gavin-paul-boehm - Hello Poetry

Snap, crackle and pop go the synapses in my brain Snap, crackle, pop Snap, crackle, pop Snap... fizzle, fizzle **** that information's stuck in my frontal lobe again With no dopamine to stimulate the bridge to my hippocampus. And so, long term memory eludes me once again Always burning on my fingertips But never within my grasp Floating away like dandelion seeds in the wind Leaving me with an ugly, empty stem of information without meaning. Determination means nothing No will power will help me Thoughts of mind over matter won't matter When my mind fights off its own process of learning By never allowing a still moment My foot tapping, fingers drumming Eyes snapping to their peripherals Searching for movement that isn't there Ears hearing sounds without decibels Constantly keeping my attention divide United in a cacophony of sights and sounds So vibrant that I can't help but leave my task at hand To follow the Pied Piper in my mind. It's childhood exuberance Turned into adolescent antics And adulthood issues. My loose lips will sink ships When my mouth trips over every word and thought A sturdy hull cannot be bought When holes rot whether I like it or not Efforts go for naught When I can't tie a knot Around my thoughts to keep my mind anchored. When the flutter of a butterfly Steals my eye for the umpteenth time I could cry tears of joy and sadness For the beauty and the madness of distractions Reactions to each refraction of light Fracture my productivity Producing a hollow shell of what could be If only this dopamine would not evade me. I feel like I'm crazy Lazy because my memories are hazy My words escape me Fading from my tongue like camera flashes My thought process dashes from crash to crash Trying to bridge the gaps between my synapses. My shoulders are nearly collapsing under the weight From the dead space hidden behind my oft red face Embarrassed that I can't sit in place Long enough to have the outlines of my memories traced My poems can't keep pace With the rate at which my pages are erased So I must gauge my progress with a broken meter and cracked mirrors. Crooked fears look at me while lurking in the sides of my eyesight Spying on me and reminding me Why I'm afraid to let these letters see the light of day in the first place. I could do better If this pressure would just stop thumping With each and every word I say. The cadence is clumsy And the syntax, sloppy But even adderall can't stop these thoughts from adding up and coming to solutions Crudely hummed out of tune And to the off beat of a thousand drunken drums. The blunts can keep it quiet But they have little tact And can't keep the foundations of my thoughts in tact Attacks are made at my hippocampus Each time a new rhyme finds its way into articulation My hands thirst for the corruption Of a clean white page But there's a knock at the door And my concentration erupts Forgetting the verbal seduction that was rushing through my head Instead, letting the lines that could change her mind Tango off into oblivion Entwined with potential that I'm too blind to harness. Maybe I'm just wasting time Waiting to be part of the harvest But, honestly... I would never part with this mind Even with all those parts missing. Still, I find myself wishing that it didn't have to be this way I shouldn't have to struggle to remember my Mimi's voice each day. I don't really know what else to say Except that I hope beyond hope... That... uh... **** Snap, crackle, fizzle.

