#vagabond
I walk path like a river vagabond
Healing the trouble feet with rocks
Letting the soul sink in air
With narrow eyes and floating heart
Aloof u become a passage that never open
Tears with warmth and blood with cold
I surrender myself to laughing grave
Without strings red bleeding the green
Anew a past remains with hallow wean
Feb 6
Feb 6, 2026 at 11:56 PM UTC
Always forgotten
Always dismissed
Why can I hear my shadow hiss
A vagabond through & through
Finds solace in a tree that’s rotten
None dare to enter the rabbit hole
Yet, it seems I have no control
Wonderland, wonderland
Chasing echos that sound like commands
Praying that it’s not too late
But their eyes were already filled with hate
-PM
Nov 30, 2025
Nov 30, 2025 at 9:35 PM UTC
He rolls like the
river,
always on the move.
I said,
"What are you afraid of, boy?"
He said,
"Nothing; I just can't stay still."
I said,
"They got meds for that."
It's in my bones, I gotta
keep going.
Knapsack ...no sack,
don't matter, just me and
those highways.
I said, well, it cost you everything;
your house, your wife,
don't you want to settle
down sometimes?
Nope, he said, as he turned
his back and headed west
towards the desert.
His face to the sun.
Aug 31, 2025
Aug 31, 2025 at 4:11 PM UTC
I’ve been at the helm on a rudderless ship
lost in a mercurial sea of deficiency
I could fly by the sit of my pants
with a suitcase already packed
on any given day
at any given time
at any given place
I was where I wanted to be
seeing who I wanted to see
doing what I wanted to do
despite my responsibilities as a father
or having to face the daunting tasks
that appeased my current girlfriend(s).
having no structure and no plan,
life was a timeline of formidable prospects.
I rather enjoyed it
quite nicely.
May 1, 2025
May 1, 2025 at 7:59 PM UTC
as I am trying to learn as much as I can
from the self of trees, wind, of bees and birds
of the unlanguaged child I still am, from
wise men and women through the arch of time
I am well aware that we can keep each other captive
inside the machinery of make-believe that makes lonely
bodies & sunsets bearable
I can't help feeling I am just this,
a vagabond in such a deep mystery
Jul 17, 2023
Jul 17, 2023 at 6:40 AM UTC
𝙶𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚝-𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚢 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎,
𝙲𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚝𝚘 𝚀𝚞𝚎𝚎𝚗𝚜 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚔,
𝙿𝚞𝚗𝚔-𝚊-𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚙𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚜 𝚊𝚝 𝚍𝚊𝚠𝚗.
𝙾𝚗𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚕, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛,
𝚂𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚗, 𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚝 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚜:
__|__𝕬𝖓𝖆𝖗𝖈𝖍𝖞 (𝕻)𝖗𝖊𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖛𝖊𝖘 𝕵𝖚𝖉𝖌𝖊𝖒𝖊𝖓𝖙__|__
𝙰 𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐-𝚊-𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚎,
𝙰 𝚍𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚑, 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚑 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚗𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚢.
𝙾𝚒!
⍟
_𝙸 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚝𝚢’𝚜 𝚘𝚍𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚌𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝙲𝚑𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚝’𝚜 𝙼𝚊𝚜𝚜. 𝚂𝚠𝚒𝚖𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚕𝚢 𝚞𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚖, 𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚎𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚔, 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚏𝚕𝚎, 𝚠𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚏𝚠𝚊𝚢._
Dec 31, 2020
Dec 31, 2020 at 1:42 AM UTC
The gypsy hymns and railway trails
which you followed into the valley of your trials
Lady Luck brought you enough street child wisdom and thief given kindness
to turn the tracks around and the train whistle to wake me.
