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Thomas Crone Dec 2012
"Boom, headshot!"

I'm coming for you,
My groundhog,
Furry adversary.
The next one's for you,
Maybe two.
I shoot first,
Ask questions later.
That's me
And you?
My target practice.
Tell your friends
I've got more.
Don't believe me?
Come out of you hole
And see!
On the written version of this I have a three inch bulls-eye I hit from 98 yds with a .22 using (during that shot) a non-calibrated scope. If you've ever spent time in the country side you'll understand the damage that can be done by groundhogs and that lethal removal is necessary.

**NOTE** : No groundhogs were harmed in the writing of this poem, that came after.
Thomas Crone Dec 2012
'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse

Til the window flew open, the thief did commence

He stole the boy's Xbox, and the girl's innocence

He crumbled the cookies, knocked over a glass

The father came out; shot him in the ***

The mother was screaming, in horror and fear

She didn't notice her son, he opened a beer

The cat ripped the stockings, the dog ate the goods

While all hell broke loose, the thief ran, to the woods

The girl found the phone, she held it so fond

She dialed 991, the girl was a blonde

She then started crying, the boy stomped around

Until he passed out, and fell to the ground

The clock chimed twelve times, the conscious met fright

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.
Thomas Crone Dec 2012
Love is a chess game.
Each can succeed in being
A royal pain in the ***.
Both are hard to tame,
But both have class.
The Queen is the most important.
Without her one becomes very challenging;
The other quite impossible.
And under no circumstance should the King
Treat the Queen as a tool.
But with great precision and care.
She can be easily lost
Which can just as easily ruin the King's life.
So don't you ever dare
Take advantage of your wife.
Thomas Crone Dec 2012
Ye who rigid up your brow
The time hath come
The time is now.
Sailing head into the fire
Ye think your strong?
You're up for hire.

First
Hurrah! We sail!
Across the sea,
Our faces pale
And drinking mead.
Us crew prepare
For what's to be;
Her vicious trials
She throws to thee.
The winds are strong,
Our journey long.
We ready up
For stars to lead.

Second
Hurrah! We sail!
Our will is strong
We'll never fail!
We chant our song:
For ye who wish
For dreams
Come true:
Ye must fight for,
Through and through.
The think'n thin,
Ye down your gin
For fight is all to do.

Third
Hurrah! We sail!
We feast tonight
With bread and mead,
We celebrate.  
Our time of need
For land for *****
Hath soon to be.
That blessid lady,
Blessid be,
Her briefs so tight
Oh, blessid me!
She waits ashore
Across this sea.
She wants some more
Ye brethren and me!

Fourth
Hurrah! We sail!
The shore awaits!
To send ye mail,
To tell thy fate
Morale was high
Our time was nigh!
We fought for life
And none hath died!
So riddle this ye swabbie;
To be a man my friend,
For home we sail at dawn,
Hurrah! We sail again!
Thomas Crone Dec 2012
As I dig I lack results.
Yet I dig deeper on the cloud.
I ask myself, "Whose fault?"
The one who isn't proud.
Why can't I see it's me;
Opening the door to nothing?
Allowing the splinters be set free
As they start to sing
Of deceitful truth,
Of passion and care.
I go into the booth, Not a confession to spare.
Open eyes are more blind.
Closed eyes are not forced
To gaze upon false minds
or on pain; the source.
Thomas Crone Dec 2012
Confusion is the essence of life
For which I don't give much thought
Of who is and isn't right
For me, at night.

I do not keep any one individual
In my head each day,
Losing my self control
And digging myself a hole.

I'm not crazy about you.
You aren't on my mind now.
I don't care what you do;
Whether I'm one or two.

So take your time.
You aren't on my mind;
You aren't the dime
That makes me chime.
For those who simply cannot let go
Thomas Crone Mar 2013
It's the Spring of '53
A Man and a Woman
Fall in love.
They marry in a church
By a garden of sunflowers
On the river.
They make love soon after
For the first time.

It's the Summer of '63
Bells chime as They lie in the grass
Under an oak tree.
His rough and Her soft hands
Are grasping one another
As They talk of memories.
They laugh and kiss in deep love
As though They only just met.

It's Autumn of '73.
She's home alone thinking of Him.
Of the joy She's had
Since that Spring long ago.
On His way home from work
He drives to the church
By a garden of sunflowers
On the river;
To gather sunflowers for Her.

