The word is evil
yet the feeling is sweet.
Revenge is something we all want
no one can disagree,
though i never thought i ever would.
Love, peace, smile, happiness is what i used to think..
i wanted to be the sweetness like in the movies
the princess who are ever so kind,
in the end they get everything they dream of!
...but that's not what life's about now is it,
we all know its about this one, simple word,
Revenge...
Well of course i have met some nice people in my life
not everyone can be considered bad as most,
but some people just drive you insane!
to the point that you just want to...
get revenge of course.
Yes i do believe the action is just as evil as the word but
we all need to have a bit of fun every now and again
and im sure everyone can agree on that.
I mean what better way is to see the sourness,
the betrayal, the hurt! on your enemies face...
or friends, but you know most friends are enemies.
Trust no one! that's what i say
because everyone wants it...
they all want revenge...

Reality knows no words that you can bargain with it
time is not a friend of pain that you can beg to wait
pause your run and you will find no ease even if you'd fall to bleed
they will only have you bills to complete

Look at me and my eyes will show you languish
Talk to me and I will define you anguish
the moments I failed to make speaks no english
Yet their story echoes my lamentation

Yesterday is history and tommorow will be another story
We live in days full of misery
Why would you hope so desperately
As if you can unveiled the mistery

pack up your pain and bring it to me!
We will write them in our destiny and float it to the sea
For they won't give a **** even they could see
Come before winter and be my rhyme my CATHY

I’m sorry

The person you are looking for is not here

She is missing right now

Do not worry

She has not been kidnapped

Or taken

Rather the person she was

Has been stolen

And we do not know when she’ll be back

But we assure you we will tell her you said

Hi

I’m sure she would love it if you stopped by later

After she comes back

You see she is very lost right now

And is not very sure

Of anything

She is traveling to find the person she used to be

The person that she used to see

You called in a very confusing  part of her life

Her thoughts are hazy and her mind unclear

She just needs time

Please understand that

She loves you very much

So just leave a message at the end of the beep

Remember when you were pure

Happy

But swing chains rust

And see-saws break

And we become broken

Our paint peels

We are chipped away

What a shame

We all become

Such fragile broken things

I take a hot long shower
At this odd hour
The sun is long set
As i get soaking wet
The water washes away the dirt
And with it all the hurt
My muscles relax and my brain sighs
In here i sever all ties
The constant sound of water against tiles
So many long miles

What is being sane?
When everyone goes insane,
and you do not,
you are the odd one out.
And when you are the odd one out,
you slowly begin to doubt,
that you are really sane.
Maybe the others are right,
maybe you are wrong,
maybe they chose the right path,
and you did not.
When the insane call you insane,
who is really insane?
And who is to decide,
who actually is insane?
If it were up to the insane,
the insane would be sane.
And if it were up to the sane,
the sane would stay sane.
But how do we know,
the sane are sane,
for they may be insane,
and the insane may be sane.
So who am I,
to say I am sane,
when I may be insane.

Texas mud, a mud that cakes
A mud that strikes fear
In boots and trucks alike
After fresh summer rain
Billowy clouds rolling a long
Singing their thunderous song
Natures long cool drink
I was muddy once
Moms words i didn't hear as i hit the back door
Thoughts of squishy toes and big smiles
A freshly made mud pie for my sister
I was muddy once
To a boy of ten 2 acres goes on for miles
A whole mess a villains ever willing to meet
The business end of my B.B. gun
And the neighbors nurf gun
I was muddy once
From the trenches of France
To a foxhole on Mars
Only fenced in by the outermost stars
I couldn't be bested
Backyard hoops to creek jumping
Swing sets to sword fights
I was muddy once
The only thought of future
Was what tomorrow would bring
New adventures, new places to see
And all you can drink sweet iced tea

I wanted to be something great when i was a kid
I wanted to be great
I wanted to be a paleontologist, doctor, lawyer, cop, superhero, captain of a yacht, a and mountain man, and never wanted to get married cause girls had cooties and dolls
As it turns out I am none of those things
As it turns out, what i needed most
Was i ran rarest away from
I became something i never thought i would be
I became something i never thought i could be
I am becoming a servant of the King
The mud which once covered my hands
Bound my heart in a thick, clogging bog
Only when i thought no longer of receiving glory
I began to poor grace out from this imperfect jar
Glory pored to a being more eloquent than I
Who hath poured mercy like wine
Love as a fire
Turning my so called foundations into Texas mud
Turns out God doesn't want me to be a doctor
Turns out God wants the willing not the able
i found something bigger
Than the thoughts i thought i knew  