Desert saint of your weathered ways
with your thin wrists and moon gleaming lips
Hope to you was like a blinding sunrise, painful to acknowledge, yet sorely lacking without
Never could be without your Larkspur boquets and marigold wreaths
August heat heavy with the scent of cypress trees
Apollo of the dusty sea, flooded the cliffs with light like withering flames
born from boxcar visions and a desperate hunger for that windblown hallelujah we chased down the starlit trestles like missionaries. Summoned from our streetcar medallions, vagabond nymphs, rumbling through moth-eaten states and barren dusks, lazy moon gazing upon our dolorous times and wild days and all our rough and rowdy ways.
No need to heed the judgements of the stars.
With the arid land so wild and lonesome- we weave our own muse into the railway line- followed back to when you were my home, and the streets were the laurel crown of your vagrant fortune.
Aug 9, 2020
Aug 9, 2020 at 12:12 PM UTC
I couldn’t sleep.
My brain shivered when I moved my eyes.
I felt invincible
“Invincible” fails to describe it.
Then I was a cockroach
Crawling like a little bug
My head missing each obstacle
Just enough to feel them
Brush their matter against me
Blowing a rush of air back at me
Warning me my choices are crucial.
Cutting it close to the end
But - I don’t mind it.
-I’d be a liar if I said
I didn’t like it this way-
Some fear the discomfort called the unknown.
I welcome it with open arms
A gift in each hand.
As long as it never bores me.
Life must never be boring.
Fear is inevitable
It is always present
My greatest weakness.
Life is not the time to find your purpose
It is the time to create it
Apr 12, 2020
Apr 12, 2020 at 4:20 AM UTC
If I Falter
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
If I regret
fire in the sunset
exploding on the horizon,
then let me regret loving you.
If I forget
even for a moment
that you are the only one,
then let me forget that the sky is blue.
If I should yearn
in a season of discontentment
for the vagabond light of a companionless moon,
let dawn remind me that you are my sun.
If I should burn—one moment less brightly,
one instant less true—
then with wild scorching kisses,
inflame me, inflame me, inflame me anew.
Keywords/Tags: love, regret, forget, fire, sunset, sky, blue, vagabond, moon, sun, burn, true, kisses, inflame
Enigma
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
O, terrible angel,
bright lover and avenger,
full of whimsical light
and vile anger;
wild stranger,
seeking the solace of night,
or the danger;
pale foreigner,
alien to man, or savior.
Who are you,
seeking consolation and passion
in the same breath,
screaming for pleasure, bereft
of all articles of faith,
finding life
harsher than death?
Grieving angel,
giving more than taking,
how lucky the man
who has found in your love,
this -our reclamation;
fallen wren,
you must strive to fly
though your heart is shaken;
weary pilgrim,
you must not give up
though your feet are aching;
lonely child,
lie here still in my arms;
you must soon be waking.
"O Terrible Angel" is the title of my second collection of love poems for my wife Beth, who is more formally known as Elizabeth Steed Harris Burch.
Warming Her Pearls
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
Warming her pearls, her *******
gleam like constellations.
Her belly is a bit rotund...
she might have stepped out of a Rubens.
Are You the Thief
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
When I touch you now,
O sweet lover,
full of fire,
melting like ice
in my embrace,
when I part the delicate white lace,
baring pale flesh,
and your face
is so close
that I breathe your breath
and your hair surrounds me like a wreath...
tell me now,
O sweet, sweet lover,
in good faith:
are you the thief
who has stolen my heart?
Because You Came to Me
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
Because you came to me with sweet compassion
and kissed my furrowed brow and smoothed my hair,
I do not love you after any fashion,
but wildly, in despair.
Because you came to me in my black torment
and kissed me fiercely, blazing like the sun
upon parched desert dunes, till in dawn's foment
they melt, I am undone.
Because I am undone, you have remade me
as suns bring life, as brilliant rains endow
the earth below with leaves, where you now shade me
and bower me, somehow.
Moments
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
There were moments
full of promise,
like the petal-scented rainfall
of early spring,
when to hold you in my arms
and to kiss your willing lips
seemed everything.
There are moments
strangely empty
full of pale unearthly twilight
(How the cold stars stare!)
when to be without you
is a dark enchantment
the night and I share.