0

Jul 20, 2013

Jul 20, 2013 at 2:23 PM UTC

A.D.H.D

Snap, crackle and pop go the synapses in my brain Snap, crackle, pop Snap, crackle, pop Snap... fizzle, fizzle **** that information's stuck in my frontal lobe again With no dopamine to stimulate the bridge to my hippocampus. And so, long term memory eludes me once again Always burning on my fingertips But never within my grasp Floating away like dandelion seeds in the wind Leaving me with an ugly, empty stem of information without meaning. Determination means nothing No will power will help me Thoughts of mind over matter won't matter When my mind fights off its own process of learning By never allowing a still moment My foot tapping, fingers drumming Eyes snapping to their peripherals Searching for movement that isn't there Ears hearing sounds without decibels Constantly keeping my attention divide United in a cacophony of sights and sounds So vibrant that I can't help but leave my task at hand To follow the Pied Piper in my mind. It's childhood exuberance Turned into adolescent antics And adulthood issues. My loose lips will sink ships When my mouth trips over every word and thought A sturdy hull cannot be bought When holes rot whether I like it or not Efforts go for naught When I can't tie a knot Around my thoughts to keep my mind anchored. When the flutter of a butterfly Steals my eye for the umpteenth time I could cry tears of joy and sadness For the beauty and the madness of distractions Reactions to each refraction of light Fracture my productivity Producing a hollow shell of what could be If only this dopamine would not evade me. I feel like I'm crazy Lazy because my memories are hazy My words escape me Fading from my tongue like camera flashes My thought process dashes from crash to crash Trying to bridge the gaps between my synapses. My shoulders are nearly collapsing under the weight From the dead space hidden behind my oft red face Embarrassed that I can't sit in place Long enough to have the outlines of my memories traced My poems can't keep pace With the rate at which my pages are erased So I must gauge my progress with a broken meter and cracked mirrors. Crooked fears look at me while lurking in the sides of my eyesight Spying on me and reminding me Why I'm afraid to let these letters see the light of day in the first place. I could do better If this pressure would just stop thumping With each and every word I say. The cadence is clumsy And the syntax, sloppy But even adderall can't stop these thoughts from adding up and coming to solutions Crudely hummed out of tune And to the off beat of a thousand drunken drums. The blunts can keep it quiet But they have little tact And can't keep the foundations of my thoughts in tact Attacks are made at my hippocampus Each time a new rhyme finds its way into articulation My hands thirst for the corruption Of a clean white page But there's a knock at the door And my concentration erupts Forgetting the verbal seduction that was rushing through my head Instead, letting the lines that could change her mind Tango off into oblivion Entwined with potential that I'm too blind to harness. Maybe I'm just wasting time Waiting to be part of the harvest But, honestly... I would never part with this mind Even with all those parts missing. Still, I find myself wishing that it didn't have to be this way I shouldn't have to struggle to remember my Mimi's voice each day. I don't really know what else to say Except that I hope beyond hope... That... uh... **** Snap, crackle, fizzle.

89

What the **** kind of artist am I? I say I'm a poet, but you wouldn't know it if you saw me through my eyes. My whole existence is just a guise. I compromise my way through the day, wasting away what little talent I may possess. I'll confess that I've been impressed with some of the things I've managed to remove from my chest, but it would be in jest for me to suggest that I've ever given anyone or anything anywhere near my best. I grieve the death of communication, but with each anxious breath my verbal constipation gets gridlocked, words backing up and choking out, leaving me a broken stutterer, muttering to myself that I'm a stupid schmuck, a piece of **** out of luck, wasting time and getting stuck, with the most frequent word in my vocabulary being **** I'd be a sitting duck if it weren't for my sheer stubbornness shoving this struggling mind to rise like a hawk, terrorizing the skies with my fantasized verbiage and tantalizing turbulence. NO one else has a plane of thought that swerves like this, and when I crash land, I trudge across the tumultuous terrain to prove my worth to myself. I create my own living hell, my own prison cell. My heart knows I excel, but my eyes only open when I fail, which makes it hard to tell if I've gained any traction. My prison bars have cut my vision into fractions, marring my perception and staring the conception of self dissension. I spelunk through the sunken wonders in my skull, wandering from wreck to wreck, scouring the decks for hidden sets of similes to act as seeds for my flowering dreams. My dreams always seem just out of reach, but comfortably within my sight; and although I yearn to touch, apparently seeing is good enough to keep me sedated. I'm compensated with overrated praise from those closest to me. I have to hold boulders above my shoulders to keep my nose to the grindstone as I blindly roam through forests of undone poems, revealing themselves to me as blazing trees, jealous of the message held by their burning cousin. Dozens of roots grew though my veins, ingraining my fingers as I walked through the smoke, groping with my broken limbs, hoping for that day to come when tires swing from my bows again! But I won't settle for being one of them-- a motionless stem, potent with potential that lies latent beneath layers of sentimental protection. I stave off being rooted by stripping my bark bare and shooting my words into the air instead. The leaves bloom and blossom inside my head, allowing me to dream in color, compounding fantasy and reality into the blurring plurality that's governing between my ears. My horizons delight my eyes with sights of blinding brilliant bouquets of vibrant prisms that could make prisoners cheer. They give me hope. Hope that one day I can cope with myself, stop blocking my path with felled trees, and just be pleased to have been Me.

