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B S Apr 2013
The bombs already drop
in rhythmic succession,
brewing but little
condemnation -
Millions bleed the colour of soil,
impoverished by
rich mans toil.
But no tear,
nor a note is shed  - unless,
they bleed the colour of
the dollar bill.
B S May 2011
I’ve been lost in time,
These last few months,
With clocks that won’t tock –
And days that won’t stop.
And I was happy.
Or maybe a little too comfortable.
It’s all the same,
Because the sun won’t always shine,
And you can’t stop the rain.
But time will always find you,
And I’m here now.
So where are you?
Are you hiding too?
Running from the monotonous chime –
The one that dictates your waking,
And your slumber.
Your not so silent slumber.
Trapped within the walls of time.
Is this living,
Or is this death?
It doesn’t matter,
The trees will still grow –
Either way.
And I’m here now.
I wear bells now –
To throw that monotonous chime –
Out of time.
So where are you?
Do you wear bells too?
I don’t weep,
No I don’t cry,
Because tears don’t harmonize,
With the monotonous chime.
B S May 2011
Stop! Fair maiden, excuse my haste --
but today the Heavens weep.
Off of your feet will you allow me to sweep,
and adore you in all your grace?
Your eyes they sparkle upon your face,
a gaze to make my heart leap.
The most pure of flowers may never creep --
close to the beauty you encase.
Stay with me a little while,
until those tears do dry.
Close your eyes, I'll sing a lullaby ,
until the east see's moonshine.
Bid the day farewell -- dream -- release a smile,
we will meet again, next Winter time.
B S Nov 2015
I'm not meant to be here
And my time is short
"Time is what you make it", he replied
So I sat
But only for a while.
And together we stayed
But only for a while.
He sung to me and I listened
As well as I could amongst my own melody
Of poetry swirling and swaying,
Beating down the door bellowing
"Hear Ye!" until I no longer
Could ignore.
But his songs were sweet
And all the merrier
Accompanied by poetry and the ascending night.
"Sometimes all you need is a little loneliness," he said
"To take off your mask and be,
And to not be,
Who they think
You are.
But only for a while."
"You say -
"I am not meant to be here"
But the heart cannot withstand
Too much loneliness.
And it is getting dark
Out here."
"Be gone," he commands
"For your bones will chill
And things creep
Where there is no light."
"Be gone,
But sure to return.
If only-
For
A while."
B S Apr 2012
“Oh young one,
How much adoration I bestow upon thee!
For the sweet whispers of thy song,
shall provide nectar for thy birds and bee’s.” – said he.

“But what are these tears from Heaven?”
she curiously curses to thy God’s above.
“Why should you allow Heaven to weep so,
in your Almighty presence?”

He places his hand gently upon her face and whispers,
“Divine darling, oh love, shall you see,
that without Heaven’s tears, cease to exist,
would thy birds and bee’s,
you love so graciously!”
B S May 2012
The moon is bright,
and the air is a sweet and soothing temperate.
Where are you, Melamin,
on this ever-so alluring night?
B S Nov 2011
If you were to search my bedroom,
don't expect to find any treasures.
Besides my bed you are likely to find
a years worth of empty pharmaceuticals
to cure a life of ill pleasures.

If you were to search my bedroom,
don't expect that you will piece the puzzle together.
Because the reason I am,
the way that I am,
is not because the pieces are jumbled,
but because some never existed at all.

If you were to search my bedroom,
don't expect to find me there -
for that is a life that I left behind.
Why you may ask?
I'll pick you a flower I planted inside my head,
and we'll see how long you can bear
its potency.
B S Apr 2013
Tonight I will sleep on my fragmented thoughts
that my anxieties found too delicate to embrace.

Crushed by nature and neglected from nurture
I'm not one to hoard but my head must rest.

Is it so wrong for a woman to caress her melancholy
as tenderly as she does her lover?

These pieces of madness once smelled so sweet
like the roses I've kept from years foregone.

I crowd my mind with scraps of death
to remind myself that what is dead, is never gone.
B S Dec 2015
You wont want to give me your whole heart,
But I’ll pick at the cement wall around it,
Piece by piece,
Night after night,
When the lights are out and your guard down.
Then when you’re most resistant,
I’ll fit.
Right through the hole I picked,
And steal it.
It will be warm and well nurtured,
You wont mind me holding on to it.
Even come to like it in my possession.
The more you like it the heavier it grows.
And a burden it becomes.
A weight too much to bear.
I'll find a nice place in the forest beneath the pines,
Or down by the water.
Night after night,
When the lights are out and your guard down,
I'll slip outside and pick at the earth,
A heart shaped hole just big enough to fit yours.
Then when you feel most secure, most safe,
I'll drop it, and bury it, and walk away.
It will grow cold,
And call to you through the breeze,
Or through the waves.
You wont hear and you wont search for it.
You’ll search for me, to no avail.
I’ve long mastered the art of escape.
B S Jan 2012
In my past I would gaze
with eyes so vacant
as the stillness encapsulates,
the wonderment of
what once was
a breath. Free from entrapment,
but we, still stand,
so stagnant,
in the palm of a mediocre living.
In my past I would loll
amid the sounds
of my own self induced sorrows,
while Mother Nature
tried
to
awaken me.
"Celebrate! my imaginary friends."
But alas there was no melody.