How glorious days of old
A tear to my eye and a distant memory
To stretch and grow is one thing
A loss of splendor another
When others think of yesterday,
Dream for tomorrow
Dream and dream big,
For God is bigger still
He rejoices in imagination
Delights in the mind of a child
Reclaim that which we've lost
For you were muddy once
I was muddy once

The horizon is the impossible goal.

* It is the goal of trying to catch up with the sun, trying to surpass the infinite boundary that exists only from the limitations of the eye.

* It is the goal that takes years of labor and toil, and when it seems like it will soon be over, it always sets itself further out of reach.

* It is the goal, simple and straightforward at present, but winding and demanding the further along the path one goes.

* It is the goal that must be undertaken alone, regardless of how many are on the path with you.

* It is the goal that is always present, even in times of rest, the one that looms over you, stalking you like prey, hunting you when you aren't hunting it.

* It is the goal whose journey many have taken, but none have returned from.

* It is the goal which, after having been attained, is rumored to reward you in ways that will continue to manifest far into the future.


It is the goal that you can never attain, and yet you must cross the horizon.
It is the goal that you must attain, and yet you can never cross the horizon.

* You can never cross the horizon, only perpetuate the hunt for what lies over it.

* You can never cross the horizon, and you constantly remind yourself of this when you insanely continue to run through the toil of the process.

* You can never cross the horizon, but in the quest for it, you are forced to make alliances, work with others to catapult yourselves across the same goal.

* You can never cross the horizon, but the effort to do so leaves you with a stronger sense of self, knowing how you react in the face of adversity, and understanding how the journey shapes you.

* You can never cross the horizon, yet you refuse to quit when each trial bends the bones of your back, when every step shreds the skin on your feet, when the heat cooks and boils your brain, when all the nerves in your being direct your heart to stop, except that one, that lonely one, that one which refuses to quit.

* You can never cross the horizon, and as the sun shrinks deeper, the hunt becomes more and more desperate with every step.

* You can never cross the horizon; in trying, you will only exhaust all of the resources and time that is given to you, all of the energy and strength that was left in you, and all of the creativity and ingenuity that was built in you.


You can never cross the horizon.

Until you do.

And when you cross the horizon...

*The rest is up to you to write...

Sitting staring at the swirls gently engraved upon the ceiling,
feeling faintly pessimistic that my hateful heart is healing.
Take apart the grace and art,
reveal my dated darkened past,
to harken back on wasted hours casting plaster for this mask.

It's cloudy colors cover up my crowded stream of conscience,
these teeming constants split between omitted and accomplished,
Scenes of trips and speeding fits
replaced by cleaner blips in truth
gleaning pictures of achievement, disconstruing youth uncouth.

Tall tales tinker with the crawling skin wherein my twin is toweled,
howling, hinting with appalling twitches, calling crying foul!
Small disguise in sprawling lies,
ensheathed, forestalling prying guests,
deflects the scrutinizing eyes of stressing restless wrecks.

My cranium co-ordinates claims stripped of contradiction,
wont to stitch the hidden patch on flaunted fabric fiction.
A daunting task, avaunt, at last,
concealed from haunting static force,
hiding flaws in paths of virtue drawn in divorced source and course.

Holding heaving out a haze, a cloud of extravented high,
sighs surrendered to the evening see my gracious ember die.
Praise condemns these sacred friends
with whom I stray from rendered paths,
preventing brash impatience from detaching this black mask.

With hands weathered
and soul tethered
Jazz Man plays a sorrowful tune.
The flash of fingers
guide pain that lingers
visible as a shrouded moon.
Speedy knuckles
let loose chuckles
of the tired and weary loon.
The band surrounds him,
memory hounds him,
like bugs croaking long days in June.

Inspiration
and narration
drip sharply from familiar breaks.
His solo, it swings
from so many strings,
each attached to enduring aches.
Final phrases
briskly pace his
calls across lucid and lonely lakes.
And though what he plays
could be stretched for days,
New York minutes are all he takes.