0

Jul 18, 2013

Jul 18, 2013 at 12:28 PM UTC

Self Portrait

What the **** kind of artist am I? I say I'm a poet, but you wouldn't know it if you saw me through my eyes. My whole existence is just a guise. I compromise my way through the day, wasting away what little talent I may possess. I'll confess that I've been impressed with some of the things I've managed to remove from my chest, but it would be in jest for me to suggest that I've ever given anyone or anything anywhere near my best. I grieve the death of communication, but with each anxious breath my verbal constipation gets gridlocked, words backing up and choking out, leaving me a broken stutterer, muttering to myself that I'm a stupid schmuck, a piece of **** out of luck, wasting time and getting stuck, with the most frequent word in my vocabulary being **** I'd be a sitting duck if it weren't for my sheer stubbornness shoving this struggling mind to rise like a hawk, terrorizing the skies with my fantasized verbiage and tantalizing turbulence. NO one else has a plane of thought that swerves like this, and when I crash land, I trudge across the tumultuous terrain to prove my worth to myself. I create my own living hell, my own prison cell. My heart knows I excel, but my eyes only open when I fail, which makes it hard to tell if I've gained any traction. My prison bars have cut my vision into fractions, marring my perception and staring the conception of self dissension. I spelunk through the sunken wonders in my skull, wandering from wreck to wreck, scouring the decks for hidden sets of similes to act as seeds for my flowering dreams. My dreams always seem just out of reach, but comfortably within my sight; and although I yearn to touch, apparently seeing is good enough to keep me sedated. I'm compensated with overrated praise from those closest to me. I have to hold boulders above my shoulders to keep my nose to the grindstone as I blindly roam through forests of undone poems, revealing themselves to me as blazing trees, jealous of the message held by their burning cousin. Dozens of roots grew though my veins, ingraining my fingers as I walked through the smoke, groping with my broken limbs, hoping for that day to come when tires swing from my bows again! But I won't settle for being one of them-- a motionless stem, potent with potential that lies latent beneath layers of sentimental protection. I stave off being rooted by stripping my bark bare and shooting my words into the air instead. The leaves bloom and blossom inside my head, allowing me to dream in color, compounding fantasy and reality into the blurring plurality that's governing between my ears. My horizons delight my eyes with sights of blinding brilliant bouquets of vibrant prisms that could make prisoners cheer. They give me hope. Hope that one day I can cope with myself, stop blocking my path with felled trees, and just be pleased to have been Me.

9

My days are spend with full sails, and a furnace full of fire Others' desires pale next to mine, I'm like a Viking funeral pyre Words meant to get you higher, to save dead men from the gallows Now, shallow words can drown you, so I try to make mine deep Sleep is not an option while navigating the concoction of tribulations that precede immortality! This run is not a trial, I will wade through the mire And I refuse to give an inch of what I've earned To the lynch mob trying to burn me down Not a frown will touch my face while a pen touches this hand I have the power to shake this land, and I will not stand by and wait While words of hate belittle and berate this great nation of LOVERS We must rediscover our silver tongues with which we once flung words of hope from Freedom and unity were shouted with vigilance and certainty But, what's happened to the urgency in our voices? All that's left is apathy in our choices We're glad to be the ship at sea At the mercy of the currents, tides and waves Content to drift for days, and months and years Ignoring the truth when it is spoken. Are we truly to broken to listen? Revolution glistens in the homes of parents reading to their children It's time to get lost in those pages again Words written with ink and with pen Can sharpen the tongues, wits and minds of young women and men. In a time desperate for thinkers and knowledge seekers We must dig deeper and get these kids eager to be the change that will refuse that meager piece of pie! They must be ready to cry, ready to fly, ready to DIE for the future they saw painted in the sky Because the creation of solutions for the destruction of our nations Constitution Will require those of a certain... constitution With minds not moldable, but malleable Able to be constantly changing With each new thought they're rearranging their perception of the world Each new direction holds a hidden collection of pearls In each new book, genius acts of innovation reside just between the lines Waiting for the right set of eyes to crack the code But, foreboding trends tend to send children away from the etchings of a pen Glass screens gloss teens faces as they slowly erase the taste of Imagination Ridding this world of its critical thinkers Damning us to a sea of words with no anchors Sadly, some will sink. But those with a nose for poetry and prose will float away on their pregnant thoughts! And when the time is right Those whose minds are ripe Will strike back against those who sell our prodigies to companies Who keep them on their knees with mediocrity by means of sterilized dreams and marketing schemes And...! And... we need to steal our dreams BACK! Because dreaming is for dreamers And I know that sounds repetitive But in this crazy competitive world we must stake claim to what is ours! And once the dreamers can dream again... Just imagine what they could do once THEY imagine what they can do! With hopes and dreams in our veins and imagination in our brains We cannot be contained to mundane existences! Extraordinary is the only way to live on your story! These well storied and well versed persons will take their turn at tilting the world's axis To gain access to the accessories needed To stage and intervention To change this distressing misconception that books are a dead means of mental transportation They can Teleport us to foreign shores They can Show us ways of thinking that we've never thought of before They could End these foreign wars If we would just give them a shot At stirring the melting *** Getting this country swimming in the same direction again. Our children deserve education through critical thought So their minds will not be bought Rather they will be sought out To put and end to this critical thought drought However, our children are still taught With No. 2 Pencils A Scantron And bubbled sheets of paper.

