Mar 2012
I'm asking questions like im socrates
and of course the answers aren't a shock to me
I'm asking for solidity
but not a single thing in this life has rigidity
It all don't mean nil to me, it's foolish to be
caught up in this world you'll see
the world is dying, all will pass away, we have not forever, we may not have a day
we are just a wisp, a vapor, the fading sound of a once struck chord
even i am only shattered metaphors
pieces of paper fluttering and torn
i hear their inky voices as they mutter and they mourn
there is near to nothing left of me anymore
i am only broken bits of poetry
smashed and spit on paper
I am only sickly similes, a sadly spoken satire
like wandering ghosts of memories and meaningless dreams
like meaningless hopes and desperate screams it seems
like things have taken a turn for the worse
and i may soon end up
in a homemade handwritten paper hearse
strangled by my verses
flayed alive by words then
left to wander wordless
my meaningless words have begun to haunt me, daunt me, it's daunting
and this is not me
I am not some needy scrap of paper waiting to be filled
I am a notebook half-filled with half-finished lines of half-realities
I am a dying man screaming at the top of my lungs as they are shattering
as i am torn apart by the desires of my own heart
It falls apart as i metaphysically massacre me
I blatantly
snip apart the seams of sanity and reality-what little few are left in me
i **** with words that flow from my pen
and then
I write for them revival
but my pen is low on ink and i think it's suicidal
It'll be a kamikaze even if i choose denial
and i don't know much but i know it's a vicious cycle
I dont know when it will choose to think
it's own end into existence
will it be, maybe
perfectly timed to persuade me,maybe
illogically, with all reason simply lost to me
that it chose to spit a little extra blood
a little extra ink
that it chose to save me from the next line i might make
just think, it might be more than i could take
it might break me, make me, mistakenly
the master of my own fate
This is death by poetry
rebirth by verse
If i write poetry again, will it be reversed?
not a revolution or evolution but
humanity
in words
this
is death by poetry
and of course the answers aren't a shock to me
I'm asking for solidity
but not a single thing in this life has rigidity
It all don't mean nil to me, it's foolish to be
caught up in this world you'll see
the world is dying, all will pass away, we have not forever, we may not have a day
we are just a wisp, a vapor, the fading sound of a once struck chord
even i am only shattered metaphors
pieces of paper fluttering and torn
i hear their inky voices as they mutter and they mourn
there is near to nothing left of me anymore
i am only broken bits of poetry
smashed and spit on paper
I am only sickly similes, a sadly spoken satire
like wandering ghosts of memories and meaningless dreams
like meaningless hopes and desperate screams it seems
like things have taken a turn for the worse
and i may soon end up
in a homemade handwritten paper hearse
strangled by my verses
flayed alive by words then
left to wander wordless
my meaningless words have begun to haunt me, daunt me, it's daunting
and this is not me
I am not some needy scrap of paper waiting to be filled
I am a notebook half-filled with half-finished lines of half-realities
I am a dying man screaming at the top of my lungs as they are shattering
as i am torn apart by the desires of my own heart
It falls apart as i metaphysically massacre me
I blatantly
snip apart the seams of sanity and reality-what little few are left in me
i **** with words that flow from my pen
and then
I write for them revival
but my pen is low on ink and i think it's suicidal
It'll be a kamikaze even if i choose denial
and i don't know much but i know it's a vicious cycle
I dont know when it will choose to think
it's own end into existence
will it be, maybe
perfectly timed to persuade me,maybe
illogically, with all reason simply lost to me
that it chose to spit a little extra blood
a little extra ink
that it chose to save me from the next line i might make
just think, it might be more than i could take
it might break me, make me, mistakenly
the master of my own fate
This is death by poetry
rebirth by verse
If i write poetry again, will it be reversed?
not a revolution or evolution but
humanity
in words
this
is death by poetry
