Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 Sep 2014 Karissa Lin Celona
Jake
Those who say they have direction are delusional.
Because if anyone knew where they were going, then they would already be there.
Though at least we all know where we'll end.
And those pearly gates come faster than you think.
So when you're checking your compass.
Make sure you don't blink.
Time is money,
and money is power,
and power moves people
who prosper, and flower,
and grow into workers.
And workers bring service.
But service brings customers;
workers get nervous.
And nerves cause anxiety,
panic, and pain,
which cause workers' mistakes,
which, with pride, create shame.
And with shame, all the workers
stay home, never trying
to make something else
of their lives. Never buying
the houses they actually
want. They regret.
And regret causes anger,
and will to forget,
and forgetfulness causes
complacence and silence,
which causes more anger,
which brings about violence,
which leads to destruction,
and passionless death,
and then one lonely worker,
his last lonely breath:

"The world stole my power.
Ain't stealing a crime?"

But power is money.
And money is time.
I'm inclined to take your hand
and pull you from the fire.
God designed a puppet stand
and hung us from a wire.

Set upon a canopy
of green, for dark we wait.
Lips are parted manually
by hands on arms of fate.

Literal and lyrical,
the rules of love are few.
Finding you was spiritual;
my love, I'm coming through.
From a few years ago And although I believe wholeheartedly in stepping away from the past, artistically speaking, I just couldn't not upload this.
Dad forgot to put his contacts in that morning,
and so he buried my childhood in the yard,
mistaking it, in his blind struggle, for his own.
I wasn't abused as a child, and for that, I am eternally grateful.
Shut up
if you're here to complain about girls,
or boys.
Or anything in between.
Shut up
if you consider any of your friendships
a cage, and most importantly,
SHUT UP
if you're the type of person who would
treat another person like some sort of goal,
some sort of potential accomplishment to
brag to your friends about.

Perhaps nice guys finish last,
because they realize there's more to life than a
finish line.
I'm studying real poets.

Shelley, Sandburg,
Frost, and Wordsworth.
Coleridge, Blake,
and William Butler Yeats.

Do you know why they're
considered real poets?

Because they made art,
not hashtag trends.
Wrote from Experience
with black quill pens.
Sure, they got high,
but wrote on instinct.
And The Road Not Taken doesn't
mean what you think.
They wrote about about life
and the world that they heard,
not ******* in the margins
of Microsoft Word.
This was the first rhyming poem I've written in two years. I thoroughly enjoy tearing into the people whose "poetry" trends just because it's about a boy not loving them back. *******.

— The End —