0

Jul 17, 2013

Jul 17, 2013 at 7:59 PM UTC

Bubbled Sheets of Paper

My days are spend with full sails, and a furnace full of fire Others' desires pale next to mine, I'm like a Viking funeral pyre Words meant to get you higher, to save dead men from the gallows Now, shallow words can drown you, so I try to make mine deep Sleep is not an option while navigating the concoction of tribulations that precede immortality! This run is not a trial, I will wade through the mire And I refuse to give an inch of what I've earned To the lynch mob trying to burn me down Not a frown will touch my face while a pen touches this hand I have the power to shake this land, and I will not stand by and wait While words of hate belittle and berate this great nation of LOVERS We must rediscover our silver tongues with which we once flung words of hope from Freedom and unity were shouted with vigilance and certainty But, what's happened to the urgency in our voices? All that's left is apathy in our choices We're glad to be the ship at sea At the mercy of the currents, tides and waves Content to drift for days, and months and years Ignoring the truth when it is spoken. Are we truly to broken to listen? Revolution glistens in the homes of parents reading to their children It's time to get lost in those pages again Words written with ink and with pen Can sharpen the tongues, wits and minds of young women and men. In a time desperate for thinkers and knowledge seekers We must dig deeper and get these kids eager to be the change that will refuse that meager piece of pie! They must be ready to cry, ready to fly, ready to DIE for the future they saw painted in the sky Because the creation of solutions for the destruction of our nations Constitution Will require those of a certain... constitution With minds not moldable, but malleable Able to be constantly changing With each new thought they're rearranging their perception of the world Each new direction holds a hidden collection of pearls In each new book, genius acts of innovation reside just between the lines Waiting for the right set of eyes to crack the code But, foreboding trends tend to send children away from the etchings of a pen Glass screens gloss teens faces as they slowly erase the taste of Imagination Ridding this world of its critical thinkers Damning us to a sea of words with no anchors Sadly, some will sink. But those with a nose for poetry and prose will float away on their pregnant thoughts! And when the time is right Those whose minds are ripe Will strike back against those who sell our prodigies to companies Who keep them on their knees with mediocrity by means of sterilized dreams and marketing schemes And...! And... we need to steal our dreams BACK! Because dreaming is for dreamers And I know that sounds repetitive But in this crazy competitive world we must stake claim to what is ours! And once the dreamers can dream again... Just imagine what they could do once THEY imagine what they can do! With hopes and dreams in our veins and imagination in our brains We cannot be contained to mundane existences! Extraordinary is the only way to live on your story! These well storied and well versed persons will take their turn at tilting the world's axis To gain access to the accessories needed To stage and intervention To change this distressing misconception that books are a dead means of mental transportation They can Teleport us to foreign shores They can Show us ways of thinking that we've never thought of before They could End these foreign wars If we would just give them a shot At stirring the melting *** Getting this country swimming in the same direction again. Our children deserve education through critical thought So their minds will not be bought Rather they will be sought out To put and end to this critical thought drought However, our children are still taught With No. 2 Pencils A Scantron And bubbled sheets of paper.

76

It was that addy addy addy It makes me batty It's Caddyshack, with Bill Murry I'm chasing furry little critters Staying bitter, never quitter Mind racing, always pacing Rolling face, but never basic. These intricate weaves of grammar are flowing, Blowing brains and making waves I've the kind of mind that will shatter your day I'm wrought with pain, bought by shame And I'm filled with disdain for the world around I'm lost in leather bound forests My head's porous like a sponge It plunges to the depths of the alphabets in search of words that Shakespeare hasn't used, yet. I'm lurching forward, never steady Erratic, spasmodic, asthmatic mind at the ready I'm too blunted, so I'm getting kinda heady Skull's growing from the biddies trying to bed me Swollen ego's popped by those that are not I was stopped cold on the spot By a raven haired mistress. She left me witless to witness me with my **** left in my hand Shattered plans pass by the window Rolled low to keep the air flow going through my matter hair and bleary eyes Red from the time I cried over her Bloodshot from the *** that I burn I was spurned by love, but learned no lesson I tried to lessen the hurt, ended up losing my shirt But I landed on my feet. My heart was beat But I was still wielding a sharp tongue to love from, and a dull knife That's the story of my life... You know she said she'd be my wife? But the price was too high... So she said goodbye and my eyes no longer picked up color My world just seemed duller My heart, he wanted to tell her That he couldn't keep rhythm without her's beating with him, but... My brain and my pride stopped my heart from getting to my tongue. We had to be done. We were far too young and uncertain to close that curtain But that did not stop me from letting the hurt in Telling her that we were too broken to keep stoking our fire Burned me inside as I fought my desire to cry on her shoulder and breath her in... But we wouldn't win. We were too broken to mend And we couldn't begin again without first changing ourselves Without living outside of ourselves... So, again, it's this addy, addy, addy, man It always takes me for a ride. Yeah, it helps me concentrate better, But I can't always choose on what, or for why.

