Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
 Jun 2015 The Noose
Skaidrum
The seven deadly sins of man
have just slaughtered a
mocking bird.

The sound of willow drums
                     & laughter at 1 a.m.

The Lion's sin of Pride
                   "Hail the poet within you."
The Dragon's sin of Wrath
                   "Your words forge death on the page."
The Snake's sin of Envy
                   "The clock counts more words than time does."
The Fox's sin of Greed
                   * "Crave the words as if they disgusted God."
The *Grizzly's sin of Sloth

                     *"Immortality flocks to your pen and paper."

The *Goat's sin of Lust

                     "Dress like a daydream or a nightmare to write with blood."
The Boar's sin of Gluttony
                      "Don't be afraid to **** to suffice your poems."

Oh poets,
for those of you who've figured
it's also a sin
to ****
a
mocking bird.

The secret is in the eighth deadly sin of poetry,
                                  Don't.
              ­                    Tell.
                                   Poets.
                                    What.
                ­                    To.

                                    ­Do.
.
This is for
The Dragon Prince & LycanTheThrope

© Copywrited
If you're serious about it, prove it. Begin to practice it.
If you're gonna do it, don't take yourself so seriously:
the stress, though it is a motivator, may just **** you!
One, who can point a finger at One's Self,
shall find sources of many problems,
and many plausible genuine solutions,
quicker and more often than any who cannot.
Learn to swallow pride and apologize,
'cause it's not worth damaging relationships
to sate some ephemeral lust of Ego.
Notice more, rather than less-
lest we castrate consciousness!
Silver hollow bones have been felt
                       Longer in the roaring depths
The lightest of souls melt into the rings
                       Rings forged from winter's whines
Hostile flakes pretend to care
                       Youthful frost leave us brittle
Weakened yet pure,
                        Where will that leave us?

In this
                          *P   h   o   e   n   i   x    Hour
Next page