#parachutes
A man got a gift from a friend
From thousands of feet they'd descend
But both chutes failed to pop
And then the sudden stop
On the ground spelled their end
Jan 2
Jan 2, 2026 at 8:15 PM UTC
I know this like the Black of my Hands
because to ignorance, truth is profound
but to Experience, Truth is an *** Round
found in Leadbelly trying to run down
Freedom Ring crt. tied to a pair a shoot
or hanging
on the last rung
of this corporate splatter
Oct 13, 2016
Oct 13, 2016 at 9:30 AM UTC
it doesn't have to be
perfect.
you're cutting demos
not diamonds.
i'm creating paragraphs
not parachutes.
she's drawing pictures
not pistols.
he's constructing bookshelves
not buildings.
we're making differences
not disasters.
we don't have to be
perfect
to be
poets.
Jul 24, 2016
Jul 24, 2016 at 5:53 PM UTC
Where collects the thoughts of the paraplegic
sitting alone in thoughts
of a past no longer perfect ?
The glowing red sun sets behind the hill
as life flows by against our will
Every step has a purpose
even when we are running away
Each cause has effect
but once motored
it is here to stay
Tell me of the sands of time
how fickle they stand
Against the winds of change
a dead man's hand
Everyday , so much the same
never the moment to be again
Such a little word
that means so much , "never" again
Blessed yet all are the same
taken for granted , a dance of denial
Catch us before our great fall
Parachute us . . . or we won't
be even able to crawl
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 8:45 PM UTC
Wind blazing
Cheeks soaring
Lips burning
Free-falling
Mamma mia;
Here we go aga-in
Up there in the clouds
It's always big murky shrouds
'Till I meet your frown
One look; a bell tolls
Two looks; the hourglass falls
And I jump back down
Oh, Mamma Mia;
Here we go aga-in
The drop's great fun and games
'Till you reach five-nine-ty feet
Then you pull the latch and strings
And the canvas swirls its wings
We enlace
A deadly embrace
Boom
Splat
Broken feathers
*Oh, Mamma Mia;
Here we go aga-in
Wind blazing
Cheeks soaring
Lips burning
Free-falling...*
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 8:46 PM UTC
"I miss you though."
Is what you say to me
when I suddenly cross your mind
after all this time.
Weeks.
Months.
Years.
Time passes without parachutes
guarding these seconds.
Little do they tell you
about this thing called distance,
it's like a game of Telephone.
And I believe
that your last two words got lost in translation.
"I miss you though, not enough."
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 4:09 PM UTC