0

Jul 17, 2013

Jul 17, 2013 at 7:33 PM UTC

Oh the Places I Go

It was that addy addy addy It makes me batty It's Caddyshack, with Bill Murry I'm chasing furry little critters Staying bitter, never quitter Mind racing, always pacing Rolling face, but never basic. These intricate weaves of grammar are flowing, Blowing brains and making waves I've the kind of mind that will shatter your day I'm wrought with pain, bought by shame And I'm filled with disdain for the world around I'm lost in leather bound forests My head's porous like a sponge It plunges to the depths of the alphabets in search of words that Shakespeare hasn't used, yet. I'm lurching forward, never steady Erratic, spasmodic, asthmatic mind at the ready I'm too blunted, so I'm getting kinda heady Skull's growing from the biddies trying to bed me Swollen ego's popped by those that are not I was stopped cold on the spot By a raven haired mistress. She left me witless to witness me with my **** left in my hand Shattered plans pass by the window Rolled low to keep the air flow going through my matter hair and bleary eyes Red from the time I cried over her Bloodshot from the *** that I burn I was spurned by love, but learned no lesson I tried to lessen the hurt, ended up losing my shirt But I landed on my feet. My heart was beat But I was still wielding a sharp tongue to love from, and a dull knife That's the story of my life... You know she said she'd be my wife? But the price was too high... So she said goodbye and my eyes no longer picked up color My world just seemed duller My heart, he wanted to tell her That he couldn't keep rhythm without her's beating with him, but... My brain and my pride stopped my heart from getting to my tongue. We had to be done. We were far too young and uncertain to close that curtain But that did not stop me from letting the hurt in Telling her that we were too broken to keep stoking our fire Burned me inside as I fought my desire to cry on her shoulder and breath her in... But we wouldn't win. We were too broken to mend And we couldn't begin again without first changing ourselves Without living outside of ourselves... So, again, it's this addy, addy, addy, man It always takes me for a ride. Yeah, it helps me concentrate better, But I can't always choose on what, or for why.

53

knock knock hi, we're the forgotten sons of punk rock the product of one too many shots of Jello with the Kennedys... or was it the Romones...? who knows we were all too ****** at a tv party that night when Henry Rollins got into a fight with some misfits and minor threats but I'll be ****** if by the end of it all they weren't just a big circle of jerks listening to group *** down the hall it was about this time that Johnny Ramone reached into his cereal box to claim his prize and then right before his very eyes he held a pair of x-ray spex he put them on but there were no effects so he took them in his stiff little fingers and tossed them out the window they landed near a gang of four addicts who had just gotten high off some leftover crack now... some may say that these guys have bad brains or are simply sub-human but we know for a fact that these are the unseen reagan youths who got swept under the carpet and are now stuck in a metaphorical tar-pit that we call their lives but thinking about all that was putting a major downer on our night so we turned away from the window sill only to see Patti Smith baking gorilla biscuits for a night at the drive in with Johnny Rotten and Iggy Pop and I think they were gonna make some new descendants of punk rock all of a sudden the party was crashed like a dance hall and in our door stood 999 brooding adolescents --and one screeching weasel this once again set Henry Rollins off, with the Glenns (Danzig and Ginn) not far behind there were some jawbreakers and choking victims and some dead boys were piled in a corner but eventually everyone was sedated, we all embraced and we hit the town like a bunch of bigwigs when we got outside, we couldn't believe our eyes propaghandi polluted the skylines for the now D.O.A. immigrants getting off the U.K. subs and the asian floats and the african boats to see posters promoting the discharged germs from the media pamphlets selling their bad religions and banners telling us to be the agnostic front that allows a corrupt regime to keep a hold on our country for 7 seconds more... those seconds turning into an eternity of a government who would trade fresh fruit for rotting vegetables so we decided to end this reign of fear and put into action Operation Ivy because we have our rites too we're in the spring of our youth so lets get a little socially distorted we must rise against and raise our anti-flag strike anywhere the conflict leads our dag-nasty cause let that fire inside burn like a sunny day in an albino compound let it fuel your bouncing souls land a punch for the guttermouthed kids with their jaws wired shut and if they still refuse to listen **** painting the town red we'll paint the world black maybe then people will see the light