She Gathered Lilacs
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
She gathered lilacs
and arrayed them in her hair;
tonight, she taught the wind to be free.
She kept her secrets
in a silver locket;
her companions were starlight and mystery.
She danced all night
to the beat of her heart;
with her tears she imbued the sea.
She hid her despair
in a crystal jar,
and never revealed it to me.
She kept her distance
as though it were armor;
gauntlet thorns guard her heart like the rose.
Love! -Awaken, awaken
to see what you've taken
is still less than the due my heart owes!
Passionate One
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
Love of my life,
light of my morning,
arise brightly dawning,
for you are my sun.
Give me of heaven
both manna and leaven,
desirous Presence,
Passionate One.
Once
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
Once when her kisses were fire incarnate
and left in their imprint bright lipstick, and flame;
when her breath rose and fell over smoldering dunes,
leaving me listlessly sighing her name...
Once when her ******* were as pale, as beguiling,
as wan rivers of sand shedding heat like a mist,
when her words would at times softly, mildly rebuke me
all the while as her lips did more wildly insist...
Once when the thought of her echoed and whispered
through vast wastelands of need like a Bedouin chant,
I ached for the touch of her lips with such longing
that I vowed all my former vows to recant...
Once, only once, something bloomed, of a desiccate seed:
this implausible blossom her wild rains of kisses decreed.
At Once
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
Though she was fair,
though she sent me the epistle of her love at once
and inscribed therein love's antique prayer,
I did not love her at once.
Though she would dare
pain's pale, clinging shadows, to approach me at once,
the dark, haggard keeper of the lair,
I did not love her at once.
Though she would share
the all of her being, to heal me at once,
yet more than her touch I was unable to bear.
I did not love her at once.
And yet she would care,
and pour out her essence...
and yet -there was more!
I awoke from long darkness
and yet -she was there.
I loved her the longer;
I loved her the more
because I did not love her at once.
Righteous
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
Come to me tonight
in the twilight, O, and the full moon rising,
spectral and ancient, will mutter a prayer.
Gather your hair
and pin it up, knowing
that I will release it a moment anon.
We are not one,
nor is there a scripture
to sanctify nights you might spend in my arms,
but the swarms
of stars revolving above us
revel tonight, the most ardent of lovers.
Will there be Starlight
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
Will there be starlight
tonight
while she gathers
damask
and lilac
and sweet-scented heathers?
And will she find flowers,
or will she find thorns
guarding the petals
of roses unborn?
Oh, will there be moonlight
tonight
while she gathers
seashells
and mussels
and albatross feathers?
And will she find treasure
or will she find pain
at the end of this rainbow
of moonlight on rain?
Kissin' 'n' buzzin'
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
Kissin' 'n' buzzin'
the bees rise
in a dizzy circle of two.
Oh, when I'm with you,
I feel like kissin' 'n' buzzin' too.
The Quickening
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
I never meant to love you
when I held you in my arms
promising you sagely
wise, noncommittal charms.
And I never meant to need you
when I touched your tender lips
with kisses that intrigued my own -
such kisses I had never known,
nor a heartbeat in my fingertips!
Let Me Give Her Diamonds
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
Let me give her diamonds
for my heart's
sharp edges.
Let me give her roses
for my soul's
thorn.
Let me give her solace
for my words
of treason.
Let the flowering of love
outlast a winter
season.
Let me give her books
for all my lack
of reason.
Let me give her candles
for my lack
of fire.
Let me kindle incense,
for our hearts
require
the breath-fanned
flaming perfume
of desire.
Love Is Not Love
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
Love is not love that never looked
within itself and questioned all,
curled up like a zygote in a ball,
throbbed, sobbed and shook.
(Or went on a binge at a nearby mall,
then would not cook.)
Love is not love that never winced,
then smiled, convinced
that soar's the prerequisite of fall.