It's Winter of '73
She sits in their bedroom
Staring blankly at a paper,
"Murdered outside an old church."
She looks at Their wedding photo.
Her hand is steady
As She feels the cold steel
Kiss Her temple.

He's looking down on Her begging,
"Don't do it, please, God, don't do it."
She hears nothing more
Than the lonely roar
Of Her tears splashing
On Their wooden floor.
She smiles, and pulls the trigger.
One of my favorites I've written
Thomas Crone Dec 2012
Some people cry
Before they die.
I ask, "why?,
All those lies?"
They look at the sky
Way up high.

In my darkest hour.

He's less than a guy;
You can't deny
So ***** your sigh.
You can't even rely
On keeping the tie
Between you and I.

You're right. Time to fly.
Thomas Crone Dec 2012
Your home in White Rocks Marina you sat; always there to greet your crew before a voyage. Your red sails standing out among the rest. Silently awaiting your Skipper, our own George Hay Kain, as you rested in your slip, anxious to get underway. You wouldn’t make a sound as you patiently waited for your crew to load their gear down below. After quick yet thorough engine checks your Yanmar engine would roar to life, never failing to put a smile on your Skipper’s face. Your stern lines would come off. Your excitement would rise but you would remain still waiting to be completely free. Your bow lines would come off. You then would gracefully back out of your slip, ready for yet another adventure. Onto the Bay you’d go, wondering where you’d end up next. No matter the challenges you faced, whether in the open ocean, or in the Chesapeake Bay; you always brought your crew home safely; you always prevailed.

My personal experiences aboard never left the Chesapeake Bay, however, the Bay was all I needed. Each moment I spent on board; each trip I attended; will remain with me always: My First Voyage with our Skipper, Branson, DJ, and Sam; Chestertown; simply preparing you for the winter; Long Cruise; Hurricane Irene; Your Final Voyage.

So faithful you would be for your crew, for your Skipper; harsh conditions or not. You may not be resting in your slip in White Rocks Marina, anxious to get underway, but you will always be in the memories, and the hearts, of Skipper George Hay Kain, and the crew of Sea Scout Ship 25.

May you now sail freely across the horizon, out on the open ocean,

Kuan Yin.
If any of you have ever grown fond of not only sailing, but a specific vessel in general, you can imagine or even know due to the economic struggles how it feels to be a part of the crew that brings her to her fate of being sold. Kuan Yin, a Mason 443 Ketch, was not just another boat for us Sea Scouts, she was an experience; a bond.
Thomas Crone Jan 2014
There was once a little jalapeño alone in a garden with very little to do but think. He thought about his old friends. Those he considered family. He thought of the silent sound of their screaming in pain while being ripped from their homes. The little jalapeño was caught under a leaf and unseen. There he hid unable to save his friends. The bell peppers, the onions, the avocados. The family of carrots was right next to him. Those were the hardest to watch. One was just a baby. Everything happened so fast. So...fast. The cabbage heads, oh the cabbage heads. The monster had dropped one. The little jalapeño watched it roll silently to a tree trunk. The monster had more than it could carry, and left it there, alone.

A few days had gone by since the genocide in that little garden by that little jalapeño. It was getting cold outside. Wasn't long before the cabbage head gave up. Crumpled away to nothing more than a small pile of dry, rotten leaves. The little jalapeño was the only one left. Alone in a garden with very little to do but think. He thought of his friends being chopped up to nothing. The horror of being nothing more than an ingredient. As the temperature began to drop he started to feel weak. The little jalapeño was dying. With no one at his side. But he was ok with this. Everything he knew or ever cared about was gone. No more laughing together.  No more crying together.

It began to rain very gently one morning. The drops splashed back from lightly tapping the sheet of frost on the ground. It was time. Time to be reunited with the rest of the garden. Time for the little jalapeño alone with his thoughts...to let go.
Write about spicy peppers she said...
Thomas Crone Dec 2012
As I open the door
I see the Head fueling
His anger with more,

And the Legs flailing
To give her beasts
Their three course meal.

And as they feast
The Body comes to steal
Reality from those

Who are unaware
The door is now closed
With not a soul to care.

