The Magpie dies in Act No. V Though the audience was hardly privy It was only me, in the backrow seat, Who saw the gentle feather Who heard the silent clink Its branch that swayed bare Shivering only but a moment Before it found a new pair of feet
The roar of the crowd rippled and swelled With the song of the main headline Licking the tune, wetting the eyes, but at the end My lashes remained dry For I, at least, could spare a glance Toward the soul who belted Act I through V Laid angled below the plastic bushes Gone, dead, died
All the forgotten lawns, and far apart, and monsters in the darks. The cross country farms, some kids are playing on. Thus, our liberation falls, a soldier dies, a family cries. See dropping blood! Oh Hallelujah! Oh Jesus Christ! All waters are iced, and the bread smells rot, and ghosts knocking the door, right? For its the payments time!
orange marmalade ribboned on warm toast reflecting the golden light from the sun It looks like Cleopatra's prize possession It is too bright for a ghost to see And too valuable to be an investment Orange marmalade How it swirls in your tongue Too afraid to swallow it Oh how I admire the orange marmalade It's like a slice of happiness The sun sprinkled on the orange marmalade You can see all the orange pieces tucked in the marmalade I love orange marmalade
Helot today, and every other, Go unpaid, go unmade, A broken body of myself, Living in every possible way, Save for my own, Always selling the soul, The time that’s left, Piece for price, For profit, for my life, But yours to rent, If you pay, please pay, And it’ll be yours to store, A deal nevermore.
have got some bars towards "Electronic Arts" once I found out you shut a game down I went nuts as I lost my cars several hours on visualizing of which were spent thanks for all the time wasted as I don't even have pics of them awesome, amazing! a kind of mood to dump on you a cargo full of number 2 guess you've already figured out what game these schemes are 'bout it's "NFS: W"
I don't want to reopen my old wounds But it’s just the only thing I have left to do There's nothing more to be said about me Except for a condolence or a passing apology
Picking at the ***** scars, hoping for an infection Hoping the festering bacteria would spread through Hoping for sensation, or something maybe close Hoping that these old wounds would feel brand new
I’m already too numb to ask for more medication Already too debilitated to beg for a final miracle cure I’m already too sick, far too late to try on and on Already at the brink of extinction to still feel unsure
I’m opening old wounds, bleeding them out to dry Doing everything they all told me not to do, only left out to die There’s nothing more to be done, no band-aid left to rip These old wounds seem useless when there’s nothing left in me to fix.
writing spiral I'm writing the spiral I'm on my paper drawing my pencil I am on my paper and I'm drawing my pencil as all these faces that I see are just not adding up into anything I want to be or anywhere I want to go and no matter what you say I will never endorse it back to the life that takes your soul and make it go away
an abstract poem on my insecurities about writing poetry, lyrics, or just creating art in general.