When all
its wounds and scars have been saline-rinsed,
where does Love find the wherewithal
to try again,
endeavor, when
all that it knows
is: O, because!
Because Her Heart Is Tender
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
She scrawled soft words in soap: "Never Forget, "
Dove-white on her car's window, and the wren,
because her heart is tender, might regret
it called the sun to wake her. As I slept,
she heard lost names recounted, one by one.
She wrote in sidewalk chalk: "Never Forget, "
and kept her heart's own counsel. No rain swept
away those words, no tear leaves them undone.
Because her heart is tender with regret,
bruised by razed towers' glass and steel and stone
that shatter on and on and on and on,
she stitches in damp linen: "NEVER FORGET, "
and listens to her heart's emphatic song.
The wren might tilt its head and sing along
because its heart once understood regret
when fledglings fell beyond, beyond, beyond...
its reach, and still the boot-heeled world strode on.
She writes in adamant: "NEVER FORGET"
because her heart is tender with regret.
The One True Poem
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
Love was not meaningless...
nor your embrace, nor your kiss.
And though every god proved a phantom,
still you were divine to your last dying atom...
So that when you are gone
and, yea, not a word remains of this poem,
even so,
We were One.
The Poem of Poems
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
This is my Poem of Poems, for you.
Every word ineluctably true:
I love you.
She Spoke
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
She spoke
and her words
were like a ringing echo dying
or like smoke
rising and drifting
while the earth below is spinning.
She awoke
with a cry
from a dream that had no ending,
without hope
or strength to rise,
into hopelessness descending.
And an ache
in her heart
toward that dream, retreating,
left a wake
of small waves
in circles never completing.
Virginal
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
For an hour
every wildflower
beseeches her,
"To thy breast,
Elizabeth! "
But she is mine;
her lips divine
and her ******* and hair
are mine alone.
Let the wildflowers moan.
the last defense of Love
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
... if all the parables of Love
fell mute, and every sermon too,
and every hymn and votive psalm
proved insufficient to the task
of proving Love might yet be true
in such a cruel, uncaring world...
the last defense of Love, my Love,
the gods might offer, would be You.
Your Gift
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
Counsel, console.
This is your gift.
Calm, kiss and encourage.
Tenderly lift
each world-wounded heart
from its near-fatal dart.
Mend every rift.
Bid pain, "Depart! "
Help friends' healing to start.
Keep every reason to grieve
for your own untaught heart.
At the Natchez Trace
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
I.
Solitude surrounds me
though nearby laughter sounds;
around me mingle men who think
to drink their demons down,
in rounds.
Beside me stands a woman,
a stanza in the song
that plays so low and fluting
and bids me sing along.
Beside me stands a woman
whose eyes reveal her soul,
whose cheeks are soft as eiderdown,
whose hips and ******* are full.
Beside me stands a woman
who scarcely knows my name;
but I would have her know my heart
if only I knew where to start.
II.
Not every man is as he seems;
not all are prone to poems and dreams.
Not every man would take the time
to meter out his heart in rhyme.
But I am not as other men—
my heart is sentenced to this pen.
III.
Men speak of their "ambition"
but they only know its name . . .
I never say the word aloud,
but I have felt the Flame.
IV.
Now, standing here, I do not dare
to let her know that I might care;
I never learned the lines to use;
I never worked the wolves' bold ruse.
But if she looks my way again,
perhaps I will, if only then.
V.
How can a man have come so far
in searching after every star,
and yet today,
though years away,
look back upon the winding way,
and see himself as he was then,
a child of eight or nine or ten,
and not know more?
VI.
My life is not empty; I have my desire . . .
I write in a moment that few man can know,
when my nerves are on fire
and my heart does not tire
though it pounds at my breast—
wrenching blow after blow.
VII.
And in all I attempted, I also succeeded;
few men have more talent to do what I do.
But in one respect, I stand now defeated;
In love I could never make magic come true.
VIII.
If I had been born to be handsome and charming,
then love might have come to me easily as well.
