rod-normandy-sterling
I am a boy named Rod. I play the guitar, play video games, enjoy my time on the computer heftily, and socialize with my friends, to an extent. I also love Natasha Marie, my beautiful girlfriend, for as long as my body is capable of love. / / / / I write these as I go along, usually little to no inspiration need I. You can dig deeper and deeper into my poems, but there is usually not a meaning. Enjoy.
Sadness is a curse as well as a benevolent splash of water in the face.
You concentrate on every dark thing in the world,
The grayness of the dew drops, the depressing and cold impersonal face of the rolling smoky cloud overhead.
This pushes you back to a memory: A song, perhaps, a family trip maybe, something that depresses you in a way that makes you smile futilely. Futilely in the sense that, you will never write a song like that, you feel like you will never have enough fun as you did on that trip. With this, you grow hatred towards yourself. With this malevolent tempest inside of you as a muse, you inscribe beautiful things into the notebook. With your own blood. Too far. Sadness is a force to be used by the ones in touch with self-control. Please, throw your ****** notebooks away and write in pen. Your poems will look better.
Jun 17, 2010
Jun 17, 2010 at 6:48 PM UTC
You once shall meet me,
In many forms come I.
A creeping knife, an ominous pall,
A particle in your dense sky.
I play music, you see.
But, this music isn't pleasant.
It combines every element of malice.
Chains and whips ravage your ****** drums,
And I take you in.
You fall to your knees, and your eyes burst from pressure.
I keep playing mine tune on mine horrid instrument.
The aria of the Antichrist is formed into a choir, of the demons and Malakai, Loki and Lucifer.
The screeching is played too fast for your eardrums. They rupture.
Suddenly, the crease of reality breaks.
You are ****** into a shale-colored vortex, never to be again; listening to the wretched howl of the demons below.
You once met me,
In many forms came I.
I felt pity for you, and played you a soft tune,
But you only heard screeching while you died.
Jun 17, 2010
Jun 17, 2010 at 6:29 PM UTC
I am the power,
I work the machine.
Brainwash my people
Like the **** Regime.
Subliminal and discreet,
I wear an ignorance-spun cape.
But what do they call my teachings?
Patriotism. How great.
Whether black or white,
Grand or small,
They are my zombies.
I rule them all.
Not green, not decayed,
They're red, white and blue.
The idiocy spreads like an infection.
From them to you.
Some are corrupt,
They see through my cape.
I exterminate them,
And continue on my hell-bent way.
America may lose itself one day,
It may not remain strong and true.
But until then, stay begging for the brains,
Of the Red, White, and Blue.
Jun 17, 2010
Jun 17, 2010 at 6:14 PM UTC
****** ****** in a dish.
How many needles do you wish?
Intravenous, Intravenous, take a hit and walk on Venus.
Unethical. Impeccable. Makes a brick wall wreckable.
You and me and Nikki Sixx,
Take those hypodermic sticks.
Shove 'em in and hold on tight,
'Cause this is gonna be a messed up night!
Turn your brains to sugar jam, now let's all walk to Junkieland.
Jun 17, 2010
Jun 17, 2010 at 1:34 PM UTC
Jesus Christ, what have I done.
Acquired the battery can, yes,
But I shall soon go mad.
It buzzes and groans with the earsplitting capacity of an explosion, yet I am the only one who is able to hear it.
It's multicolor bolts pulsate my every nerve; ruin my every chance of survival.
Started out as ecstasy...
...And continues as madness.
The battery can fits into my hand, takes the shape of every fissure.
It knows me.
It wants me inside of it, another soul in the unforgiving and unrelenting abyss of electricity.
My senses are warping.
Vision blurring, Check. Limbs numbing, Check.
My corpse falls to the floor. The only thing not hollowed out is my thinking capacity. The battery can rolls out of my hand 3 or 4 feet and I am enveloped in a blue light.
It's uncomfortably warm in here, and the smell of a burnt corpse tingles my nose.
Heaven is a lot different than I expected.
Jun 15, 2010
Jun 15, 2010 at 6:35 PM UTC
It stalks me as I sleep.
It waits for me by day.
It feeds on my agony and immaculate horror.
I am not safe where I stay.
Hiding under my bedroom carpet,
in the closet, beneath the bed,
Anywhere it can drive me crazy, but,
No matter what, it'll not get in my head.
When I gaze into it, it's horrible eyes
Pierce my flesh down to the soul.
My skin wrinkles and curdles with cold,
My insides burn like coal.
I can't live with this thing much longer,
It'll destroy my sanity.
I can't live with the thing much longer,
The thing I'm ashamed to call me.
Jun 15, 2010
Jun 15, 2010 at 6:24 PM UTC
The lies,
Make the mask,
Make the face.
**** it fast.
I die, I cry.
They lie, I listen.
Fight the power, **** the machine.
Fight the power, **** the machine.
Fight the power, Save yourself.
Johnny is a white boy,
Born into Democracy.
Johnny is a slave boy,
But he's told that he is free.
Johnny asks his Mama,
"Why am I the same?
Why do I have to work so hard?
Given my bland name?"
Johnny's Mama slaps him,
Makes him straight and true.
Now blindly loves his government,
You are aware that you do, too.
For reasons unbeknownst,
A pleasant government image, you make.
Under the happy illusion,
That you and I are safe.
Jun 15, 2010
Jun 15, 2010 at 6:08 PM UTC