Today I awoke in an indigo hue,
a long but forgotten friend.
Converse we did through
the silence
of
my
subconsciousness -
and birth she gave
to a sight I never had.
Mother Nature greeted me
with a silky sea of sun
upon my skin.
Mother Nature blessed me
with the illuminating innocence
of a babies laugh.
My soul rid my spirit
of the ghost in the machine,
and my sorrows became -
nevermore.
B S Jul 2012
She was but a sonnet like no other,
With a tongue of rose and hands cold as snow.
And happy were we, I and my lover,
Roaming on lands, no soul could ever know.
For flowers so picturesque there did grow.
O' but one morning, the weatherman said -
"Halt! Winter is coming, beware of snow."
Listen we didn't, but read books instead -
Ignoring the voices inside our heads.
The lands deceased as the Winter drew nigh,
But dirt now lies where were the flower beds -
Alas came sorrow and the Heavens cry.
Nightingales sing from within her heart -
To the moon, sing- "Thou shalt not fall apart."
B S Mar 2013
You know the type?
The ones that sit alone,
with their heads buried in books,
not even blinking an eye as
the midday trains go roaring past
as the school girls all hold
down
their
dresses.
With their blonde hair,
they all think they can be Marilyn Monroe.
Or Barbie.
But they're not fooling anyone,
and the boys only want
the trains to go screaming past again.

You know the type.
Always in clans,
looking like clones.
They're happy. I think.
At least they seem to be.
But the girl that sits by herself,
with her music loud enough
to drown out auditory reality,
she isn't.
And she doesn't even pretend to be.
And if she closes her eyes,
the visual world disappears too,
and reality no longer exists.
Then,
if you look closely,
you can see
a smile form.
It might only come along
as frequently as a blue moon,
but it's sure to make
a blind man weep.
B S Jan 2012
A young poet sat perplexed at his desk,
ink and quill at arms length.
Still he found
that without his sorrows -
he had no words to note.
The sun, it rose,
and alas it perished,
while the pages before him were -
ever blank.
"How could it be,
that without my sorrows,
I muster no creativity?"
The Wise One shall hear me.
The Wise One shall heal me.
The young poet raised his question
to which the Wise One replied:
"My boy, in time -
you shall find
after I philosophize,
your pages and heart to be tied."
The Wise One sat upon a park bench,
watching the leaves turn red.
Watching the snow fall.
Watching the babes be born.
He sat,
and he sat . . .
and
he
sat.
His hair grew longer,
and the seasons warmer,
but the answer drew,
never closer.
The Wise One never,
found the answer.
B S Apr 2012
Lord Almighty, with your wits and smarts,
Pry this stake out from my heart.
Cursed am I with an open mind,
Rid my sins and Heathen bind.
Shed my love for the Earths divine equinox,
Fill me, O’ Lord, with your vile paradox.
B S Sep 2012
Twice did our love see the roses of
St Valentines rising sun.
That which follows,
worse than the one foregone.
For we were never
the type,
to
obey.

The fourteenth day,
of that second month,
he came to me,
and I heard him say:
"My darling, for you I bestow a gift! -
the gift of irony
No gift at all."
He knew me,
and he knew
me
well.

O' then the second Valentines,
saw that this year,
I had a gift for him.
A gift he'd rather not hear.
A gift I'd rather not bear.
The gift to end
all
gifts.

Autumn blessed me,
with the deterioration of his memory.
And Winter cursed me,
with a heart of stone.
Spring breathed life,
into that which
I thought I'd
buried
alive.

And he's happy now.
He has another now.
And I'll be okay so long
as the sky remains blue,
and the setting sun leaves
the clouds
a rosy
hue.

Remove these photographs
from inside my skull.
Can't you see they're
making my heart too sore?
Take these rose-tinted glasses
from upon my eyes.
For I cannot bear
them

anymore.
B S Dec 2012
Everyone has a ghost.
Some call them their first love.
I call mine you.

You're my ghost,
the stone in my heart.
And how does one -
erode a stone?

Vitrification?
Turn you into something,
pleasing to touch?

Oh -
but my hands are -
cold as snow.

— The End —