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jeffrey-brockmanPoems
The clock slows to a stop and stares At my pencil, my paper, my thoughts Waiting for something profound But my abilities are lost This haze is a metaphor These words are a matador And I am a bull trying to charge But running only into the red The crowd waits for my failure But I am determined to put on a show I will not be hoisted upon a mantel For the viewers high and low I will write these words I will treat them as if the red Were a target for my victory And get inside their heads I am a Taurus of the moment There’s nothing stronger for you to see I will move past my demise And these thoughts will be set free So I move into a stance And I **** my head to the side Get ready to charge into the red Or so everyone thinks this time My target is but one It stands there with a smirk I’ll charge it at the last second And the crowds will see my worth The clock slowly starts to count And my thoughts are free again And the matador is lying there With no one to attend So I put my pencil down My victory is sweet I close my pages and then my eyes This bull is anything but weak Brockman ©
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Jan 27, 2011
Jan 27, 2011 at 9:43 AM UTC
I Am A Bull
The clock slows to a stop and stares At my pencil, my paper, my thoughts Waiting for something profound But my abilities are lost This haze is a metaphor These words are a matador And I am a bull trying to charge But running only into the red The crowd waits for my failure But I am determined to put on a show I will not be hoisted upon a mantel For the viewers high and low I will write these words I will treat them as if the red Were a target for my victory And get inside their heads I am a Taurus of the moment There’s nothing stronger for you to see I will move past my demise And these thoughts will be set free So I move into a stance And I **** my head to the side Get ready to charge into the red Or so everyone thinks this time My target is but one It stands there with a smirk I’ll charge it at the last second And the crowds will see my worth The clock slowly starts to count And my thoughts are free again And the matador is lying there With no one to attend So I put my pencil down My victory is sweet I close my pages and then my eyes This bull is anything but weak Brockman ©
Written by
jeffrey-brockman
American
Jan 27, 2011
Jan 27, 2011 at 9:43 AM UTC
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