In this pit of turmoil
The Arms fight for escape
The House of the Gargoyle,

It was never too late.
I was not a fan of living at my father's (After being treated poorly and thrown out) with his anger problems, his wife, her four dogs, and four cats. It was a zoo, and they were the main event. In this poem with no background history I have given each member a symbol. My father being the Head of the household, his wife being the Legs (she was obsessed with running as well as her pets who, before I had a job, were fed twice as better as I), my grandmother (If you knew the kind of person she was you'd understand, watch Supernatural. She is a demon. To the unaware she appears normal and harmless, however looks can be deceiving) being the Body, or heart and soul, of the operation, and lastly myself being the Arms; the fists.
Thomas Crone Dec 2012
Ideas are worthless
In my mind, I confess
Rather than perusing
I cower in loneliness.



What's worse than pain
Is the pain of others
Those who don't deserve.
What can I do,
To soothe such pain?
To help those who are trapped,
Against their will,
To be unhappy


She whispers; I yell
Her voice with so much
Power
Ever start a poem with an idea in your head that just seems awesome? Yet begin to write and just can't think of how to continue them? Kind of like...what's that word...writer's somethng. Eh I forget.
Thomas Crone Dec 2012
With a hint of Otis I say:
"Sittin' on some steps by the...ocean,
"Watching the people of today,
Puttin' on that lotion...
Couples walk by
Never say hi.
Pondering the meaning of life,
Woah! My god, look at that girl!
I really like her...shirt.
Wow my sunburn really hurts.
Ah, the beach. What a soothing feeling
The ocean can reach...when one can
Hear it over screaming kids. Parents
Smoking as they push the cribs.
Foreigners ...Probably judging us Americans. Finding
Importance in life by being more tan.
Hey look there's a seagull. So free
To fall in the air. It's just not
fair. I wish I could steal fries from
Strangers and get away with it.
Just made awkward eye contact
With a runner. She was cute
But what a ******; I couldn't
Catch her if I tried. There's a
Rent-a-cop. He may yell, "Stop!"
But a nerf-gun can only do so
Much. What a job. Authority and
Such. This boardwalk is repetitive.
Needy kids and whiny parents.
I might need a sedative...there's
A choir of noise in the background. Arcade
Schemes...games...some bells, the ocean and
The screaming kids that are yet to be tamed.
Smh @ r generation.
So I found a "poem" I wrote while sitting by the bathrooms at Rehoboth waiting for a storm to finish its course (It didn't). Eventually my boredom got the better of me and I decided to write an improve poem about what I saw. I asked my friend DJ for some paper and received what appears to be our reservation paper for Killens Pond State Park, one of the handful of parks we stayed at while biking to the beach. Anywho...
Thomas Crone Dec 2012
They say Inspiration
Comes from within.
It helps you rise up
And strike down your
Giants; your enemies.
Inspiration can fix a life,
Create a life, and save a life.
If there is one thing I know,
About Inspiration,
It is that it never has a price,
But a lock.
Some locks can be destroyed,
Others picked.
Not the lock on Inspiration.
A special key is required
To open this lock.
A key made from
The size of your heart.
With true passion,
Does your heart grow;
With true passion comes
The key to Inspiration.
A giant to defeat
Giants.
Find that passion.
Act on it, and
You may be Inspired,
Act on it, and
Change your very path
Of life.
Thomas Crone Dec 2012
Looking to the future is looking
Onward into the past.
Never may you discover
Even the dimmest
Light in the depths;
In the reality of the dark.
No escape to pleasure the
Elegant figure inside.
She lacks presence;
She lacks relief.
Thomas Crone Dec 2012
He gazes into a mirror
Reciting the Love Song he wrote,
With far less beauty than the woman
It's for.

Each lonely minute he thinks of her
As he sings each note.
He then grabs his coat in depression
And runs to the door.

The night is cold and gloomy
As he navigates the streets.
He approaches the house he knows
And halts at a window.

Through the fog glass could he see
His maiden, head to feet
At this moment he throws
His coat to the ground, revealing no clothes.

She looks out the window in horror
Screaming; gazing at his ****** flare.
As his blood pumps his courage he sings!
Up comes her dad revealing his weapon

He kicks open her door
Blocks it off with a chair,
And each begin firing
One with a gun, one with some fun,

Down falls Peeping Tom.
Everyone has to have their love poem!
Thomas Crone Dec 2012
Companionship is a journey.
It doesn't always end in happiness.
It tears you apart beyond
Recognition.
It gnaws at your emotions
And illuminates your sorrow.
Each day you struggle
With redundant pain, and
Weakness.
It is a roller coaster
With a fall in its track,
Where all emotions are mangles,
Where confusion is born,
Where regret is born.
You weren't a friend.
You were a lie.
Through revelations I see
You hated every bit,
Every idea of mine
From the start.
I see who you really are,
You sadistic caretaker of hate,
You become so heavy
I can no longer feed you
My weakness.
It's time for me to move on.
We all have our regrets and our ghosts.
Thomas Crone Dec 2012
Life.
Without it we are nothing
Yet with it I sometimes feel like
Nothing.

