May 2013
Another book for bedtime
and that's fine and dandy
books come in handy.
In gothic script
I ripped through those pages
with stories that told
of soothsayers and sages and went to sleep with blood on my lips
torn from my trips through the history so real it had to be true.
Do you know how it feels when the hurt never heals
but bleeds out every day in the same bleedin' way
and the scar's never far from the tongue in your mouth when you want to shout..'******'
but your upbringing demands that you sit on your hands and do nothing at all
and you look through the wars through the bolted, barred doors that you've gone into quite willingly
when the satchel you had on your back was filled with a stack of blank pages to write on
and you wrote what you saw but that wasn't a lot
so you penned in some fiction but the friction of lies that struck fire in your eyes burnt it all.
Do you know what it's like
when the clock starts to strike and you wonder if you'll be around for the next round of hours that burst forth like flowers ablaze in the sun.
Was it fun
can you remember when we shivered in the condemned house in December and January and November and all those other times when we listened to the chimes and the clock was just that
was time really so flat then
did we care about if and when and the what will we do when the Summer falls through the Winter's embrace
could we and did we face things together through the bitter cold weather and the nights when we cried wishing that we had both died and had gone to some better place?
To stand up and face what the face never tells and to hell with convention
A mention to my Mum
who never closed me out.
A mention to my Dad who knew nothing about anything but knew everything he needed to know
and here's to happy families and the crowing of rooks
and to beggars and crooks
to those outcast by design or by the looks of the honest and pious who trip by us with never a thought that we could be them
dead men and donkey tales
dead men trapped in the sails of those ghost ships
and my lips are ripped once more by the stories read of horror and gore.
Another book at bedtime and the dreams that follow are fine
for the dreamers who are few and far but between the morning and the dusk where the musk of ladies tickles my nose
I know
I'll read some more.
and that's fine and dandy
books come in handy.
In gothic script
I ripped through those pages
with stories that told
of soothsayers and sages and went to sleep with blood on my lips
torn from my trips through the history so real it had to be true.
Do you know how it feels when the hurt never heals
but bleeds out every day in the same bleedin' way
and the scar's never far from the tongue in your mouth when you want to shout..'******'
but your upbringing demands that you sit on your hands and do nothing at all
and you look through the wars through the bolted, barred doors that you've gone into quite willingly
when the satchel you had on your back was filled with a stack of blank pages to write on
and you wrote what you saw but that wasn't a lot
so you penned in some fiction but the friction of lies that struck fire in your eyes burnt it all.
Do you know what it's like
when the clock starts to strike and you wonder if you'll be around for the next round of hours that burst forth like flowers ablaze in the sun.
Was it fun
can you remember when we shivered in the condemned house in December and January and November and all those other times when we listened to the chimes and the clock was just that
was time really so flat then
did we care about if and when and the what will we do when the Summer falls through the Winter's embrace
could we and did we face things together through the bitter cold weather and the nights when we cried wishing that we had both died and had gone to some better place?
To stand up and face what the face never tells and to hell with convention
A mention to my Mum
who never closed me out.
A mention to my Dad who knew nothing about anything but knew everything he needed to know
and here's to happy families and the crowing of rooks
and to beggars and crooks
to those outcast by design or by the looks of the honest and pious who trip by us with never a thought that we could be them
dead men and donkey tales
dead men trapped in the sails of those ghost ships
and my lips are ripped once more by the stories read of horror and gore.
Another book at bedtime and the dreams that follow are fine
for the dreamers who are few and far but between the morning and the dusk where the musk of ladies tickles my nose
I know
I'll read some more.
