I'm put to the grind So I turn on the radio to silence my mind,
but still I find I'm one of a kind. I cant see my way for i'm ignorant, I'm blind.
And my hypothesis based off of this is I'm *******. I am me and like my behavior it can't be changed.
I wake up confused
rubbing sleep from my eyes.
I jump out of bed
I walk towards my prize
Eye starts twitching
god bless me with haste.
I stumble out of my room
to the kitchen I raced.
Opening the cupboard
I retrieved my mug,
I slam it on the counter
with a resonant thud.
I pour my beloved coffee
now the day has started.
I drink another cup too
and finally I departed.
"Oh hi coffee."
"Your a slave to me"
"I... I know."
*Sorry for the wrong tense of departed*
We are just sitting and waiting.
Waiting for our lives to begin.
Our standards are too high.
The stories we hear are too grand.
It's some days we see our lives are going no where frighteningly quick.
So we try and ***** out the "normal" like flame on a wick.
We are hungry for adventure and end up starving.
I've asked myself numerous times, "Why not me? Why?"
I see the same look though in everyone else, I see the "why" in their own craving eye.
No one gets a story. No one gets a tale, and the few of us that try only get new tears to collect for lost dreams.
You can thank the silver screen for this stigma folks.
We shoot for the stars and just look like jokes.
So don't keep trying to one-up reality.
We're all here for the long run.
If you keep on trying you'll end up like me.
All I have is a cocktail of confusion and sadness in the cavity where my heart was yet now I place my lack of purpose.
When wars break out its best not to pick a side
The thought of not losing, one in which you may confide.
Long lasting battle of the real and fake.
Is a fight that a side I always will take.
Spun lies from words make you a fraud.
Worse though is the trust which upon you trod.
Those who write dishonest create within a fool.
So write with honor, avoid becoming a tool.
All I do is care,
Life still though is unfair.
Such a simple poem I wouldn't be surprised if its already written.
The room was dark,
and my screen was bright.
Pale hand on my mouse,
oh I was ready to fight.
"Welcome to the rift"
the game had began.
I bought my first items,
and to my lane I ran.
I made some bad calls,
but the team had my back.
The seconds passed us by,
the deaths started to stack.
Forty-two minutes in,
neck and neck we stood.
An ace would end the game,
yet neither of us could.
With dragon on the line,
both teams vied for power.
Fighting ensued and we had won,
for their ADC chose to cower.
So If I had to guess, maybe like .05% of the hellopoetry community even plays league so I dont expect this to go far but it might be a fun read to those of you who understand it.
Ink spills over the void,
from it springs bliss.
For blank paper may be despair,
and the written may be peace,
but when the words are being formed,
when you are still the creator
assembling ideas from the abyss
when direction is undecided.
That is bliss.
I heard a quote way back in the day that said something along the lines of "Empty paper is hell, a written poem is earth, but when the pen touches paper, that is heaven." I decided to reiterate that idea in this poem.