With death I am empty
Yet in life I am full of a very lively
Depression.

In life my closest companion
In the roughest of times is
Loneliness.

I see true happiness only
During the times where I am too
Blind to see sadness.

I fail to hide anger for those who
Care, yet fail to release anger for
Those who deserve.

I am so foreign to clarity that I am
Most confused during the clearest Of times.

Love heals my most painful
Wounds but creates my worst Memories.
These are just things to make you think. Yeah. THINK. That word our generation is so unaware of.
Thomas Crone Dec 2012
Hey it rained today
Here on Rehoboth Beach
I don't have much to say
As I laugh at each
Of the idiots on this beach
Twas not just rain
But a storm
And unlike the norm
People here claim the terrain
As would a leach.
One in particular
Was strapped...with a baby.
Above the law for sure
On bath salts maybe
Did run to the shore in agony.
Life with no umbrella
Must make one sad fella
For such measures of magnitude
To ruin the attitude
Of everyone here on Rehoboth Beach



All dem beach biddies.
Yoloswagin up in here
Gettin my swag on it cities
And all over dat pier.
Rockin dem flippy floppies
Engage slomoswag
Drunk on lemon poppies
With my gift shop bag.
Soak it up ladies
The wife beater
The shadies
Come on over here
Mmm taste that retainer
Of champions!
Can't contain her
Sweet two ton European.
For my senior week two of my close friends and I hopped on bicycles each carrying our share of gear and biked over 200 miles to Rehoboth Beach, DE. After we finally arrived at the beach it began to storm violently. While we waited under I roof by the bathrooms on the boardwalk, watching how crazy people began to act I demanded an activity to pass the time, as the beach was closed. So I pulled out a dollar and, while very tired, I wrote a poem on either side. Neither very serious.
Thomas Crone Dec 2013
To all the ******* who don't
Know what is and isn't important
For their own **** good.
A *****, rigid, spiked, smelly
One finger salute for each
And every one of you.

This ******* throws his kids
Out into the streets in November.
Big man of the house who trys so
Desperately to be intimidating,
With a ****** back and a
Horrible stench of alcohol on his breath.

This ******* who thinks she's special.
The stuck up ***** that too closely
Resembles a plump ****** carrot.
Who thinks the perfect guy is a hairless
Fruity smelling mommy's boy *****
With perfect flippy hair and a big ****.

This *******, the few, the proud,
The fruity smelling mommy's boy *****
Who wouldn't know a pair of pliers
If they were ripping off his sparkly earrings.
Never having an ounce of dirt on his hands,
But at least she... I mean he has nice teeth.

This ******* that can't tell one honest
Fact about his "hard and lonely" home life.
The one who nods and laughs but just wants to ****.
Who beats off to his computer after taking a hit
That he bummed off his rich friends.
Who is confused as to why some people (me) hate him.

This ******* who screws with the emotions
Of one of the best guys ever to glide through her life.
Who throws him on a roller coaster with smiles
And flirtatious giggling while she lets him kiss her.
Then throws him to the side and takes the next in line.
I wish only the very best for you, you ****** *****.

Those ******* who abuse, torment
Or play with someone who just wishes the best.
The ones who hurt the vulnerable
To feel better for themselves.
No one deserves the **** you give,
Except each and every one of you.