0

Jul 17, 2013

Jul 17, 2013 at 7:00 AM UTC

Punk Rock Boys Need Lovin', Too

knock knock hi, we're the forgotten sons of punk rock the product of one too many shots of Jello with the Kennedys... or was it the Romones...? who knows we were all too ****** at a tv party that night when Henry Rollins got into a fight with some misfits and minor threats but I'll be ****** if by the end of it all they weren't just a big circle of jerks listening to group *** down the hall it was about this time that Johnny Ramone reached into his cereal box to claim his prize and then right before his very eyes he held a pair of x-ray spex he put them on but there were no effects so he took them in his stiff little fingers and tossed them out the window they landed near a gang of four addicts who had just gotten high off some leftover crack now... some may say that these guys have bad brains or are simply sub-human but we know for a fact that these are the unseen reagan youths who got swept under the carpet and are now stuck in a metaphorical tar-pit that we call their lives but thinking about all that was putting a major downer on our night so we turned away from the window sill only to see Patti Smith baking gorilla biscuits for a night at the drive in with Johnny Rotten and Iggy Pop and I think they were gonna make some new descendants of punk rock all of a sudden the party was crashed like a dance hall and in our door stood 999 brooding adolescents --and one screeching weasel this once again set Henry Rollins off, with the Glenns (Danzig and Ginn) not far behind there were some jawbreakers and choking victims and some dead boys were piled in a corner but eventually everyone was sedated, we all embraced and we hit the town like a bunch of bigwigs when we got outside, we couldn't believe our eyes propaghandi polluted the skylines for the now D.O.A. immigrants getting off the U.K. subs and the asian floats and the african boats to see posters promoting the discharged germs from the media pamphlets selling their bad religions and banners telling us to be the agnostic front that allows a corrupt regime to keep a hold on our country for 7 seconds more... those seconds turning into an eternity of a government who would trade fresh fruit for rotting vegetables so we decided to end this reign of fear and put into action Operation Ivy because we have our rites too we're in the spring of our youth so lets get a little socially distorted we must rise against and raise our anti-flag strike anywhere the conflict leads our dag-nasty cause let that fire inside burn like a sunny day in an albino compound let it fuel your bouncing souls land a punch for the guttermouthed kids with their jaws wired shut and if they still refuse to listen **** painting the town red we'll paint the world black maybe then people will see the light

59

I fake ******* I do it all the time (well not ALL the time, but nonetheless) Ladies! You complain constantly about how men aren't good lovers Good men are hard to find, but a hard man is good to find! Am I right? You all seem to have this notion That the motion of the ocean and the texture of the lotion don't matter That every guy will get off no matter the batter. Well have I got news for you! That's just simply not true... We have curves, grooves and contours, too. We love to be caressed and feel your lips upon our chest, And we'll dance in the name of romance If circumstance gives us the chance. We're sorry for stepping on your toes sometimes By moving too fast. But we just want your glow to match ours! To see the flow of your sexuality Come pouring out Leaving us sore and out of breath. So cut us some slack. We are the bikes to your motorcycles. But just because we wield a simpler tool, It does not mean any old fool can ride it.

0

Jul 17, 2013

Jul 17, 2013 at 6:54 AM UTC

Kickstands

I fake ******* I do it all the time (well not ALL the time, but nonetheless) Ladies! You complain constantly about how men aren't good lovers Good men are hard to find, but a hard man is good to find! Am I right? You all seem to have this notion That the motion of the ocean and the texture of the lotion don't matter That every guy will get off no matter the batter. Well have I got news for you! That's just simply not true... We have curves, grooves and contours, too. We love to be caressed and feel your lips upon our chest, And we'll dance in the name of romance If circumstance gives us the chance. We're sorry for stepping on your toes sometimes By moving too fast. But we just want your glow to match ours! To see the flow of your sexuality Come pouring out Leaving us sore and out of breath. So cut us some slack. We are the bikes to your motorcycles. But just because we wield a simpler tool, It does not mean any old fool can ride it.

