sheep that he was counting
while he slumbered amongst the planets.
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 9:54 AM UTC
As I close my eyes to sleep
I drift away from Earth
Here there is no counting sheep
Far above the dirt
This is a land completely new
A place unlike the rest
A quiet room where thoughts can bloom
A very enlightening test
You see, this place it has no walls
No ceiling or a floor
A stunning mansion devoid of halls
A place you can explore
In this world your will is unfurled
Harness the power inside
Until you've created a world of your own
You're never truly alive.
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 9:52 AM UTC
Somewhere out in the middle of the sticks
With the alligators, bears, the hogs, and the fish
A melody rings through the deep southern sky
A song that stretches to the stars on high
It’s a tune that’ll never end too soon
A note that reaches and strokes the moon
Coming from somewhere deep in the swamp
Where the squirrels, the rabbits, and raccoons romp
A beautiful beast tells its tale
Through a clear and high, yet quivering wail
‘Tis a sound that seems to pierce the heart—
But that’s just where the story starts
The blistering ballad of love and loss
Fiery enough to ignite the moss
Has verses gripping through & through
Although each song leaving just a clue;
Some hints for me
And some for you
About the sorrowful secret of Coyote Blues
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 11:32 AM UTC
Someday anarchy will ******* the nation,
breaking legs that walk in the wrong direction.
The so-called leaders will be reduced to kneeling,
like those they ignored; begging and pleading.
Empires crumble as structures fall,
an ironic symbol of what we used to call life.
From rulers unworthy, the throne is claimed;
a rebirth of a nation, a new start to the game.
The assertive cure to the poison that plagued us,
administered by those who were previously faceless.
The people as one, not one as the people
grab shovels to unearth the roots of all evil.
Nov 6, 2012
Nov 6, 2012 at 1:57 PM UTC
He grabbed a brush and painted the sky.
He painted it broad, He painted it wide.
From a stroke of white He created the clouds,
Then splashed in birds to fill it with sound.
With precision and class He painted the grass,
Covered in dew to make it last.
Happy with that, He moved on to the trees;
The trunks so tall with their branches of leaves.
He poured on oceans, rivers, and streams,
And took extra effort on the sun, it seems.
That fiery ball that makes the day so bright,
And the pearly moon to light the sky at night.
But then with an unfortunate turn of luck,
He spilled on a sickening poisonous muck.
It manifested across the land,
the error of God-
The creation of man.
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 3:15 PM UTC
You're sometimes hard to read
like a book torn at the seams.
But you aren't flawed, by any means;
your elegance echoes in my dreams.
You're a little hard to figure out,
like a puzzle with pieces scattered about.
But when pieced together your image is clear,
like a summer's day;
warm, sincere.
Like an ancient text, you're hard to define.
But the meaning within is simply divine.
You leave me with a feeling sublime.
You'll never be forgotten in time.
Like an ingenious form of philosophy,
you are so much more than what you seem.
You are the words that I longingly read
in a cursive memory.
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 3:12 PM UTC