Honorable mention to those *******
That complain about all men being the same
When in reality they're just searching for
The same type of meat headed ******
Every time they have such a painful terrible
Breakup. Just shut the **** up. For real.
Thomas Crone Dec 2012
Such a dull evening
Enlightened by your woeful presence.
From the black humidity you came
Out of the silence of the air,
Oh mysterious woman of the night
Beauty topped with long brown hair,
How you jog so gracefully,
And remove thy shirt so discretely.
This is more of an inside story than it is an artistic piece of literature. I was walking home from an evening marching band practice one night and the poem says the rest. A woman jogged on by, and as she passed me she began to remove her shirt. Rest assured I did not complain.
Thomas Crone Dec 2012
Truth is nonexistent.
It only helps us believe
We are good people.
Only bad people lie,
Right?
Bad people who care,
For what they want,
For themselves!
Why is it the seem
To help the most?
They commit to charity,
And the needs of others.
Publicity,
Self belief.
It is not the truth
That hurts these people,
But lies.
Truth is just another name.
Truth is the cover up called
Hypocrisy.
Everybody lies.
Each cause damage;
Torn relationships,
Torn reputations.
Everybody possesses evil.
Say, "hello," humanity.
Thomas Crone Dec 2012
She had no place to go.
Walls around her,
Trapped in her own mind.
So many ideas
Locked behind the bars of
Imagination.
Covered all over
With lies of forced secrecy.
What lurks for her next?
Added greed and deception,
Growling.
Won't someone help her?
Save her from seclusion,
From pure elusive destruction?
She's no fit on her own
Not from herself,
Not after what happened.
Her world now destroyed,
It was only her self esteem.
Her will to be herself,
Remain independent.
Her soul, now cursed,
Screams for a way out.
If only there was an opening, a merciful light.
But instead a dark, Aged, Relentless being.
Thomas Crone Dec 2012
It's always there.
You can ignore it
But it won't care,
Take a hit
It's still there.
Pour another drink
It just isn't fair,
What you might think
Is gone, is still there.
Troubles of the deep
Rip out your hair
Consider that leap,
It's always there.
Break your relationships
And it's still there.
What feels like a whip
It's always there
No matter how hard you try
You'll face despair,
No matter how high
It's always there.
For those who let their troubles build on top of one another inside.
Thomas Crone Dec 2012
It's your fault, it's her fault, it's they're fault.

You introduced me to her,
Supported our chemistry
The whole way through.
She broke me in two,
And what else would you do
But keep quiet?
It's your fault.

He treated her as an object,
Like she was dirt.
She once opened her eyes to see,
And started to flirt.
He began threatening
She then wanted nothing from me.
It's her fault.

I thought it wouldn't be so bad;
The lies, the medicine, the mad.
They dragged me down that hole;
The hounds picking my soul.
I made it my goal for revenge,
Rather than leaving before its end.
It's they're fault.

How could they do this?
How dare they do this!
Step into my life,
And torture my bliss
I didn't ask for a dime,
Yet received millions in filth.
(Hysterical laughter) Why is it so funny?

It's not your fault, nor her fault, nor they're fault.
No, It's my fault.
Thomas Crone Dec 2012
O Golden Hair, My Friend

Kitty kitty
So fluffy
So witty
So unbearably pretty.
Stay away from
The city,
My kitty kitty
It'd be such a pity.



Hussanara

This is my mango.
There are many like it,
But this one is
Mine.
Without me,
My mango is useless.
Without my Mango,
I am useless...



My Sweet Wonderful Mary

Dark dim witty kitty
Trailed into New York City
With bad intents inevitably
Bad.
Through Earth and lake committing
All its great natural giving
Forced utter pain incoming,
Dad.



Lord (Religious readers please take no offense again the writer was not quite there)

God is a champ.
The bearded light upstairs.
He's cold and he's damp
Like fresh lumpy pears.
Won't one, if you dare,
Stick your hand in the air
To clamp
Like bears?
He's a scare of
Puny people
With long ginger hair.
Whose souls the cannot
Go in there,
The holiest of despair.
They all run through his stare
Of bulging eyes he got!

