White, in visual sense is the purest hue of them all.
However, white also provokes monotony.
If the sky was nothing but clouds,
Anyone with an artistic perspective would go insane.
For our whole world is an empty opus,
and we can’t fill it without destroying the atmosphere in which we live in.
But our conforming society does that now.
The blue acts as a sheath from the already existing,
continually spreading damage.
But there’s beauty in small portions of destruction,
And we tend to over dose quite a bit.
There’s always comfort in the grey clouds of a boisterous front.
We shed flowers of their pedals,
So we can be reminded that even the most beautiful pieces of nature,
Can be reduced to nothing.
We destroy each other,
With love.
Not because it’s healthy,
But we feel as if it’s a necessity,
That although the same stories have been told
Over, and over,
We are willing to reread them,
Hoping that one-day we can defeat the writer,
And have our own endings.
Visually, we don’t want to see white,
because humans cannot stay pure for long.
But in terms of words,
all we crave is white,
Except so many people spew black
and everything is so easily mixed together,
it’s hard to depict between the two,
and before you know it,
words you thought were white,
pure,
are burned to a crisp
without you even lighting the match.
The grey is no longer comforting.
You could never light a match,
and still receive the second-hand smoke.
It seems that the strikers forget,
Not all have stooped to their level of greed,
pity,
and have kept the matchbox closed.
Then there’s the artificial,
callous,
Speech of sky blue.
The same blue that sheaths our polluted sky,
is sheathing our polluted minds.
Some are too cowardly to face the white,
and must sheath it with plastic blue.
The worst part of it all:
the strikers only make the plastic stronger.
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 12:14 AM UTC
I wage war
That's never been seen before
Is sanity worth fighting for?
I'm not really sure
Insanity?
A calamity?
I call it individuality!
Who is Society
To create this hypocrisy?!?
It seems like such a tragedy
To waste such ingenuity
To dull the creativity
May 24, 2014
May 24, 2014 at 11:13 PM UTC
"I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)"
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 11:16 PM UTC
All armies are the same
Publicity is fame
Artillery makes the same old noise
Valor is an attribute of boys
Old soldiers all have tired eyes
All soldiers hear the same old lies
Dead bodies always have drawn flies
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 11:06 PM UTC
My insides are broken,
They bleed and they weep,
For I've been unkind,
To this soul that I keep.
I find that I'm ugly,
My insides are thick,
My outside, it jiggles,
So I make myself sick.
This addiction, it started,
On account of a name,
The boys called me "Thunder-thighs"
As a part of a game.
This name, it would scar me,
And darken my heart,
It convinced me of things,
That would rip me apart.
I thought that when empty,
This pain, it would cease,
Yet it only encouraged,
The growth of the beast.
This beast that I speak of,
It lives in my head,
It plays on my fears,
And it wishes me dead.
It screams in the night,
From it's den of deceit,
"You can be lovely,
Just purge what you eat!"
So I bow to my ruler,
At a porcelain thrown,
I flush out the ugly,
And I'm never alone.
Now with each phasing moon,
The pain grows in my chest,
My hair has become brittle,
And I can't seem to rest.
I search in the mirror,
For some noticeable change,
But it only shows failure,
Our mind is deranged.
This reflection I see,
Is fat and so vile,
So I run to my throne,
And puke up more bile.
I want to be pretty,
And I want to be thin,
So nothing will stop me,
This war I will win.
But my bones become weak,
And my skin becomes dry,
I can't seem to breathe easy,
And I can't seem to cry.
I cut into this flesh,
That repulses me so,
I cover with clothing,
So no one will know.
My head spins in the chaos,
As I fall to the floor,
The blackness engulfs me,
As I reach for the door.
I call out for help,
But no one is home,
No one can hear me,
I am alone.
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 10:51 PM UTC
She had bony legs and protruding hips
A hushing whisper on her lips
Those words that, long forgotten or even told
explain that bulimia had her in a choke hold.
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 10:33 PM UTC
some say we should keep personal remorse from the
poem,
stay abstract, and there is some reason in this,
but jezus;
twelve poems gone and I don't keep carbons and you have
my
paintings too, my best ones; its stifling:
are you trying to crush me out like the rest of them?
why didn't you take my money? they usually do
from the sleeping drunken pants sick in the corner.
next time take my left arm or a fifty
but not my poems:
I'm not Shakespeare
but sometime simply
there won't be any more, abstract or otherwise;
there'll always be mony and ****** and drunkards
down to the last bomb,
but as God said,
crossing his legs,
I see where I have made plenty of poets
but not so very much
poetry.
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 11:20 AM UTC
don't feel sorry for me.
I am a competent,
satisfied human being.
be sorry for the others
who
fidget
complain
who
constantly
rearrange their
lives
like
furniture.
juggling mates
and
attitudes
their
confusion is
constant
and it will
touch
whoever they
deal with.
beware of them:
one of their
key words is
"love."
and beware those who
only take
instructions from their
God
for they have
failed completely to live their own
lives.
don't feel sorry for me
because I am alone
for even
at the most terrible
moments
humor
is my
companion.
I am a dog walking
backwards
I am a broken
banjo
I am a telephone wire
strung up in
Toledo, Ohio
I am a man
eating a meal
this night
in the month of
September.
put your sympathy
aside.
they say
water held up
Christ:
to come
through
you better be
nearly as
lucky.
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 11:20 AM UTC
i will wade out
till my thighs are steeped in burning flowers
I will take the sun in my mouth
and leap into the ripe air
Alive
with closed eyes
to dash against darkness
in the sleeping curves of my body
Shall enter fingers of smooth mastery
with chasteness of sea-girls
Will i complete the mystery
of my flesh
I will rise
After a thousand years
lipping
flowers
And set my teeth in the silver of the moon
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 10:39 PM UTC
Humanity i love you
because you would rather black the boots of
success than enquire whose soul dangles from his
watch-chain which would be embarrassing for both
parties and because you
unflinchingly applaud all
songs containing the words country home and
mother when sung at the old howard
Humanity i love you because
when you’re hard up you pawn your
intelligence to buy a drink and when
you’re flush pride keeps
you from the pawn shop and
because you are continually committing
nuisances but more
especially in your own house
Humanity i love you because you
are perpetually putting the secret of
life in your pants and forgetting
it’s there and sitting down
on it
and because you are
forever making poems in the lap
of death Humanity
i hate you
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 10:39 PM UTC