#foreversaysmypunchdrunkheart
drifting alone
through this desert
through these solitary sands
isolated
and deserted
the desert fox
without thought or reason
without cause or purpose
this old heart
these young hands
this love I have to give
but no you to give it to
I am wasted without you
my life is shattered
my dreams are lost
where are you?
if not here?
where are you
when I am without you?
I am withering without you
abandoned here
in this barren wasteland
like a flower in the desert
without hope
without water
without love
won’t you free me from this heat?
this unbearable sunlight
too harsh for my eyes
the truth is just so bright sometimes
I do not wish to see myself
not like this
lost like this
but there is no cure
for all that ails me
only time they say
can heal these wounds
that sorry old adage
so I sit and wait
for something else to happen
and I say
**** me or set me free
twisting these sad young hands
as my old heart melts
in the memory of you
Mar 17, 2017
Mar 17, 2017 at 12:42 PM UTC
the others didn’t like him
his markings were different
his stripes were too bright
he’d been places
seen things
and he understood them better than they understood themselves
he had the scars of life experience
and he wore them with pride
having travelled to the darkest corners of the jungle
living wonders and horrors
they could only imagine
from the confines of their pen
so shallow and so rigid
he was a dangerous reminder of all they were not
maybe they were just sheep after all
he came with a sense of danger
and they came with the scent of fear
he could smell it on them
he was a tiger
and they were all lambs
and the lambs had nothing for him
but they bleated as if they knew better
and they hid within their herds
the way cowards always do
because that was all they knew
safety in numbers
the company of the crowd
they would never know what it took to be a tiger
to walk alone in the wilderness
to swim up river with his big padded paws
there was a great strength in his solitude
but they knew very little
of either
strength or solitude
plus the sheep had no style
so they hated him for his
in fact the tiger had more style in one paw
than all of them put together
he peered into the pen
briefly licking his teeth
but it looked so empty in there
that’s when he realised
that the crowd was a just another prison
and so was the herd
just an empty pen
full of empty people
living and dying their empty little lives
he would lose his freedom by joining them
he would sacrifice his stripes
no longer king of the jungle
they would sedate him and put him on display
in a petting zoo
until he was no more a tiger than they were
just a trophy on a shelf
for the dumb public to come and take pictures with
and he would sit there
wishing he could disappear
his eyes blinded by flash photography
his wild spirit destroyed
the very essence of him gone
and they would keep him
until he lost all his colour
and then they would lose interest
in the tiger they had tamed
in the trophy they had spoiled
no
this was no life for a tiger
no place for him to live
no company to keep
the sheep had nothing for him
except for the prison sentence
of their acceptance
he was better off alone
back in the wilderness
where he belonged
out in the jungle
where he could prowl freely
without judgement of his stripes
Mar 17, 2017
Mar 17, 2017 at 10:43 AM UTC
I am like a rambling rogue
my happiness still homeless
and trouble an old stray dog
that follows me everywhere I go
misunderstanding must be my shadow
for it will not leave me alone
my mind is a haunted highway
and these bandits never pass me by
well I've drank from the trickle of entitlement
with its undercurrent of oppression
and I've wandered the lonely hills
and been lost in the valley of the found
I've camped in fields of foolishness
I've swam in the river of the ******
I've skinny dipped in self destruction
and seen reason buried in the ground
I've known madness a midnight blanket
that sinks in swifter than quicksand
sometimes with less sound
and every season it seems
that tragedy paints the leaves
and misery parts the clouds
and if I didn't know better
I'd say that old oak
was dripping not with sap
but with satire
and I know betrayal fills these seas
and the tides turn with nothing but unrest
and the winds sing of their unease
and if pain were the first flower of spring
it would bloom a little too often
and if the moon could hear me cry
I would howl at it no longer
and if the sun were not a spy
that gave up every day
to rise again so brilliantly
like a child that ran away
and if the sky did not weep with rain
with a thunderstorm for a stomach
and a lightning heart
for an enlightening soul
I then would be on my own
but these roads are paved with mystery
and I can't help but wonder
what the horizon holds
so I travel this realm with optimism
ready as my adventure unfolds
Mar 12, 2017
Mar 12, 2017 at 8:02 PM UTC