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Poems
betterdays Jun 2014
metamorph
betterdays
Jun 2014
i see, in the black
studio cave of creativity.....
gangling, disinterested youth.
metamorph...
into mecurial, liquid madness...
fluid, upon the stage,
they fly, toward the lights.
moths, to a burning moon.
momentary flashes,
of. god's humour,
in flight across
the mechanical sun's
gelled brightness.
and then the curtain falls.
and they drift back,
into their former selves,
inarticalate, but secretly
smiling.
studio cave of creativity.....
gangling, disinterested youth.
metamorph...
into mecurial, liquid madness...
fluid, upon the stage,
they fly, toward the lights.
moths, to a burning moon.
momentary flashes,
of. god's humour,
in flight across
the mechanical sun's
gelled brightness.
and then the curtain falls.
and they drift back,
into their former selves,
inarticalate, but secretly
smiling.
impressions of last week's practical theatre exams.
mads
Nov 2013
I.
Dost thou love me?
II.
Art thou in pain?
III.
Doth the wind change shapes?
IV.
Shakespeare is dead.
And I fear all that you held
is dead too.
V.
Magician pulls the strings,
To the puppet wings...
We bleed.
VI.
But for what is this chatter,
As the rain doth pitter patter,
Drawing ever closer the sea to my feet.
VII.
A breath of fresh air
Too sharp to swallow softly,
I cough and magenta butterflies
Fly.
VIII.
Falsetto wings.
IX.
I never learnt to sing.
X.
Typical pulsating blood organs
Punching blue and black
Against bones made of metaphorical steel.
XI.
You stole me.
Dost thou love me?
II.
Art thou in pain?
III.
Doth the wind change shapes?
IV.
Shakespeare is dead.
And I fear all that you held
is dead too.
V.
Magician pulls the strings,
To the puppet wings...
We bleed.
VI.
But for what is this chatter,
As the rain doth pitter patter,
Drawing ever closer the sea to my feet.
VII.
A breath of fresh air
Too sharp to swallow softly,
I cough and magenta butterflies
Fly.
VIII.
Falsetto wings.
IX.
I never learnt to sing.
X.
Typical pulsating blood organs
Punching blue and black
Against bones made of metaphorical steel.
XI.
You stole me.
10:50 pm. Lack of sleep week 2.
Mysterious Aries
Oct 2015
Words threaded are no better than dirt
If no one could feel the emotion of joy and hurt
If human heart metamorph into stones
How could a sparkling poem will hit home?
Seems poet dwell beneath the surface of the ground
Watering each other plants, praising each other sound
With instinct to prevent extinction, in order to continue to roam
But if we are on the underground, how could we hit home?
Doing both selfish and selfless acts
Photographer of fictions and facts
Every detail of life during white and gray
Hopefully, the images we captured will hit home someday
10/16/2015
Mysterious Aries
If no one could feel the emotion of joy and hurt
If human heart metamorph into stones
How could a sparkling poem will hit home?
Seems poet dwell beneath the surface of the ground
Watering each other plants, praising each other sound
With instinct to prevent extinction, in order to continue to roam
But if we are on the underground, how could we hit home?
Doing both selfish and selfless acts
Photographer of fictions and facts
Every detail of life during white and gray
Hopefully, the images we captured will hit home someday
10/16/2015
Mysterious Aries