25

I wasn’t blessed with the talent that others were But **** it I loved playing I wasn’t as fast, as big, or as strong But **** it I tried That's why I get furious when I see Men with more talent than most could ever dream of Cheating to get even further ahead, Because I know that if I were in their shoes I would do it right… Right? I mean I’m pretty sure that I would never Juice myself to boost my stats… Would I? But I’ve cheated on tests to raise my grade And I’ve lied on applications to get the job So how would I know Where the limit is? ‘Let he who is without sin Throw out the first pitch’ We all make mistakes Let’s just enjoy the game that we love.

0

Jul 17, 2013

Jul 17, 2013 at 6:34 AM UTC

First and Third, Nobody Out

I wasn’t blessed with the talent that others were But **** it I loved playing I wasn’t as fast, as big, or as strong But **** it I tried That's why I get furious when I see Men with more talent than most could ever dream of Cheating to get even further ahead, Because I know that if I were in their shoes I would do it right… Right? I mean I’m pretty sure that I would never Juice myself to boost my stats… Would I? But I’ve cheated on tests to raise my grade And I’ve lied on applications to get the job So how would I know Where the limit is? ‘Let he who is without sin Throw out the first pitch’ We all make mistakes Let’s just enjoy the game that we love.

20

Crippling social constructs keep us bow-legged and pigeon-toed Stuck within bars Within boxes Stopping our minds from roaming free While our crooning hearts dream of originality.

0

Jul 17, 2013

Jul 17, 2013 at 6:28 AM UTC

Original

Crippling social constructs keep us bow-legged and pigeon-toed Stuck within bars Within boxes Stopping our minds from roaming free While our crooning hearts dream of originality.

5

Dylan Thomas told us Do NOT go gently into that goodnight We're supposed to fight that light at the end of the tunnel Squeeze our blood from the stone of life Carpe the diem while we still can Bust off the hinges before our coffins get that last nail Live fast, die young, and leave a haggard corpse Drive the course of life with the pedal to the metal and the speakers bumping Thumping our anthem in rhythm with our ticking countdown clocks in our chests Race against time to sock in all the living we can We're meant to live life to the fullest Fly by the seats of our pants Passing by life's spectators and pitying them Because their vicarious living will never equal Our visceral, tangible moments of exuberance and excitement We must continue to chase our dreams with the same joy and determination That we used to chase after butterflies and baseballs with Now is the time to grab life by the ***** and squeeze Squeeze hard and never let go Because if you do Life is sure to be displeased about testicular torque that's been applied We were not meant to accept the hand we were dealt Life is a game and we're meant to play it Cheat it, hack it Find the loopholes and exploit it We are allotted a short time in existence It's a gift to us And to do anything less than take full advantage Would be like spitting in the faces of those who were given less Every wasted second is a second closer to the end of your countdown So I implore you Throw down your baggage For it will only slow you down Stop living with a twisted neck The past is meant to be remembered, not watched Stop living for money instead of happiness Listen to yourself for once and follow your desires All the money in the world doesn't mean a thing when your heart's not happy Lean on your loved ones when you must And be there for them when it's your turn So again Burn your baggage, and live your life as you see fit Smelling the roses when the moment calls for it But blistering past if you already know the aroma And something else is happening down the road.

0

Jul 17, 2013

Jul 17, 2013 at 6:26 AM UTC

Live a Little

Dylan Thomas told us Do NOT go gently into that goodnight We're supposed to fight that light at the end of the tunnel Squeeze our blood from the stone of life Carpe the diem while we still can Bust off the hinges before our coffins get that last nail Live fast, die young, and leave a haggard corpse Drive the course of life with the pedal to the metal and the speakers bumping Thumping our anthem in rhythm with our ticking countdown clocks in our chests Race against time to sock in all the living we can We're meant to live life to the fullest Fly by the seats of our pants Passing by life's spectators and pitying them Because their vicarious living will never equal Our visceral, tangible moments of exuberance and excitement We must continue to chase our dreams with the same joy and determination That we used to chase after butterflies and baseballs with Now is the time to grab life by the ***** and squeeze Squeeze hard and never let go Because if you do Life is sure to be displeased about testicular torque that's been applied We were not meant to accept the hand we were dealt Life is a game and we're meant to play it Cheat it, hack it Find the loopholes and exploit it We are allotted a short time in existence It's a gift to us And to do anything less than take full advantage Would be like spitting in the faces of those who were given less Every wasted second is a second closer to the end of your countdown So I implore you Throw down your baggage For it will only slow you down Stop living with a twisted neck The past is meant to be remembered, not watched Stop living for money instead of happiness Listen to yourself for once and follow your desires All the money in the world doesn't mean a thing when your heart's not happy Lean on your loved ones when you must And be there for them when it's your turn So again Burn your baggage, and live your life as you see fit Smelling the roses when the moment calls for it But blistering past if you already know the aroma And something else is happening down the road.

