They fed you lies. And when the nasty flavor grew Too strong And you choked on the ***** From throwing up the lies Into a scratchy brown paper bag, They laughed And sold you a mint To hide the acrid aftertaste.
Long ago my mother gave me birth. From her molten **** in the cooling rain I took shape. Wind and water gently fashioned me and smoothed my hard edges. Through riven clouds the bright sun warmed me, And in the mist life wove me mossy coverings. Day after day I listened to the wind in the heather And the cry of the sea birds wheeling overhead.
Men found me on the mountainside, stripped me of my mossy cloak And hauled me away on a cart of wood, to be used for the glory of God. With metal tools and hammer blows they fashioned me and gave me hard edges. They stacked me high on top of other stones, Fitted me snug and sealed me in. Through narrow windows colored lights shone on the floor below, And in the darkness voices rose with scented smoke, Singing of the glory of God.
Men warred with other men, took each other’s lives And threw down what they had raised up, for the glory of God. Scorched by angry flames, I fell from that high place to lie broken in the ashes. Wind and water gently washed me and smoothed my hard edges. Through riven clouds the bright sun warmed me, And in the mist life wove me mossy coverings. Day after day I listened to the wind in the ruins And the cry of the sea birds wheeling overhead.
A shepherd found me in the grass, lifted me up And carried me away in his arms. He nestled me alongside other stones To keep the wandering sheep from deadly cliffs. Though riven clouds the bright sun warms us, And in the mist life weaves us mossy coverings. Day after day we listen to the wind in the heather And the cry of the sea birds wheeling overhead.
I would not have thought a stone could have a soul, until I visited Scotland.
Merriment upon merriment! What parceled eyes are these? Latent dilations that sting: Bungled African bees. "NONSENSE!" You say as I- Bid the fair day; What tame a lion are you To proclaim the error in my ways. Leave you in a daze I shall, As your ego suddenly croaks. For **** hath no fury like yours truly Who raps upon the door softly, Hoping, that you choke.
I had no idea how terrible it all was Until I matured a bit and opened my eyes It cleared the mist that I often now miss From the eyes of an unwilling devil Seeing the tragedy unfold from a first-person level I remember it all from that god awful view The bad things I’ve done, over which I had no control The outcomes I hoped with the manifestation of some Who am I kidding - I’ve been among a fortunate few Except for the fact that life dealt me an ace with a ****** ***** Not quite like anyone - an outcasted sole With depressive thoughts - eating them straight from the bowl Until euphoria strikes - then I’m a lightning bolt These emotional storms - they strike me as cold Who am I to cry and complain about life Everyone is united by the suffering light The random subscription to a life with a set rhythm If only I could command my heart not to wither
Many men use November As an excuse to grow out their ****** hair I used it to quit smoking. Neither of the abovementioned Examples came to fruition for me Except an itchy neck And some newfound attitude, Strange dreams and lingering antisociality. It’s the adulthood that Comes with image Something you can’t see when pondering the dismal Grey sky like some kind of disembodied muse And thinking ill of your fondness for it. Such a pity is the happiness we derive from tragedy. When prompted, you say your religion Nihilism. Most people can’t tell There’s a smile behind the self-effacing humor, The sarcasm. To see her riffing on her insecurities, Is seeing pride shy away from Its beautiful face And you know she’s a mirror Into a heart you abandoned to objectivity, To brute facts of loss And she’s the antagonist Zarathustra Spoke so fondly of A mirror nature speaks through The voice you didn’t know you had, the breath that inspires Confusion You see your own nihilism. No songbird beneath the rose of Sharon Ever refrained so sweetly.
When one lives in the mountains, Valleys are common And the winding backroads that fill them, My mind is frenzied by the tires’ pop and hiss With a 10-***** of a russet colored pill Transubstantiated by the visionaries Foretelling the end of sensation And peddled by the wellmeaning. If my psychotherapist has brain cancer, Who needs their head checked more? Again and again, I see my fingers reaching out Enticed by the chemical change. The homily promises Anatman, nirvana, Immaterial whimsies That briefly entertain your days as a doppelganger Or harlequin dancer wreathed in Clear strands of (RS)-1-[3-(Dimethylamino)propyl]-1-(4-fluorophenyl)-1,3-dihydroisobenzofuran-5-carbonitrile Struck in dumb bliss. The mountains always show the veneer, Always their plan of bleakness To follow the autumn beauty, And to cycle back like the conceit of forever.
Eyes having opened, They were met by an infinite blue. Deeply rich and sapphire-esque in tone, The sea rushed into the mouth that was held agape By both marvel and fear. At first instinct was the will to resist, But then came the strange comfort of allowing the passionate Blood that once boiled Chill itself to a painfully distant frost. It was ecstasy and torture coexisting within A circular harmony of sensation.
This order of solace was short lived.
With a shimmer, The once reserved and vibrant sea of blue transformed Into an abyss of clarity. The briny and familiar taste shifted in nature to something other. Something potent, something repulsive, something sinister. At once, The calm oasis turned into a scathing ****. His inferno incarnate. A body that at past times swam with jubilance Now sank to the fiery depths, Having already lost both the spirit and the ability to fight. Crisped, The corpse felt an enormous pain. But the mind felt none for there was none to speak of.