Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
The party was great but afterwards is but a hangover headed south.
A wrong turn  a strange bed even I dont get the words slurred from this drunks mouth.
To young and just right.
Today we break the ruloe's and bask in rewards of this awkward fight.

Im a character in a paint drying scene.
I'll tickle more than a fancy if ya know what i mean.
Hey I think she's loose hell so am I.
Tagged the town ***** and me just another demented slightly insane guy.

My hearts a backroad ruff to the ride.
Hey i said Id return hell why does everyone run and hide?
Sure i say forever but how bout tonight.
My love a airport and this plane needs to take flight.

Are you okay you seem a little off my dear?
It's okay its seems i have that effect on everyone here.
T is fr TEXAS  and P for Portland ya perves.
He doesnt crash but often swerves.

My love life is like Christmas its overpriced and over to fast.
Course when your paying by the hour guess its okay for the party not to last.

Im cheap as a motel and more messed up than the carpet inside.
I'd make even the devil blush if ***** deeds in him i should ever confide.
My love's like a backroad so they say.
A great place to dump the body  but honestly who the **** would ever wanna stay.
She stood among the thin, goose-fleshed schoolgirls
with their full moon eyes
and straw braid hair.
Reciting Chaucer, Emerson, Frost,
as their feet scraped against
cured leather shoes,
toes curling with each word,
beauty lost in the hands of a sinister teacher,
no room for beauty with discipline.

Later she met the Janitor's boy in the broom closet,
She found beauty there, in his sweet, nonsense whispers,
fragments of Neruda bloomed in her mind,
Straw braid undone, leather shoes off.
Solomon's Song was written in his fingertips,
rough from mop handles and water buckets.
Their innocence burned in the dark,
their words unclouded,
Memorized verses on their breath,
they meant every line.
And she knew this was what the poets wrote of.
I am not a woman of Mona Lisa smiles,
(if she's even trying to smile).
I am not coy, no pretense, simply shy.
There is really little mystery to me.
My heart is on my sleeve,
my mind is an open book.
Few take time to notice the blood drops on my clothes
Read the lines scrawled across my forehead,
inspect my ink stained hands,
or read the late night rambles I hesitate to call poetry.

I am simplistic, with stripes of imperfection,
My music has been called "Sweet"
as one might say a child is sweet,
in a winsome, ribbon-laced fashion.
I know it is simple. Juvenile.
But children can speak with more depth
than their mature, beautiful parents.
My poetry is merely fractions
of my soul, disguised on a page
to look like words.
Nothing quite a masterpiece,
I'd be shunned from the guilds of European masters.  
I am folk art, they are Rembrandt.
I've never been known to send someone to a dictionary,
or force a rhyme in Chaucer's name.

It is all simple shards of imagination
That managed to struggle out of my brain, down my arms,
and into my hands.
They're mangled by the time they arrive.
Colorful pilgrims worn by hard weather,
and lack of skill,
but no less pious.
Most days, I can fade into the cracked, plaster walls
in their peeling blue paint, smeared with oily hand prints
from wayward class demonstrations.
A prison cell? No. A holding cell? Maybe.
Where I am interrogated
through glossy textbook pages and sickly fluorescent lights
these castles of learning
are dim places indeed.
she was probably the saddest girl

I had ever seen,

young, beautiful,

petite but not small,
dark but not reserved, not
afraid.

it was so strange;

what was she doing
there? at an empty bar,

in an empty city,

on a tuesday night,

alone, chirpy.

she said she was 32

when she looked 25,

time had treated her well,

‘how?!’ we asked,

‘drinking and smoking a lot of ****’, she answered,

she kept on

such a brave face.

even as the drunks

and kids

and madmen bombarded her,

nothing could take away her buzz.

I just kept wondering,
how she got there,

how any of us got here.

she was truly beautiful,
alone
and beautiful,
but so sad.
I know it's easier not to talk,

But I do it anyway.

Maybe it's because I need the practice
Or I'm convinced this time will be different.

The thought is there.
The words are there.
As always.

       let us out
Demand the words,
As always,
But they've burned me before.
  
     trust us
They implore.

I should refuse.
I want to refuse.
But I know,
And the words know,
There is nothing I love more
Than a listening

Interested

Audience.

So I have to test this one.

One more chance
I warn them.
And the words in my head line up.

They follow the path.
From my brain,
Across my tounge,
To the edge of my open mouth.

But they weren't quite single-file,

And out trips a syllable.

The wrong one.

They panic for a moment-
Until the right one is found,
And the flow of words is back on track.

But it's already too late.

Fooled again-
I scorn the words I tried speak.
They tied my tounge,
And ruined-
As always-
A perfectly brilliant thought.

It's all in the delivery.

I threaten-
As always-
To never speak again.

But I know,
And the words know,
That the half a heart with which I made the threat,
Is the same half,
That loves,

A listening,

Interested,

Audience.
A penny for your thoughts
A dollar for your soul
Few more shining pieces
And now we're on a roll.

The world which runs
on paper and coin,
Be it for food, or house
Pleasure of ****.

We sell our bodies,
And not our souls
Though some sales will
Be worth more than gold

It's the world we choose.
The world we thrive in.
The world we'll lose
If we keep on lying.

Shiny bobbles and trinkets
Do not measure what lies within
To ignore this fact
Indeed would be sin
 Jan 2014 Eleutherophobia
RA
I like to indulge
in what they call
"delusions of grandeur."
I love to think that maybe
I am an incredible poet
and that people have been amazed
by my mastery of words and how
I translate my pain
into ink-scratchings.

Or maybe the twisting vine doodles
that wind their way around every corner
of my every page are unique
and unprecedented
and alluringly artistic.

Perhaps
I am beautiful
and no one has discovered me
yet.

Or slightly more possibly,
my pain might just be dazzling
and only I
can make my feelings seem interesting
and beautiful.

But this is my favorite
of all my fantasies,
the one I save
for when I need hope.
I will grant myself a minute of thinking that I,
out of everyone,
am more important,
more special,
to you.
December 8, 2013, 2:36 AM

(New Amsterdam/The Boy With No Name/Travis)
 Jan 2014 Eleutherophobia
Jenkkz
Saving and waiting for nothing
for no one to contemplate the existance of the sickness taking over
to notice to take into consideration to show that someone’s not just going along with everything the world told them to see
don’t even see the point in worrying when everything is under control
if it wasn’t where would we be
where would the people go
the truth
no one has a plan
we decide as we go stoping to see reactions and go from there
bandages of the masses form fit from the bull of the man
1249

The Stars are old, that stood for me—
The West a little worn—
Yet newer glows the only Gold
I ever cared to earn—

Presuming on that lone result
Her infinite disdain
But vanquished her with my defeat
’Twas Victory was slain.
Next page