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Today I broke bread in the garden of the ******.
I sat and met the devil.
I drank his wine and ate his fruit.
It would do me no favour, to deny generosity of any host.

Today I broke bread in the garden of the blessed.
I sat and met almighty.
I drank no wine. I ate no fruit.
It would do me no favour, to expect the kindness of a stranger.

Today I broke bread in a garden of my own.
I sat alone and silent.
I drank my wine and ate my fruit.
It would do me no favour to dine with those who seek my soul.
Blood may be thicker than water,
But i'd rather drown at sea,
Than confined within these walls,
Amidst people forced to love me.
Drown at sea; not a literal preference for death but rather a desire to be immersed by water than blood.
 Apr 2016 Samm Marie
RC
Prince(ss)
 Apr 2016 Samm Marie
RC
you were never mine

but at the time it felt good to pretend

so I let your lies build fantasies in my head

gave myself consent to believe in things you never should have said

now IĀ chain smokeĀ cigarettes in your name

cursing this ****** up fairy tale of modern day
once queen and king, i got metaphorically beheaded lol
The best poets
give us mirrors
to
better see
ourselves
10w
I am so in love with him.
The longest sleep,
Awake inside unconscious.
The soft hole.
The world is numb and i feel it all.

Like moth to light,
Back, back and back again.
To what surely only worsens.
Unto the inanity,
To shortly live. As only the observer.

Inside the inside,
Within within,
Exiting the foreground.

In the unadulterated absence,
Present in the vacancy.
Nirvana.

The only peace i'll ever know.

In numbed time,
The pure unaware.
My moth to my light.

The only peace i'll ever know.
They wrote his name in stone today.
Rock carved out by metal.

I walked through his garden,
Inside his temporary halls.
Flowers spoke as men fell silent.

I sat and heard his name today.
In tones of desperation.

I walked with friends, his family.
And all us were hollow.
Words can do no justice.

They wrote his name in stone today.
And I will truelly miss him.
The classic metal artist.
The man of sharpened tongue.
With each lick a picture,
He paints upon your canvas.

The rarely appreciated work of a little understood poet.
Painting poetry.
Though many would seek to emulate what one stroke of his brush may convey,
Only few possess the means to reproduce the sheer purity of emotion in every sweep, line and dot.
Many forgeries gain more applause,
Yet the painter allows them spotlight.
The man who paints in the shadows is rarely seen hanging in public halls.
Seeking not fame, fortune or acknowledgement.
He paints only for purpose.
Love the painter,  love the poet.
Though the man himself is flawed.
He will not cry for anyone, nor pray nor care nor wonder.
He does not put his brush away, after all.


Blood does paint the prettiest pictures.
Perhaps just one or two,
I drink too much you see.
A quiet beer spirals into bottles of whisky far more often than not.
And tonight,
It certainly did.

Staggering home in the rain,
Unable to walk straight,
Alone in the dark damp streets of my grey city.
I take my phone from my pocket and scroll through my contacts,
A long list of choice,
Perhaps one hundred people.
Ex girlfriends and current pals and those who I got drunk with.

Head a mess and slightly sad,
I scroll through all their names.

Only to feel worse;
Because I don't want to talk to any of them at all.
far *** ye ben,
ma closest freen.
ah did nae see ye.

files ah forget fit ah maun act aroon ye.
ye aye despised meh ben fran.
an fit cwid ah iver blame ye.
affen ah feel the same aboot ma ain decrepit hert.
ah miss ye like the bairns in the bothy miss the affa fantoosh summer sunshine.

slowly ye gie me back ma smile,
ah anely wish tae thank ye,
sae meet me aat the loch's lowse an lets hum the tunes we danced tae,
as geets wi nae convictions.

Where have you been,
my closest friend.
I did not see you.

Sometimes i forget how i must act around you.
You always despised my stubbornness,
And how could i ever blame you.
I often feel the same about my own decrepit heart.
I miss you like the children in the bothy miss the great summer sunshine.

slowly you give me back my smile,
i only wish to thank you,
so meet me where the loch's work ends and lets hum the tunes we danced to.
as children with no convictions.

.
Bothy = Small hut, usually in the highlands, usually left unlocked for people to freely use during travels
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