nik-price
American
Traveling the world and moving has been the life story of Nick Price. Born into a military family has opened doors to many different possibilities and adventures. Outdoorsman, Scientist, Writer, Musician, Philosopher are just a few titles. can't wait to collaberate with anyone and everyone.
Sometimes man....
Seeing everything you say and do
With all of the contradictions,
Tires me out.
You think being alone is fun?
Maybe for you and your perfect life where nothing goes wrong,
But being alone is the hardest thing right now.
I lose all sense of time and reality
Spending the night thinking up ways
That I can get past it or get you back,
Or thinking about the happiness you brought me
And thinking about the happiness I brought you.
I haven't slept normally in over two weeks
Because i'm alone.
The bed too empty,
My heart too broken,
My mind racing,
Hands busy typing cliche ********
Sometimes man....
I wonder if you are just good at blocking things out,
Or you just didn't really care.
Jan 29, 2013
Jan 29, 2013 at 2:58 AM UTC
Right now is a time that no one should be awake
but watching the sunrise through the night
is a beautiful sight.
Trying to sleep is a chore and a pain
because my bed is so empty.
There is no passion,
no love,
no cuddling,
and nobody there anymore.
The only thing that can fill the emptiness
is thoughts about the wonderful things that used to be there,
wonderful things now pressed into the memory foam.
Jan 20, 2013
Jan 20, 2013 at 6:06 PM UTC
I haven't written a poem in over a year
but honestly nothing has changed.
I still spend my nights up late
thinking about failed relationships
and the endless ********
that goes with it.
Reading the different poems by past loves,
long lost and forgotten,
about how much in love you are
or how much the most recent love has hurt you,
I know nothing has changed.
So I guess I will sit here some more
and ***** about god knows what,
because **** doesn't change.
**** DOESN"T CHANGE
Jan 20, 2013
Jan 20, 2013 at 4:35 AM UTC
I know people,
who apparently can judge the entire being of a person
on the fact that they smoke.
Making judgements
by the cigarette
that hangs from their mouth.
The image in their heads
says that this person is bad
but that's just the ignorance talking.
I know people,
who smoke
cigarettes and ****
These people enjoy the feeling
like the taste
or it's to stop the shakes.
Some of these people
have huge hearts and open minds
greater than all the haters.
I know people,
who drink and party
because they think that's fun.
If that's what you like
then who am I to stop you
but that's not my cup of tea.
I prefer a nice tobacco pipe
and a great book
while I ponder life's questions.
So **** you and your childish judgements
that cloud your mind
and prohibit you.
Open up and maybe someone
will be willing and able
to care about you again.
Jan 2, 2012
Jan 2, 2012 at 3:57 AM UTC
Every felt like something?
you know...
that feeling that you just can't grab
no matter how hard you try
to smoke it out
and drown it down?
Everyone has the feeling
and it's what makes great people.
The endless feeling for the label,
for the answer.
Then these great people stumble upon something along the way
that makes them great,
but what is this feeling?
The feeling that keeps us up at night
regardless of the sleepy feeling in our eyes
is something.
Something unexplainable and ******* ******
that consumes your being and pulls you in
like a magnet to a metal rod
or a beast with its hands around your neck
slowly strangling the life out of you.
**** it man... I need a smoke.
Dec 28, 2011
Dec 28, 2011 at 3:15 AM UTC
Love leads to only despair.
Either a break up
or death
or loss of interest
or divorce
or an affair,
this is the end of love.
Some people tell themselves
they are in it for the experience.
They don't care how it ends
just how it went by,
but let me tell you that all actions
lead to something.
I guess I have had those good relationships
filled with love
and happiness
and now I look back
as I sit here in complete silence
wondering if it was worth it.
Was it worth the way I feel like **** all the time?
Is it the fact that you didn't do this to me?
only someone who cares would be able to do this
to me.
So i'll just sit here and read my books
and write my poems
and play my guitar,
because you don't deserve my sadness
you aren't kind enough
or smart enough
for me to be sad about what happened.
You didn't care enough
for me to give a **** about you now.
Dec 5, 2011
Dec 5, 2011 at 5:50 PM UTC
A scrap of bread lies
on the cobblestone floor.
Undisturbed,
Unreachable.
A prisoner starves
in his lonely cell.
Imprisoned,
Defeated.
He can see the piece of bread,
It's the first food he has seen for weeks.
Wondering if he can reach it,
the man decides to try.
His hand just fits under
the heavy wooden door,
but while the man reaches
his hand is clubbed without warning.
The man is confused because
he can only see the bread,
but there is a guard with a wooden club in hand
prepared to beat back the poor man's hand.
Now the man, he is strong,
so he continues to try
and the guards keep up with the beatings
a new guard every time.
The man keeps reaching
and the guards keep changing.
His hands are now bleeding
but the guards they keep beating.
This cycle goes on and on
until time runs together.
Then the final guard comes down
but the man is ready.
He reaches further than he has ever reached before
and he touches the bread.
He actually grabbed it
feeling it for only a moment makes all the beatings worth while.
The last guard stomps on his arm,
up near the elbow where the arm sticks from the door.
The guard watches as the man sqwirms
trying to pull his arm back, but that wont happen
The club is raised and brought down with force,
too many times to count
but more forceful
than ever before.
The man's fingers break.
Bones shatter and blood
drains from his body,
flowing onto the floor
but the guard continues to beat,
to break,
to shatter
and destroy.
Then the guard stops
and the man slowly withdrawals his hand.
He is left with a useless appendage,
the bread left untouched.
and his hand,
his ******* hand.
Broken beyond the ability to heal
and the man is left in his cold dark cell,
no longer able to feel.
Nov 20, 2011
Nov 20, 2011 at 3:50 PM UTC
I heard the music
shutting my eyes the sound went through my head,
through my mind.
Bellowing in one ear like a rolling bass,
while tweeting in the other like the soft strings
if a violin or ukulele,
playing softly on a full moon
to cheer up your mood.
I heard the music
loud
like headphones surrounding my ears
with the volume turned up.
I feared I would lose my ability to hear,
to listen to sounds of mother earth.
My loss of sound would be
my greatest tragedy of all.
I heard the music
as you lay in your bed,
sleeping,
with your hands covering your face
Your silken ginger hair falling
messily around your face.
I wish I could walk to you,
and brush your hair from your beautiful,
light colored eyes.
I heard the music
before.
I tried to ignore it,
writing poetry to hide it
I still battle whether I should tell you,
or not,
because our friendship, I treasure most.
I heard the music
when you told me your deepest secret
how boys fall in love with you.
Now I think I have fallen,
just as you said,
but I don't want to lose my friend.
Will I?
Will I lose my only friend?
I heard the music,
the music of love.
Nov 20, 2011
Nov 20, 2011 at 3:33 PM UTC
I don't want what you want to do.
Know that, how thinking I don't feel, hurts
and so now,
**** you,
don't do,
just know,
Nov 20, 2011
Nov 20, 2011 at 3:22 PM UTC
Now every time I go and try something new to me,
I figure it all out.
That maybe if me or you,
both possibly feel,
that if the places were same
as those when
(or were)
I lived
and Burned the food my mom cooked.
Arm and arm,
you and I,
cared or not,
nurturing life in me
helping me like everything that
there was or is around me.
More
and more than anything
that just was past friendship
with others.
(between friends
being us is what I
like best)
Hope you feel there was,
what is now.
Nov 1, 2011
Nov 1, 2011 at 6:42 PM UTC