Lost, confused, certain...
Not in the right place.
This is not okay.
Show me something, tell me something,
What am I looking at?
I know my mind is made up but you shouldn't stay quiet,
My mind was made up by a different me!
I see you but, I'm still alone
And looking way higher than I should be.
These winks aren't real.
This comfort... only temporary.
Who are you and when did you do this?
Do I know you?
How much more of this?
Are we slowing down?
We must be heading somewhere, what's YOUR goal?
And do I know my own?
Tell me, stranger.
Do I know you?
Feb 25, 2019
Feb 25, 2019 at 8:49 AM UTC
This is what it's like
To wake up from fake, long sleep.
Would not recommend.
Aug 10, 2017
Aug 10, 2017 at 5:55 AM UTC
You shake and you shiver and cry out for me
As you caress my neck with your lips.
You melt into me like the snow in the spring
And my shoulders can feel your snow's drips
Then the clouds open up and present their remorse
Recreating your tears with their rain.
Like bullets the first drops hail down on our heads
And commence their percussive refrain.
I pat your back gently and tell you with care
There need not be a reason for tears.
But the patter of water in puddles is loud
And I say only words you can't hear.
Bam! It hits me! They're fake! I know why you're sad
And the reason you cry is unclear;
You're not sad at all, your snow is not gone:
You cry only crocodile tears.
Jun 1, 2017
Jun 1, 2017 at 12:23 AM UTC
I feel like I am lost
Between thoughts
Between muses
Of better luck, and
Of better luck next time.
The pity that has crowned me
For all to see, and feel,
Comes rightfully,
As I do pity myself,
Like a mouse ought to
In deepest winter.
The mouse, however,
Sleeps through it,
While I turn and toss,
Wrapped in my blanket
And in thoughts of fortune
And in my misfortune.
I cannot complain;
I have known a good life,
A life with luck,
A life with privilege
Compared to the mouse's.
Yet, I still feel lost
Between thoughts
Between muses
Of better luck,
And better luck
Which I wish myself
Next time.
May 31, 2017
May 31, 2017 at 9:28 AM UTC
Can you feel the breath
Leaving your lungs and your lips?
It keeps me alive.
May 31, 2017
May 31, 2017 at 12:21 AM UTC
Writing in prose becomes difficult
When swirling around in your head
Are only lines of verse.
It is lucky, then,
That I am a poet.
May 30, 2017
May 30, 2017 at 10:09 PM UTC
Chase these drunken foreigners
Back to their ****** land.
Make sure they don't come back
Lest we cut off their filthy hands.
They walk right through our borders
And set fire to our barns
They **** our farmers' daughters
And they vandalise our farms
They bring their bows and arrows
And roll in their trebuchets
Then they fire off their weapons
And destroy our country's face.
Now go swift and see it done,
Send our armies to the field!
We'll make sure they don't come back again,
We'll show them what we feel.
May 30, 2017
May 30, 2017 at 1:00 AM UTC
Every step walked
Takes us farther from home
With every word spoken
We feel more alone
For eternate aeons
Just walking away
No love, consolation
Or freedom or say.
As fickle as smoke,
But a trifling doubt
A whisp in the willows
We silently shout.
The daggers that stab us
The water that drowns
The fire that burns us
And we don't make a sound.
Emotions are trapped
In this blindfolded clutch
We're ***** by our deaths
And can't feel its cold touch
The storm now is mild
But the black clouds still growl
And the stench in the air
Will not go and smells foul.
And yet we march on
While our home moves away
We are blind, we are deaf
And we're stalked by our prey.
May 29, 2017
May 29, 2017 at 8:38 PM UTC
They danced,
and touched the sky.
No good, no bad;
nothing remained.
All became part
of their glowing trail.
They were violent seas:
fiery red, flaming orange.
They left everything
in ashes. As ashes.
Then they touched the sky,
and they danced.
May 29, 2017
May 29, 2017 at 3:10 AM UTC
A certain beauty is always withheld
Until the most unfavourable time,
And then presents itself for all but those
Whose eyes can see what beauty none behold.
A certain beauty never understood
Can fleet through anyone oblivious;
Can hold itself in clearest forms, and should,
Yet never can be seen or grasped for good.
The one with all the eyes sees only black
And cannot look the brightness in its face,
But when a certain beauty steals his eye,
All the beholder does is watch and cry.
A certain beauty tears the hearts of men;
No eyes but his behold, not even then.
May 28, 2017
May 28, 2017 at 8:44 PM UTC