45

Lately I’ve been considering clarifying my spirituality while trying to get a hold on my reality. My days are surreal as I peel away from the human race, putting on ratty clothes to save face and change pace to obtain grace in a place where it can only be found in a name anymore. I’ve been bound to the imaginary floor of my conscious by fending off faith like false accusations. Thoughtlessness is the root of this mess, as I’ve yet to reboot my less than sincere concept of what steers me down the road of apathy and godlessness. It could be nothing more than arrogance that causes belief in the chance that we learned this dance of existence all on our own; but from what we’ve been shown, nothing can be known without a doubt. So I strut with a straight spine and my head held high, staring into space while glaring at the sky. I shout at the darkness to get out of my substance so my stance can beckon light toward me to explore my soul and implore me to roll my stone away… but it’s grown accustomed to the moss. Now, accustomed leads to stagnant and stagnant leads to combustion, which is something I can’t stand for; so I strive towards infinity by growing my affinity for aesthetic authenticity at a constant rate. The debate rages outside my tarnished gates: Religion teaches hate, but faith can be great when man’s meddlings are left on cutting room floor. Love each other. Treat each man as your brother, each woman your mother. These preachings reach to our basic decencies, but detrimental thoughts are spread through our frequencies, interrupting the harmonious symphonies to which our species dances to each day. Our hearts know the way, but our brains overcompensate for the seemingly irrational, natural compulsions pulsing us towards our actual emotions. The notion that we were grown out of the unknown isn’t easy to swallow when the thought of being so along leaves you feeling hollow, but I find it hard to follow along when the almighty one smites men for placing their faith in the wrong plans. The idle hands of man have branded faith with scandalous standards for eternal happiness, which is why I’m happy to dismiss what some call bliss. But seeing as I can no longer identify as an atheist, I want whatever god will listen to understand me when I say this: We all miss our respective Mimi’s each and every day, and I hope that mine will see me again one day. But going to church each and every Sunday should hold no sway as to whether or not that is the case. Amen.

0

Jul 17, 2013

Jul 17, 2013 at 6:03 AM UTC

Saving Face with the Grace of Faith

Lately I’ve been considering clarifying my spirituality while trying to get a hold on my reality. My days are surreal as I peel away from the human race, putting on ratty clothes to save face and change pace to obtain grace in a place where it can only be found in a name anymore. I’ve been bound to the imaginary floor of my conscious by fending off faith like false accusations. Thoughtlessness is the root of this mess, as I’ve yet to reboot my less than sincere concept of what steers me down the road of apathy and godlessness. It could be nothing more than arrogance that causes belief in the chance that we learned this dance of existence all on our own; but from what we’ve been shown, nothing can be known without a doubt. So I strut with a straight spine and my head held high, staring into space while glaring at the sky. I shout at the darkness to get out of my substance so my stance can beckon light toward me to explore my soul and implore me to roll my stone away… but it’s grown accustomed to the moss. Now, accustomed leads to stagnant and stagnant leads to combustion, which is something I can’t stand for; so I strive towards infinity by growing my affinity for aesthetic authenticity at a constant rate. The debate rages outside my tarnished gates: Religion teaches hate, but faith can be great when man’s meddlings are left on cutting room floor. Love each other. Treat each man as your brother, each woman your mother. These preachings reach to our basic decencies, but detrimental thoughts are spread through our frequencies, interrupting the harmonious symphonies to which our species dances to each day. Our hearts know the way, but our brains overcompensate for the seemingly irrational, natural compulsions pulsing us towards our actual emotions. The notion that we were grown out of the unknown isn’t easy to swallow when the thought of being so along leaves you feeling hollow, but I find it hard to follow along when the almighty one smites men for placing their faith in the wrong plans. The idle hands of man have branded faith with scandalous standards for eternal happiness, which is why I’m happy to dismiss what some call bliss. But seeing as I can no longer identify as an atheist, I want whatever god will listen to understand me when I say this: We all miss our respective Mimi’s each and every day, and I hope that mine will see me again one day. But going to church each and every Sunday should hold no sway as to whether or not that is the case. Amen.

9