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Michael W Noland Mar 2013
I once dreamed of a blue sun that shone upon muddy streets, as drones policed the abandoned buildings of a fallen society.

Today, i saw a drone in the rain, while a blind man begged for change, and this strange feeling from the way the light shone.

I don't know what the future holds, but know that the people are cold, and getting colder, and i'm getting older, so i'm folding, and buying another gun.
Michael W Noland Mar 2013
This message
It will self destruct

This message
It deconstructs

This message
An eruption
Of my consumption
Of the bad

My feel bads
For damage done
With an empty gun
In hand

Collect the shells
Sweep the scraps
It dont matter
Who was first
But last

We all cast shadows
Here and now
From frown
To pout

We all go out
Like *******
Michael W Noland Mar 2013
There he go again
Making it weird
Embarrassing himself
Or so he heard

Hes drinking again
Mixing his verbs
Burning oils
And being a perv

Hes singing again
Spinning a tale
Writing apologies
The best he knows how

Hes on the prowl again
Watching the crowds
Choosing his targets
And punching the scowls

Off their faces
Michael W Noland Mar 2013
Imaginary adversaries are emanating from the alcohol to facebook walls, in temporary solutions for the vibes polluting my constitution, in the willful regrets atop my onset of contempt itching my temples cleft in my futures vision of itself.

I am myself and to no-one else do i answer unto hallow cancers ******* my bones away, and my mind astray in the straight laced fates of the other players who played their cards right, the same.

I go all in with the pocket deuces, atop intrusive verbal abuses, serving useless satire to the tired faces of try hards, bleeding of inadequacy.

Im a runon and on sentence of rambling weaponous vapors from the fragrant flatulence breaking from deflating colons, swollen like Noland's ego, when hes drunk and grumbling about life, lolling as he whines of the wines flavor, savoring the bitter for betterment of the sweet, neatly wrapped in sheets of plastic for later.
Michael W Noland Mar 2013
It always starts like this
They beg for violence
But when they get it
They want me to quit
They think i'm a ******
But its them
It is them
Tis them
That beckon
The beast

The text message
Michael W Noland Mar 2013
Poetry, to me is an eventuality of a mastery that is happily, or even tragically achieved, a seething, a reeling, a shining, a realizing of parts of our heart that depart and grow on their own accord.

The poet, to me is void of belief, and of whatever we think he or she should be, as they are likely a muse to somebody doing the same things, just needing a little commonality, before turning the complexity into a simplicity that even you can read.

The poem, to me is simply the spilling of ink, on blank sheets that loudly state their names before they leave, but explicitly received by shaking hands, and fading feelings, reminiscent of waking to forgetting dreams while brushing your teeth.

Its all any god ****** thing you will it to be really, and the poets are anyfuckingbody that lies, or speaks honestly, or even in between, even serious going all the way to silly, back to romantic, and stopping on scary, as it is all fairly subjective, to our positive, or negative perspectives.

It is merely what you make of it.

And it, well it is life, it is living, it is giving, it is taking, its making hearts feel at home when they are all alone.

Its leaving them the **** alone when they spill their guts, when they give their *****, and strut their lumps.

Its comparing cuts, and trophies, while soaking in the ****, and learning something you never knew of.

Its shutting the **** up when you speak, so you can hear yourself think.

Its being a **** for the hell of it, from a life of dissatisfied self entitlements.

Its a ****, but not a *****, a ****, but not a lord, it is a delicate, fragile animal, to be adored.

It is everything
Every thing
Everybody
Every zing
Every song
Every painting
Every smile
Every frown
Every up
Every
D
O
W
N

Every in
Every out
Every hope
And every doubt

Every enemy
And every friend

It is every beginning
And every end

It is formlessness
In decent
Ascending
Contempt

It is poetry
And at the end of the day
Its all that's left

My everything
Michael W Noland Mar 2013
Sang alot of songs by now

All alone
All alone

Who would know
Who could know

Right now
Right now

Seems like forever ago

Songs of loss
Songs of giving in

A song for the lost
Its cheeky again

Looping through
From me to you

It plays all over again

Sang alot of songs by now
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