But if had that been, then would I have written?
If not, I'd remain; **** that demon to hell!
IX.
Beside me stands a woman,
but others look her way
and in their eyes are eagerness . . .
for passion and a wild caress?
But who am I to say?
Beside me stands a woman;
she conjures up the night
and wraps itself around her
till others flit about her
like moths drawn to firelight.
X.
And I, myself, am just as they,
wondering when the light might fade,
yet knowing should it not dim soon
that I might fall and be consumed.
XI.
I write from despair
in the silence of morning
for want of a prayer
and the need of the mourning.
And loneliness grips my heart like a vise;
my anguish is harsher and colder than ice.
But poetry can bring my heart healing
and deaden the pain, or lessen the feeling.
And so I must write till at last sleep has called me
and hope at that moment my pen has not failed me.
XII.
Beside me stands a woman,
a mystery to me.
I long to hold her in my arms;
I also long to flee.
Beside me stands a woman;
how many has she known
more handsome, charming,
chic, alarming?
I hope I never know.
Beside me stands a woman;
how many has she known
who ever wrote her such a poem?
I know not even one.
Apr 5, 2020
Apr 5, 2020 at 3:51 AM UTC
He travels
Aimlessly
With no specific place
In mind
He is not lost
Nor does he want to be
Found
Oct 23, 2019
Oct 23, 2019 at 5:49 AM UTC
A window seat
A good book
Dylan's discography
This ought to get me there.
I'm headed out with my life in a bag.
The simplicity of it all on your back.
Profoundly liberating to societies hold.
Jul 1, 2019
Jul 1, 2019 at 7:57 PM UTC
My mothers love I never knew.
Her affection was cold and pale blue.
My thorny heart was born to sin.
In creek water, I'm born again.
A pack of joes, a fith of gin,
I follow ghosts of what could've been.
Ive seen the sun pass through the. moon
In every town, I start again.
Mar 2, 2019
Mar 2, 2019 at 11:05 PM UTC
Before the thaw, my feet will be rooted
Into this nation’s primordial freeze
My muscles and bones will be acquainted with malaise
The sun’s altruism will be refuted
Before the thaw, I will struggle to find consciousness
The frost will leak through the bedroom window
And don the facade of a blanket
The door will prove to be bottomless
Possibilities will seem unachievable
The brain will itch for what it can not have
Buses will limp through congestion
And the blizzards may feast on the feeble
You may want to write of your misery
But your automation will halt in cataclysm
Because someone held a door open
For the gust that billows bitterly
Gastric emissions will become tangible
As smouldering wastes contrast against the sky with rancour
The wispy whites, marginalized into *****
And the world remains infallible
I will lack the tools of incision
To enact my life’s revisions
I will weep for my unguided millions
While I saunter into oblivion
After the thaw, I will smile
My expatriate soul will run in the whimsical wind
Of the morning dayspring that will march unto me
I will stand over a kingdom of honey-filled tiles
After the thaw, the arks will converge
Into the straits of the Bermudian Sea and the
Elusive Caspian Forest, where I will learn to love again
While bidding farewell to winter’s dirge
In the waking world, I will ***** a limestone castle
Where entropy will rule and the mind’s domain
Is left susceptible to perennial reverence
The sea, coloured true, nesting a fairgrounds vessel
In this Great Revision, gargantuan skyways
Will show the world how exiguous we are
That we must not wait for exodus to come
Should we fear to waste away
Into icebergs
Dec 3, 2018
Dec 3, 2018 at 5:35 PM UTC
With groggy eyes
I glanced outside my window.
It was early morning
and the street was deserted below.
Sleep had somehow evaded me
the night before.
The desire to mould my future
forces my mind to work overtime.
I have forgotten how to relax
and switch off at night.
Unknown fears drown my mind
all the time.
Below, I saw a vagabond,
unaware of where he was lying.
He slept more peacefully than me.
