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i don't know how to run
so i  crawl

while you keep running

©IGMS
i hope you will stop running
so my knees will stop bleeding
You see me as a land of horror
A land of misery, a land of terror
But you should know I am much more than that
You should know that you're at error
The beauty of my mountains and
The vastness of my meadows
A perfect peace for those shattered
The bravery of my soldiers and the stories of my martyrs
A perfect example for those cowards
The hospitality of my people and the love for the visitors
A perfect happiness for those gathered
The four weathers and the mirth of seeing a clear night sky
A perfect trip for those who visit
There's much more but I have to end it here
I want you to come by yourself and discover!
Pakistan is not just about what you see in the news.
a sharp razor
an outstretched arm
a sudden darkness



When she dumped you
It should have been on top of a bed of cow itch
Unfortunately, for us the seven-year itch continues



A Steep Hill
Your silver motorbike
Why not take it for a test run
I felt free and light
Like I was made out of air, or feathers
Then I was slapped back to reality
With a tube down my throat
Now there's this break in my eyes
A white flag, announcing my loss
I have given up

Can you see it, my deadly love?
Can you see what you made me into?
A living corpse, an off tune symphony
A torn page off of a book, lost and incoherent

I, as a cat
Have nine times to die*
I have given up three, and I would give up the rest
In a heartbeat, or a slit of a wrist
The sadness of the world, cries in my head
And the happiness that you once laid in me
Is now slipping through my fingers
I am made out of air

You broke me into a million little pieces
And stumped over each one of them
Over and over again
You can't feel anything
For I should have known
My heart is made out of paper
And yours is made out of stone

I lost count, of the times I cried for you
I lost count, of the times you killed me
My poems are my tragedy, and so is your love
I'm a poetess of death, or near death
The penalty of my half written dreams
Half written books
Half written poems
And our half written destiny

Won't you come, and pull the knife out my back
And bury it with my remains
Dust to dust
Loss to loss
And air to air.
* Quoted from Lady Lazarus by Sylvia Plath
The pain is having *** with someone, yet again,
who is not interested in anything more.
The suffering is pretending that it doesn't bother me.
~~~

"and ev'ry stop is neatly planned
for a poet and a one-man band"

Simon & Garfunkel "Homeward Bound"

~~~

just one more,
for Sally B.,
who loves their music,
and all the poets here


~~~

when best messing with perfection,
hope for a close enough
second place finish,
at best

when tendering a gift,
gotta give only your
best,
for this is how,
you will be
best
remembered

yet all our stops here,
were and we're
never neatly planned,
indeed,
as you
sail on silver girl,
through to all
of our
unscheduled ports o' call,
and though our fingers may never intersect,
they have touched,
more than once,
on this poetry river
of electrons,
this bridge
over troubled waters

no need to make a plan,
to get yourself free,
even tho' I am no more
than a poor boy from New York City,
I make no jest,
always laying low,
but not here, not now

for this job I took upon mine own,
so after changes upon changes,
mount the stage, spotlighted,
one more song,
one more poem from a one man band,
this poet~fighter composes alone,
ill prepared,
carrying a reminder of every poem that laid him down,
but
tasked and
accepting nonetheless,
this challenge bout

old friends,
he sings,
i've come to talk to you again,
for this revelation still remains,
well planted in the brain

this song, this poem
will be shared,
let us all read it aloud
to break
the sounds of silence,
in a chorus of a cappella voices,
this simple verse upon which
I cannot improve

this poem, this stop,
this hello
to an endless poetry voyage
that transports human finery,
was indeed
never planned neatly,
but here was born
a sole sufficient refrain,
contenting the writer and the reader,
all of us poets,
all of us one man bands,
all of us in one voice singing

you are simply the
best here,
you are home,
and to you,
we are bound


~~~

August 9, 2015
Shelter Island
~~
http://hellopoetry.com/search/poems/?q=Paul+Simon
~~~
"Homeward Bound"

I'm sitting in the railway station.
Got a ticket to my destination.
On a tour of one-night stands my suitcase and guitar in hand.
And ev'ry stop is neatly planned for a poet and a one-man band.
Homeward bound,
I wish I was,
Homeward bound,
Home where my thought's escaping,
Home where my music's playing,
Home where my love lies waiting
Silently for me.

Ev'ry day's an endless stream
Of cigarettes and magazines.
And each town looks the same to me, the movies and the factories
And ev'ry stranger's face I see reminds me that I long to be,
Homeward bound,
I wish I was,
Homeward bound,
Home where my thought's escaping,
Home where my music's playing,
Home where my love lies waiting
Silently for me.

Tonight I'll sing my songs again,
I'll play the game and pretend.
But all my words come back to me in shades of mediocrity
Like emptiness in harmony I need someone to comfort me.
Homeward bound,
I wish I was,
Homeward bound,
Home where my thought's escaping,
Home where my music's playing,
Home where my love lies waiting
Silently for me.
Silently for me.
"The Bible is meant to be bread for daily use, not cake for special occasions."
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