Anyone want to translate that one? I sure couldn't.
Here's a small riddle. Not stating anything specific at all. The writer was not in the right mind when he/she wrote these a few years ago. Not. In. The. Right. Mind.
Thomas Crone Dec 2012
As the temperature drops
Also  does my heart.
My motivation stops
Wishing for that new start
To show you I've changed.
The old me is gone,
My thoughts are hinged
On what I've done.
I can't show you a **** thing.
You're here in spirit,
I'm in a cell this Spring.
I don't have one bit
Of life left in me.
That one thing
That's been arranged,
I'll see you this Spring
And show you I've changed.
Thomas Crone Jan 2015
Once every few years she is around,
but she is still around. She is around enough nough to shine light on the constantly dying life that is my own. She is around every few years when the trees hold their supreme grace. Every few years, in the Summertime she is around. And every few years we meet, in the countryside blanketing the city. It's on a bench, we meet. A bench overlooking a crisp-yellow field of sunflowers, much inferior in beauty, to her radiant stare. She sits down beside me. The smell of her perfume overwhelms my senses, like a single wave in the ocean, greeting a lonely rock. Before any bit of music flows from her luscious, but naked lips, she presents a cigarette. The damp and silent air is filled with the subtle crackle of a match being lit. The flame, meeting the tip of the cigarette, now burning with complete compatibility. She exhales a perfect funnel, and we watch as the smoke disappears into the gentle breeze. She offers it to me, as I take a breath to decline, she entraps my vulnerable soul with her mesmerizing gaze. Michaelangelo himself could not have created a more perfect pair. Like two planets, holding all the beauty and mystery, in the universe. I remove it from her silky hands as she smiles. A small but powerful smile holding the very definition of perfection. "Hello." I feel helpless as the warm tone of her voice fills the air around me. My ears have not heard a more aesthetically pleasing sound since the last time we met. It is as though I am hearing the word for the first time. "Hello," I say back. We sit in silence for a while. Side by side, her leg gently pressed against mine. Not a word yet spoken, and I cannot be more satisfied. She eventually speaks. She tells stories of the years passed. The world, shrinking as I listen. Word after word as the sun begins to slowly retire. Hours pass and she falls asleep in my arms. Upon sunrise we will go our separate ways. But in this moment of time standing still, I rejoice.
Thomas Crone Mar 2013
"Don't ruin your life"
As he grabs for his knife,
He storms out of the door
To their home.
With tears in his eyes
He laughs at her lies;
His foot to the floor,
He heads to the dome.

He sits on the sideline
While watching the time;
Ready to get on the field
And win.
His time to fall
As he catches the ball,
He then yields
To his team with a grin.

He enters the stage
With his face full of rage
Gripping the knife
In his hand.
She sends him a text,
"Don't you dare hurt my ex."
He ignores that **** wife
He can't stand.

     He runs and he scores,
He steps on the field;
     He hears the crowd roar
He's ready to steal
     He glances with awe
The life of the one
     At that man
She sleeps with.

     He walks to her husband
Knife at his back
     He holds out his hand
He starts to attack
     He quickly falls
He does not run,
     Ball in his hand
But on the ground he sits.
Thomas Crone Dec 2012
You're beautiful,
I am too shy,
I guess I'm just
That kind of guy.
Your soothing voice
Sounds of angels,
Every time you speak
I feel so warm.
I have no choice
But to feel you,
To hold you tight
With all my might
I squeeze you
'Til you scream in fright
Oh what a sight!
Light up the night.
But I am sad, why?
I haven't the courage
To look into your twinkling eye.
This poem is about a very old, very beautiful gal. She was born Tula, Russia in 1934 and goes by the name of Mosin Nagant.
Thomas Crone Mar 2013
A funeral is always a saddening thing,
For everybody is somebody to someone.
But some funeral scenes chill you to the bone
And one day in our town we had one.

A very young mother had died;
Something that you just don't expect.
And the shops and stores had all closed their doors;
They did it out of love and respect.

And in the crowded funeral home that day,
With everyone present weeping,
The sound of a little girl's voice was heard.
She said, "That's my mommie, she's sleeping."

Then I heard the sound of her little feet, "tap, tap, tap,"
As she made her way down the aisle.
Her little purse dangled from her tiny wrist
and it brushed her best Sunday dress,
And she boldly asserted the confidence
That little folks like her possess.

To the life that has no final chapter
There's no ending and no last mile.
The preacher and the rest were petrified,
But on the little girl's face was a smile.

She said, "Wake up, Mommie, wake up."
And still not satisfied she reached out with her little hand
And touched her face and cried.
Then the broken hearted daddy spoke
With a gentleness and with power,
And the words that issued from his lips
Was the sermon for the hour.

In a child like faith he told her
That the dead in Christ will rise
"God gave us his word," he said,
"And we know he never lies.