His needs were probably less than mine.
He was like a rolling stone
who gathered no stress.
Whereas my expectations offered resistance.
Preventing me from going with the flow, in acceptance.
Though our needs are few,
our expectations can become too many.
As I looked away, I wondered whether
I should pity him or me.
Sep 14, 2018
Sep 14, 2018 at 9:59 AM UTC
Some say
I am a Vagabond
in my own flesh carrying a heart
desperate enough to fly with
wounded wings.
My tears look like a
wondering rain-forest filled with
white lilies and baby breath.
My words ache to write you into existence.
Who am I? I am poetry,
but you can call me a Vagabond.
Sep 5, 2018
Sep 5, 2018 at 3:27 PM UTC
Vagabond heart;
Destined to roam.
Cursed and forsaken.
Forever alone.
Jun 25, 2018
Jun 25, 2018 at 5:55 PM UTC
ive traveled here and there.
ive seen incredible works of art
and pieces of history
scattered across the globe.
never will i know "home",
never will i fully belong,
never will i not miss someone.
a life full of adventures
and new faces,
i wouldn't trade it for anything.
the pain is always there,
but the memories will never fade.
joy will always abound
in the hope for the future
and the days of the past.
being a world traveler,
a vagabond,
has its troubles.
but the rewards make
it well worth it.
Mar 15, 2018
Mar 15, 2018 at 8:33 PM UTC
Loving never mattered to someone so tired of it.
In that quiet town where the sun rarely showed itself,
and with roads puddled by the never-ending rain,
she found herself swearing
promising
that what broke her could never reach her again.
Nobody could put a finger on where she came from.
All traces would only lead back
to the old inn’s waitress
who saw her arrive with a look so barren,
and fed her for free, as she always did to vagabonds.
This town full of compassion wasn’t for someone who wanted to avoid it.
And so, after a few days and nights,
she left for nowhere.
Jan 8, 2018
Jan 8, 2018 at 4:36 AM UTC
Just a mere vagabond I call myself
Every stream I reside into changes current in my fall
There are no parts to me
I'm just around, everywhere
And someone to me somewhere
Often I wonder when I'll flow in the same stream again?
And as I get lost in the one I'm in
I'll be running to another creek yet again
Cloistered I am yet I choose where I move
Oh such a *********
Who laments but seldom improves
Strongest they call me
For they know one day I'll swallow them too
Wise I call myself too
Though I know I'm a fool
Who feigns death under the thunderstorm
But saves the selfish believing no blade of theirs can dare cut me.
Dec 21, 2017
Dec 21, 2017 at 12:54 PM UTC
Forget Portland and Austin and Santa Cruz.
Those famously strange places,
where the tourists gawk at local weirdos.
Here is not there.
Here is the place of advice such as:
“When life gives you meatballs put a wig on a dog.”
—True story.
Here is the place where:
“With all good things in life you just have to wipe the bird **** off.”
The place where steel and marble Confederate ghosts,
watch the wealthy renovate their westward homes along a cobblestone road.
Where paintings are propped to rot up in alleys,
and buzzing twenty-somethings on their way back from a show,
shake it and tilt it and carry it home.
—Gilded frame and all.
This is the place of painted concrete where walls are canvases,
and red bricks pop out of the ground,
the tree roots poking through to trip you.
Here’s where the People’s Beer comes from Milwaukee,
but we replaced the R in ribbon with here,
and sell it by the caseload when it rains and when it’s Tuesday.
Where young people go to find themselves getting lost becoming someone else,
remixing history to not admit naivety,
before they’ve been sandpapered through experience.
—To a core.
This is an ink-stained but not splattered place.
Where lines are careful, permanent and abundant,
and on Fridays can cost 13 bucks.
Here is the place where people roam like that restaurant rabbit:
listless and nomadic and stuck.
Where there’s a wild streak in its heart that follows the tracks,
and cuts the city in half.
