a truth in tune
knocks everything that isn't out
Tuning my thoughts
To match my words
Tied into knots
Of broken lies
The ten yard mark
Saw from a mile
All bite, no bark.
Soon to explode
A fading light
That stole my fight
My will to live
My only right
It's been reversed
Flipped on its head
Reverse of what's not.
Wish I was dead.
all this time, i've yet to come to terms with certain words
for instance, design, and all of its nuance
how do i design in true
when i am a shard of
azure experience in the
endlessness of midnight blue?
all this time, i've yet to call my good form to return
for instance, my designs, and all the nuances --
the water drains, shallow now,
from my composition,
as if i'm the desert, when once,
i was my own oasis.
reflection is a given. still,
how can i reflect this ill
in good faith, when the
poisonous sick saw my
leg up ascend into ruins?
I write until I tune my head
with my heart.
are the knobs
that twist my heart strings to the right
This is how I feel when I feel inspiration but don't know what to say about it
Attentive student of the songs of birds,
No beakèd beast hath e'er more sweetly trill'd
A pair of notes or call'd in major thirds
Or minor with musicality more skill'd.
Adaptive linguist, practic'd in the tongue
Of wingèd feather'd creatures, thou hast writ
Into "The Birdsong Songbook" songs unsung
By birds which yet harmoniously fit.
And though the book began in higher throats
Diversely tun'd by Nature's artful hand
Ere measur'd were the times and tones of notes,
(Which often rest them now upon a stand),
Its finest lines (o'er which I now do rave)
Witness thy penmanship on every stave.
My heart is never valid in the presence of panic
yet I will still take a pen and drag it along paper
as if it were a stamp of my own approval
I will stay up late trying to make my screams sound like poetry
tuning every octave of my pain into a rhyme
— The End —