To property with a high degree
That puts to shame anyone with soft soothing tea
Moving along past inscribed miseries
On peoples faces
Oh, further fast, going places
Board that silk laced train without hesitation
Gather white flowers, take no intimidations
For the poet writes only about rays of mitigation
That breaks open the shaded
Which is ignored and faded
For the true painter paints, only what they care to see
Not what others are faced to be
Once they decide their messages for he and she
Each tree they will chop with a fake type of force
For the poet now has stolen their horse
On which they rode to the promise land
With the dead, the unborn, & the hand
Of what is what & who tears the bands
Apart for they don't speak
Only listen, repeat, and creak
Soft now please, go to the beach with the swirling keeps
Perhaps there will lay the sleeping sheep
That you wish not to be, for they are meek in heaps
And do not know every meaning
Behind every tower leaning
Learn something there, then return
For not your destiny everyone yearns
Rather it is peace and a chance to learn
About a prophecy new
And culture few
Or perhaps that is a lie
Like every tear shed through an eye
That hopes to gain something through a tight tie
Feb 2, 2014
Feb 2, 2014 at 7:55 PM UTC
Wild orange green trees
Blowin' in the chilly wind
There must be something to me
That does sit and bend
A bell that does not ring
During a infrequent quiet bliss
A dog that does not chew
At the bones of harmony’s miss
Loud white green mockingbird
Singing in misguided hymns
It’s a big sad shame to me
That love don’t bend heavy at the limb
No apple blossoming
During that good old summer dream
No façade I can find
Bustin’ open at the seams
Unyielding angry closed friend
Yelling in the rain
Sorrow seems to accompany me
When I am all alone
No person to keep a garden
In the deep scarlet sun
No deep unhappy person
Has a medal that company’s won
Jan 25, 2014
Jan 25, 2014 at 3:55 PM UTC
Death starts religion
and marries them
in red velvet ribbon
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 6:07 PM UTC
Grapes grown on a crooked line
Make amongst, the most sour wine
Flowers of the dying kind
spoil and rot the bright sunshine
Butterflies in the pouring rain
Fall and die in roaring pain
Views change across eyes
Sorrow keeps the oil lit
Silent sounds are comfort
in the solitude of nighttime
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 6:01 PM UTC