We can't wake up our sleeping Mommie,
But we know someone who can.
Baby, only God can wake up Mommie.
Let's go home and leave her in his hands."
I'm not a religious person, but that doesn't change my opinion towards this poem, and my desire to share it with the world.
Thomas Crone Aug 2013
He fought back monsters
With his little black book.
He faced his worst fears
With his little black book.
He conquered the world,
His school and its halls,
Fought for rebellion,
Grew ten feet tall.
He walked up to a bear
And slapped its paw.
Even viewed an "R" rated movie
Down at the mall.
Yeah, Johnny sure lived
The life of them all.
And all thanks
To his little black book.
It made mommy buy flowers,
Instead of drugs by the pound.
It made the house peaceful
When his dad was around.
Instead of a fist
It was a bowl of fruit punch.
Instead of a slap
It was ice cream! For lunch!
Life sure was swell
With that little black book.
'Til one day he came home,
It was nowhere to be found.
He panicked with sweat
As he looked all around.
And all that was heard
Was that quiet sound
Of Johnny crying.
Until he came upon
That fearful sight:
His parents laughing
One fearful night.
And in their hand,
A little black book.
Johnny's heart filled with rage
As they turned the next page.
He ran to the door
And out of his cage
He ran and ran through
Thick fields of sage.
He wept and whaled
Like a singer on stage.
Oh wow oh wow it was
The site of the age!
Until Johnny came to a halt.
If he left without it
It would be his fault.
He needed the little black book
And at any cost.
He stormed through the door
And without being caught
Snatched his book.
And when he thought he was clear
In walks daddy
With case full of beer.
But Johnny sees not beer,
But a case full of cheer!
All with the help
Of that little black book.
Thomas Crone Dec 2012
Life is a constant struggle
That goes on and on.
For some it is a bottomless pit,
For others a personal utopia.
For everyone it is an undefined
Mystery.
What is life?
The will to make ****** choices,
Getting lost in a dangerous city
Or lighting fire to one's phone?
Is it about the greed to succeed,
******* over one's fellow man?
Or is it about creating goals
So pointless yet so important
And trying restlessly to reach them?
Maybe it's about facing reality.
For some it's that goals are pointless,
That disappointment is imminent.
For others it's who they truly are,
That they will always lose in society.
Life is a twisted game
That cannot be won.
Every part of existence will lose.
At some point,
Everyone; everything, will die.
With reality, social status seems
Useless.
Competition is a waste of time.
Making life better for others
Is the way to make life better
For oneself,
For the World.
Life is a glass of sand
That must stop at some point.
It is not to be wasted.
Life is precious.
It is full of freedom;
Full of control.
The game; although inevitably
Tragic,
Is a game of luck.
Without luck one will
Fail.
Will you fail the game of life?
After my previous essays, this one can remain open to one's own thoughts.
Thomas Crone Dec 2012
There is something foreign; a bright smile from one ear to the other: happiness. I am at peace. Life is good.
A walk in the park is where I meet you, the most beautiful woman in the world. That lucky great white.
We begin to talk, and we flirt, and then we set up a date. Dinner and a movie. We do that very often.
Months later we decide  it's time to move in together; buy a small house in a great neighborhood.
Not  long after that is when we marry and happily leave for our honeymoon in Paris, France.
We  decide  to have a beautiful child; a  beautiful  brown haired baby boy, now our family.
At our  peak  we discover a tragic flaw in his  health, an increasingly  growing disease.
I  turn for guidance, for relief, from a 10 year old bottle  of the bar's finest  whiskey.
My anger takes over as I start to yell  at  her, for dropping a small  glass of juice.
The door slams  on  my way out into  the  cold night.  My destination a blur.
You're home with the baby, both crying in its confusion and your regret.
I drive to the coast. A blindness of sorrow overcoming twinkling eyes.
You grab for the phone and call  for  me; your hour of helplessness.
I don't answer, my phone flies out  my  window as I drive faster.
You try to calm our baby boy, knowing his imminent tragedy.
I  stop the car. And  I  get  out , slowly  walking  to  the cliff.
You  tell  the  boy  everything  is  ok as you  start  to smile.
I open  my  wallet  and  pull  out a  picture  of  you  two.
You hold  him  and  nurture  him  as  if  you're  right.
I  stare  bl­ankly at  the  photo,  my  wife  and  boy.
You  begin  to sing to him; a nice, sweet lullaby.
I drop the  photo; and watch  the  wind take it.
"Oh, Hush,  little  baby, don't  you cry."
I  begin to fight a flow of bad emotions.
You  start  walking  him to his cradle.
I  step  up  to the welcoming  ledge.
You  remind our baby boy it's ok.
As  I  slowly  become  at  peace.
Our boy drifts off into a sleep.
I  step  forward  and  I  leap.
You quietly cry beside him.
As  I  fall  I quietly speak;
Four  soft,  last  words:
"I  love  you, Both."
Love can bring
The strongest
Down.
Thomas Crone Dec 2013
I tremble and wonder
How life took a turn away from bliss.
I think of my childhood worries,
Of my parents yelling at each other
Only to end in divorce when I was only
Nine years old.
Of my youth being taken in confusion
About what is right or wrong.
I think of how I treated my poor
Mother as I chose a side in the battle
Of custody between the three of us.
How I flawed as a person during
My first real chance to be truly happy.
I think of being thrown out into the night
Blindsided and full of anger,
Trying hard to not cause myself harm.
And of walking out a year and a half later
Giving up on being dissatisfied
With how I was living.
I think of hopping from one home
To another, unable to find a job.
Of needing quick relief,
And enlisting in the armed forces.
Wondering how I now await
The life of a special operations soldier.
What happened to that child
Who was not yet nine years old?
Who was he? Was he happy?
How did he picture his future?
Yes, this is my life
Thomas Crone Dec 2012
What can I do?
It's gone
It can't be true!
Oh Gargoyle, where are you?

