Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
I am so sure
when God calls me
I will not understand him, or her
or what i had before
and that voice will call
and sound like nothing else
and what will be will be
well thats is between him and me
I am sorry, yes this poem hurts.
 Oct 2013 Quentin Briscoe
Sir B
Tall flames,
bright red and orange
blue in the center
and white in midst
they burn till dawn
another object
has fallen

They burn
bright and strong
for a couple hours
then just die
For no
apparent
reason
Sad and not so joyous, i suppose. There's just so many people trying to get me. Tough with school and life clashing.. but whatever. Not intended to show any figures.. but anything you perceive.
If I could get inside your mind
what there would I find
Woman
if not true
like a computer i will have nothing to do with you.
time is money
because its current, see?
I would pay you or get payback
but i dont have time currently
i would settle my debts without dollars and cents
it makes no sense
that no one is with me right now

I might rail, might take the wrong road
might, fail, to hear the morse code
throw pennies on the tracks and hope to make a change
flip switches to trick attentions
i guess i may have another track intended
may be making people notice only things im okay with them not missin
maybe give them my name and not much else,
pass by and remember that train kids dont need much help
(they could always help themselves)

but lets get real

i could turn a dollar into more
change if a quarter was worth for names
asked from people,
stories, i could give them two
for each way
life has treated them like it's treated you
i could feed them once with no fast food
in sight, I, could
invest, gamble, roll the dice
and expect more than crap when i
first, not second, give them even a second of my life

disregard my self inflicted fun,
forget my little ticks and triggers, and tricks ive rendered,
signifigant
lay down my hands, they quiver, and sweat, im shivering,
im not serious enough to hold a gun to
my own head, not hungry enough to
make someone else eat lead

i could help find hope where its lost because the truth there is lacking
speak life in the streets where people are cracking
and stumbling home to slum thrones,
garbage cans the only thing theyve got to sit on,
to **** in,
their pillows only hard times and peoples harsh tones,
dreams gone, face down, can only see grime and cobblestones
shaped like the next **** day
and moving on
again,
less than a fox theyve got no hole,
but we all act like they just shoudlve known
better, than to set out on their own,
like we're less broken and more whole

we should speak hope,
but no.

it might rain, we might get soaked
undoubtedly there will be pain,
and there's never enough soap,when we
shake the hands of those hobos

we are tired of looking for something different with the same hints,
tired of looking for new colors with different hues
theyre still the same people, must be the same clues, ignore them,
theyre even all wearing ruined clothes,
they havent sobered up or dried out,
theyre worth about  as much dryer lint
you want to argue?
okay, no. ****.
thats what you meant.


when it comes to whats current, whats common
we say why not stay soaking wet
why not flow with the currents, and sink to the bottom,
well, as you wish,
forget change, we'll throw ours in fountains when we visit malls
i was there yesterday, it didnt cost me a thing.

we say
why not remember
that money more often than not brings rage and riches, rags on people til they need stitches
spikes need and hunger and breeds unscratched itches,
but it can pay for needles and
women lay on their back for a ruble,
a nickel, swallow the bitter truth just like...well... um
let's just say
not one of us cares about em

sadly i think it's us whove lost our scruples,
is that what theyre calling it nowadays?

why not scratch them anyway?
why not always wear the trends that fade?
become the thing that fades, to gray?
away...
why not say
okay?
 Oct 2013 Quentin Briscoe
st64
a butterfly-garden on a hill
behind the wall
of
your par-need




who fills the tank
                                 and pays the bills?
                                                          ­         it's not ur car..

who rots away in a meeting
                                  while trailing mind-tunnels out
                                                             ­           doodles to escape tedium..

who feels despair on the shoulder
                                  and tries to **** it up
                                                              ­         while hearing the ocean's call..

who sees the stark-brilliance
                                      right before unbelievably blind-eyes
                                                      ­                  casting pearls before swine..


hey..
*******, man!




we see only what we want to see
why can nobody see
the rare butterflies
right here
in our midst?*


S T - 10 octagon 2013
baby, u can drive my car :)

but first, u need some flippin' de-conditioner for ur.. head!

step one.. read more varied poetry - yes, I must!
step two.. get a good bicycle.. maybe, a Raleigh.. lol (and a helmet, hey - very NB)
step three.. ah, what the hell.. lemme grab a sand-wish already :)
...........all that you are............

  i
   am
    not

       ........except..........

      our
  
          .........heartbe­ats............



