I long to write
And elegant ballgowns
Something with more meaning
Then simply feeling down
I long to write
Of romeo and Juliet
Symbolic and deeper then most see
Oh thou arent very good with writing
I long to write
Like egar allen poe
Or any inspiration i claim to love
But instead i write of the dead things
That roam through my mind stirring
Pound pound pounding
My mind is constantly aching
She's but a young child
Cry cry crying
For attention she seeks but it keeps dying
Plays and music will not be wrote
Of the things i write
For they are not artistic
They are but a jumbled mess
Never knowing where to place
Now I'm rambling
On and on and on
She goes sad and chaotic
And screaming repetitive words and pleas
I adore the poems and songs
That at face value seem
Like they are about love for another
When truly they ring about darkness
Oh sweet child
Your love keeps thy so warm
But it's breaking into a storm
I watch you try to sleep
Why do you weep?
Dost thou not realize thy beauty?
Stab thy heart into shreds
For i cannot breath without the
But i cannot smile when thy fills my blood with led
Sweet little girl
You have made no sense
Get on your knees and repent
For you will never be
My head was filled with so very mamy words this morning i had to get them all out
Beneath the Roses,
Down stairs of bone,
the Twilight has fled,
and I am home
At the Nightclub Carnival,
Six-Six-Six Feet Under,
Morphine Martyrs dance with
Lost among the Nocturnal Nymphs,
the Wildflower Cannibals eat
Scholars of Marijuana
Let's **** the Beatnik Babes
into a different genre.
We are New York Fairies and
their ****** Brothers.
Our hearts play on vinyl,
we're the Devil's lovers.
I've become my own Altar,
for the dead pray to None
Under Ginsberg's Grave,
The Party's just begun.
For Allen Ginsberg. (the Beat Poets didn't ****)
I hope you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me
Cried the bleeding man in his last breath
He voided his bowels
The rigor mortis kicking in
And thus began his journey of death
The funeral was closed casket
There wasn’t much left to show
A poem recited
The priest going on
“Darkness there and nothing more”
The years went by, the man’s legacy forgotten
And so did the memories that once seemed so sweet
That’s how it goes
In this dark twisted world
Please stay tuned for some more Sesame Street
What's such a pretty girl doing with a stranger between her thighs and a camera in her face? What demons in her closet has she failed to embrace? What led her to this hallway of ******* that has her life hindered this way? doesn't she know that she's only a phase meant to fade away from the industry she's chosen?
As these thoughts enter my head, my lust always stays frozen. It leaves me wondering where my life is headed, hell, if she ran out of options what the hell is it gonna be like for me? I can't go into the adultery industry, so what will become of me? I hate to say it, but it made me sad laying there with a hand in my pants and my brain in high gear. There are no simple solutions for me in life, and I started to understand that.
Yyyyeah I was watching **** and got kind of depressed. Guess it is as stupid as it sounds lol
I’ve loved your *** since the 11th grade. There were a few years when we went our separate ways, in due time we both knew we should of stayed.. Our lives were in ******* shambles.. Each passing day I would gamble, I’d hope, I’d pray.. Maybe I’ll see him this time, *** would I even say?? Hey love, I’ve missed you... Still remember the day when I first kissed you.
I remember 9/11 was a day of much conflict and disarray
But in Reseda, California, we put the egos, pride and ******* at bay..
Shared our dreams, we talked about life, what it’s like without each other and what it all means.. there’s a fine line between love and hate. there’s no madness without love. I don’t really believe in fate. When it comes to matters of the heart there ain’t much you can say
It’s ok, I wouldn’t have it any other way.. cause you’re my man crush everyday
I write about how much he ****** me off all the time..
But there’s a reason why I put up with it
I love him.....
Work night rumbles in the Dublin 4 palace
Laughing in the stale smell of too much freedom
Whiskey, beer, prosecco make up
A rainbow of mischievous golden hues
Corona that smells like drifting **** clouds
No limes, browning in the red net
In the fridge between pockets of pizza space
No Topshop dresses, flannel shirts, uniforms
But greasy repeal jumpers, palazzo pants, huffing
Rollies on the porch under generous back light
Beside rabbit ornament with human head, crouched
In grass below the shroud of full moon fever.
An ex-rugby lad in a Chance the Rapper cap
Stands in the sunroom eating Chinese
He ordered when he was bored of girls
Changing the song one too many times
Masking the gurgling moka, hidden
To serve coffee at midnight and write bad verse
Before morning dips potato waffles into relish
"Which is just posh ketchup", breakfast
Before leaving dry chunks in the bath for work.
Revolted fading decay
Like blood on the shore,
To write with the blackness of my heart
And with hope nevermore
The black ink blooms on paperback,
With the heart that spurts its veins
Accross the page
Growing into its darkness and pains
The white fading,
drimpel, dubbed unpailing
With the words posing as potent but poison
Possesed in perfect form of pretence...
The Words so falsly true...
The words bleeding out, "I love you"
Tribute to Edgar Poe. The poem tells the story about a writer who utterly despises love, but when he himself gets tangled in it, he gives in and writes a letter expressing his feelings towards his love interest...
the day before yesterday.
Grieved by it, personally,
Reputation: few or no friends
Suggested art - lost its erratic stars
A dreamer! Dwelling in ideal realms
Indistinct curses with eyes upturned, already ******.
Happiness wit hglances introverted, shrouded in gloom,
arms wildly beating spirits - sought to forget
open to the doom of death
I pulled these lines from the Obituary of Edgar Allen Poe to construe a poem that I feel has both a theme of its own but draws aspects from Poe's life as well.
My** road stumbles on & stumbles on & stumbles on, waiting for a destination absent to come. /... Thefeetstretchas far as the eye can see, as de-ja-vu lines, of bulging blood, echo across roads of beat. .And so it goes. noknow to where. no past will come, no future will have been, so it goes - messed up senses line the street (of my mind, split down the middle by more lines, indulgent lines, morse code upon the floor. a tarmacocean).
and so it goes.
i am aware of the mixed up pronouns and senses and tenses.