Goals are made to acheive and break records,
Who dreams to achieve can concur it,
Goals are of different kinds,
Goals are of different fields,
Different people creates various goals in different fields,
Business goals are hectic to achieve
But not impossible to   concur it.
Bigger goals needs big efforts to achieve
Small goals are easy to fulfill,
Goals  are gold spot that remains in our minds.

The aged beast.
The haggard crone.
Bony fingers.
Crooked nose.
Chewing bones of children pure.
Evil person that's for sure.
She stands and stirs her cauldron.
Vile smelling.
Slings in a dead rat or two.
A newt, who looked cute.
Grinned as she chucked him in.
Black cat crawled around her legs.
Cracked in a dozen rotten eggs.
Goodness knows what she is brewing.
Smells terrible.
Door flies open.
Almost of its hinges.
The man in the black pointed hat strolled in.
Had a bad day, he scowls as he whinges.
Hangs his nose above the cooking ***.
Smells great darling.
What have we got?
(c)LIVVI

you've left him a sad mess
a sorrowful, flightless bird
his wings
beat

and beat
and beat
and beat
and beat

against the floor where he lay
and nothing

did you enjoy it?
watching him writhe about
while you sat upon the pedestal
he placed you on

we all watched him fall
just like the others
only this time
I thought you had changed

you walked off the pedestal
gracefully
to the cage
you'd left him in

and touched him
gently
held him up
high above you

(even the stars
were jealous)

only to wring his neck
while we watched

and yet
he remains

wings broken
beyond belief

sometimes
he thinks he can sing instead

*but you've taken that too
haven't you?

She wants to feel the softness of feathers upon the tips of her toes
Reaching out for comfort that will surely come
She caresses the moments before midnight
With suger kisses so sweet
Like honey coated forgiveness
She smiles into her lovers eyes of crystal dew
Beyond
Her sences reeling
Twirling, dancing
Like the figurine within an ancient music box
As the music surrounds the childs mind so pure
And yet
There is more captured within
The sweetness is soured only by memories
She paints with fingers in the suger
To forget
There are things so worth forgetting
She sees him sleeping and places
mirrors where his eyes once looked upon her
For now she will see herself
The way he see's
The blood from the girl child dried as he slept
There was to be no more sugered moments
No more honey for him to savour
she had seen
Her worth in his eyes
Such a shame sweet child
She should of loved herself with toes touching feathers
Reaching for a comfort
That would only be found in forgiveness of self
Far beyond the place he sleeps
With mirrored eyes of crystal dew

He awakes to find his beloved drenthed in death
He reaches for moments which never come
Her projection of him so false upon this moment
As in a moments seperation
She sees with her angel presence
The suger he tastes on lips so pure
His tears now mingle with the blood
As he tears her mirrors from his eyes
He understands not
The reason
Why white feathers are falling from the sky

i.

Us poet's art the sane one's
The rest of the world;
Is insanity.




©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry

When a poet taketh a pen
And writeth a stanza or line;
It's as if we're junkies
Shooting dope, getting high.


©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry

two tens, and seven, the square root of 729
no matter how the numbers collude in air, they are there
just as I drift off, before I catch myself thinking
of other numbers, like the age at which Jesus
died

twenty seven,
my four syllabled mantra, for that is the age
you got the needle

I was not a witness, but your attorney was
how he did not weep, I will never understand
he knew they put you in a diaper before you took
the final stroll

twenty seven, and during those final steps,  
your sins yet dragged behind you, like ball and chain, not severed
by the axe of repentance, the chisel of remorse

where did the gods fail, taking you so fast from
the dim lights of the b-ball courts and your dreams
of being Michael or Magic to the dead afternoon when
you strode up the cracked walk to that crack house
and put two thirty-two rounds in the eye
of your second cousin who came in first
on your short list

all because of a hundred dollar slight
and a spoonful of powder the world could mistake
for simple sugar

you didn't fight when they strapped you in
and your final testament to an uneven world,
an insolent audience, was, "it is what it is."

did you feel the tug on your *****, from the raiment wrapped
to hide your seeping shame, did it take you back a quarter century,
when a manic mama pampered you in pampers
and kissed your tiny tummy more times
than numbers could count, though
not enough

did you, like I, in the moments between light and dark,
between this world and one where you must sleep alone
see twenty and seven flash before your eyes
and disappear before you could realize
what the plaintive plungers
and naked needle meant