              Sally

              Copyright 2013
               Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
 Oct 2013 Quentin Briscoe
st64
Can't get the stink off
He's been hanging round for days
Comes like a comet
Suckered you but not your friends
One day he'll get to you
And teach you how to be a holy cow


You do it to yourself, you do
And that's what really hurts
Is that you do it to yourself
Just you and no one else
You do it to yourself
You do it to yourself


Don't get my sympathy
Hanging out the 15th floor
You've changed the locks three times
He still comes reeling through the door
One day I'll get you
And teach you how to get to purest hell

You do it to yourself, you do
And that's what really hurts
Is that you do it to yourself
Just you, you and no one else
You do it to yourself
You do it to yourself

You do it to yourself, you do
And that's what really hurts
Is that you do it to yourself
Just you, you and no one else
You do it to yourself
You do it to yourself.. yourself.. yourself..




Writer(s): Jonathan Richard Guy Greenwood, Thomas Edward Yorke, Philip James Selway, Edward John O'brien, Colin Charles Greenwood
Copyright: Warner/Chappell Music Ltd.




ST - 10 ocky-tocky 2013
yeah.. well.




in this cool vid, I scratch my head - HARD - and do wonder what that man tells them.. what can be so devastating..?

http://m.youtube.com/watch?v=R5X7HKxpiQA&desktop;_uri=%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DR5X7HKxpiQA
A metallic flash of crushing energy and voracious sound exploded through the facade of the Union Station. The sleek classical columns and Constantinian Archways crumbled into a zephyr of advancing smoke and billows of dust. It was like watching the collapse of Sampson after a haircut at Delilah's.

A flash of light
and thunderous sound
knocked all the people
to the ground

chunks and bits
of concrete flew
the Union Station
in a whiff just blew

apart into pieces
dust and jagged glass
nothing withstood
the tumult of the blast

scattered and broken
in desolation lives ended
innocents slaughtered
dreams suspended

what vexed and angry force
could light this terrible torch?
crumbling arches tearing keystones
this iconoclastic scorch

a sickness you say
of body, mind and spirit
too aggrieved and resentful
derangement gets the credit

ghostly shadow's gather
specters of force and might
pervasive threats devastate
some will not return home this night

happenstance of time
fickleness of fate
strange coincidentals
all pass through this gate

Who set this fuse?
who lit the torch?
that blew apart
our country's heart

a mind of ugly sickness
and a soul full of pain
a heart bent on malice
the definition of insane

does the culprit stand in glee
at the carnage of this act
does that type feel anything
for this murderous attack?

What profit them
from the agony of terror
holding our imagination hostage
only compensates the bearer

Before this dreadful perversity
all sat well in the land of plenty
freedoms serenity guaranteed
citizens crowned with sanctioned liberty

but the evil doers hate us
for our beliefs and what we have
this heinous deed of mayhem
alone shall make them glad

whoever lit this fuse
and lobbed this bomb
rest assured ****** terrorists
we'll place you in your tomb

The sirens blared throughout the plaza of the station littered with debris.

"*******. *******."

"What happened?"

"Whaaa"

Sirens blared.

Cries lifted up to the Lord. Moans and groans of incomprehensible injury were uttered.

"Where is she?"

"Donna!!"

A young cop came running from across the street. Unable to comprehend what he was witnessing looked on with shock and awe overwhelmed at the extent of the damage. He stood astride a dust covered cabbage patch doll. He kicked it aside.

"Jesus Christ." he gulped.

"What happened.?"

Boom Boom!!!!!!!!!!!

Indeed, what happened?

John Lee ******
Boom, Boom

Washington DC
8/2/09
jbm
Seasonal confusion, upon this globe of poetry!

Fall here, leaves tumbling into places that amaze,
But you write of spring,
Others of summer,
Winter always, someplace,
Its retrograde reputation
Cannon fodder for the dark-ended, sad ones.

I know the science of orbit,
Axis tilting, angle shifting,
Yet confusion masters me,
For I did not know,
That seasons were present
Upon this globe of freedom poetry!

For me, here, it is always summer...
The season of relief,
In the sun of -
The rays of -
In the warmth of
The sun,
That bakes poems
Into my skin cells.
See "this coupled train, this poetry train.    See "I am a summer man"
Next page