This is the place that Carvers itself out into cultures,
and you can be from the Bottom,
or proud to be a Rat.
Here is where you night-drive over the bridge,
see the skyline and feel restlessly content.
Here is home.
—For now.
Nov 14, 2017
Nov 14, 2017 at 12:50 AM UTC
<First line in hook all sections sung by three people in unison>*
Hook
It doesn't matter what you ar-r-re,
or what you do...
or what you're eating.
It only matters what you sa-a-ay,
how you treat others...
are you com-peting?
<First line in lyric sections sung by three people in unison>
Lyrical body
Walk out your do-or,
walk down, your drive-way
Down the street and...
...see what's happening.
Thousands of people every-where,
but no one's talking
no one see's them!
Step back from the stre-e-et
hear what I say, imagine, imagine...
...do you believe me?
Hook
It doesn't matter what you ar-r-re,
or what you do...
or what you're eating.
It only matters what you sa-a-ay,
how you treat others...
...do they see it?
Do you feel com-pleted?
Lyrical body
Sho-ow-me-something, ever-lasting,
better even...
...than your m-i-i-nd.
Imagination is the power,
nothing you hold makes you a king.
What is -the-e- future?
How, do-you-see-it?
Is no one talking?
Do you believe me?
Tell us your-or future,
can you see it?
Do you feel it?
Come on believe me.
Hook
It doesn't matter what you ar-r-re,
or what you do...
or what you're eating.
It only matters what you sa-a-ay,
how you treat others...
are you com-peting?
Lyrical body
Sho-ow-me-something, ever-lasting,
better even...
...than your m-i-i-nd.
Imagination is the power.
Nothing-your-holding,
makes you a king...
...gives you glory...
...marks The Hour!
Hook
It doesn't matter what you ar-r-re,
or what you do...
or what you're eating.
Hook
It doesn't matter what you ar-r-re,
or what you do...
or what you're eating.
Fade Out Hook
It doesn't matter what you ar-r-re,
or what you do...
or what you're eating.
Oct 5, 2017
Oct 5, 2017 at 8:18 AM UTC
The wanderer walks more then he talks fished in a *** of emotions asteroid
torn by the fact that time is a plant
of which can't be regrown when grown on a slant
oh surface what is my purpose?
why am I here? what am I after?
what is my fear?
Stuck in a haze
of being afraid of the future
I'm the wanderer of night
The walker of the shadows
my feet glide lightly beneath the
street & it's gravel
I'm peeping at the living
within the holes of their hollows
Wondering if there lives are a cycle
Go to sleep, Go to work,
Go where ever the light glows
Follow the crowd, be a part of the now
Your past actions will only be known as a noun, I've figured it out, I've opened the spout
The opportunities are endless there just flowing about
the waters of remembrance are very shallow, and impact must be heavy to make a splash
Do what you love, and your passions will truly last
Don't be stuck in the past, instead, thrive on what's here today
This message is retrospective
echoed in constant delay
As I walk deeper into the dark this is what I truly say....L...O...S...T
it's hard to stay on track when you've mentally lost perspective
When everything you've known turns unfamiliar within seconds
Is this good energy?
or the spread of an infection?
I need a tower of fortune cookies
to hold my lessons
For when that tower crashes
it will crumble into a message
Do I search for more? or do I stay inside the common section?
I'm searching for the uncommon and people of rarity
Who can explain the emotions
of human irregularity?
Will I sustain my vision of singularity
art crafted in loops
repetition brings recognition to patterns covered from clarity
This is just a turn of the leaf
roots of the past years die off
they become obsolete, as we drift deeper into forms of technology, we suddenly find people in the form of anomalies
Look outside your window and standing there I will be, a stranger in the night
Peeping through windows for company
Only searching for answers that all of us seem to seek
Who will I be today and the following week
Who will I meet today that will change who I want to be
These are thoughts of the wanderer waking amount the streets
Nov 22, 2016
Nov 22, 2016 at 12:25 AM UTC