You completed me
My life is nothing!
Where must you be?
The light I see!

Oh, Gargoyle! Come back to me!
During the second half of my high school career I faced many challenges when it came to my father and his wife. Surviving the zoo they called home, dealing with his and hers drunk fits and drama, being thrown out twice for no reason; and two more times after for payback. I dreaded going to my father's. In front of their house was a rather heavy stone gargoyle that came with the wife. I had always hoped it would get stolen (It wasn't an unsafe neighborhood but we had our fair share of car break-ins). Yet through two years or so of neighborhood problems the gargoyle remained. Each time I would be dropped off at my father's by a friend, or a friend's parents, I would offer them (jokingly of course) a free gargoyle and of course the answer was always a chuckle followed by a no. However, one night a week or so after my junior year of high school was finished, I was at a campfire in the back yard of some people I had just met...a block over, and lined up with my father's. A young man under the influence of something  showed up and we began to talk. As with everyone else I offered him one free gargoyle. To my surprise after questioning my seriousness he, with great joy, said yes. So around midnight I walked across the alley, and then my street, with this person I just met. With a light on in the living room he and I crept up to the porch, rocked the gargoyle back and forth until we got it off its podium and carried it back to his vehicle setting it in his back seat with the seatbelt around it (Don't worry, we're safe). A few weeks later I showed up to see some reactions playing the whole "Where'd the gargoyle go??" card. To my knowledge, just like the gargoyle, I got away with it. The gargoyle was replaced with a weighed down cooler with a paper on it written in sharpie, "$50 for the return of our 200lb CONCRETE gargoyle."

So I decided to write a small poem of how I imagine his wife acted for a month or so during the mourning process.
Thomas Crone Dec 2012
From the sky she fell
Just kidding her soul she did sell
She's full of hate
She guards the gate
To the firey realms of Hell.
Her voice is of a screech
It's pitch no one can reach
Many fall to their doom
By her voice, to their tomb
Few ever live to tell.

A warrior must soon arise
To end the beast's demise
They must over power
Her thrill to devour
And claim her head for prize.
Her rein must come to end
Or forever we must defend
From kitties and pitties
Gargoyles in cities
Or retreat our life to the sky.
My extremely charismatic father married this overwhelmingly wonderful woman which whom this poem is about.
Thomas Crone Nov 2013
I shut the door behind me
And take a gulp of air
Hoping maybe this once
That it's all gone.
I tire of being alone
In this life
I've only recently obtained.
But I'm not alone,
You see.
I open my eyes
Slowly looking down
At the floor.
Dreading that sight
Of my dark companion.
I lose all control
Of my breathing.
Because what I see is
The empty sight
Of my companion, my shadow.
It's still there,
Though I tried
So hard this time
To get away.
Because it isn't
Just a shadow.
It is me,  my worst enemy,
My sadness.
Why was I so naive?
I ran from something
I simply can't escape!
I am forever here
To torment myself
In the middle of the night
When I am most vulnerable.
When I'm alone and without help.

You're sadistic, twisted.
I hate you, leave me be.
You're weak, unprotected.
I'm not going anywhere.
I don't want to think about it,
My future, my memories, my troubles.
Tsk tsk tsk. It's not up to you.
I am in full control.
Thomas Crone Dec 2012
She is perfect.
As she smiles there is a light
Around her face
Of purity and genuine satisfaction.
And her voice
Like an endless romantic novel
Creates life in luscious gardens;
In the darkest depths of civilization.
She is honesty.
He's a savage.
His brutality makes the strongest perish.
The happiest fall
At his hiss as he tears into the very souls
Of their smiles.
He grips their stomachs and twists
As they cower.
He mercilessly flails as they clutch themselves.
He is loneliness.
Without her he will always succeed.

— The End —