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tyler ling Mar 2012
When he was revealed to you to be naught but ash and stone
his eyes burnt dusty grey that of a thousand campfires grown cold
            to feel not
                  to hear not
draws likeness to hell on earth
      the leaves so brown and rusty
pay no attention to the girth of his unnoticed masochistic sorrow

so tomorrow may be better than the rest but in his roving endless mind he will find the greatest unrest
                          In all things he finds beauty and in all things he finds lonesome boredom
           so that is why he roves in search of endless pleasures to quell the restlessness he finds when he
       reaches home
                     Too much time he has been stuck in one place
          he grows weary of the endless thoughtless race
                 to places others hate and where on one wants to be
so on his feet he flees
       to the lands devoid of life
to camels
and the occasional bubbling cree
            The shoes too tight the hurt his feet
they leave an aching, tingling feeling
                                      They yearn to begat themselves of his heel
                                      Plead with the sweat between his toes to never grace the skin of any man again
yet he still wears them
              He knows they cause blisters
              he knows that in those shoes an ever hardening, hateful fungus grows  
                        His wandering feet cannot remember the grass
                        the heat of asphalt
                        the agony of sharp glass
           What is he to do?
           his entire life he has worn some sort of shoe
to walk without?
                           absurd he laments
          He dreams of the day when he will spare no expense
          when the shoe he dawns will be the finest in the world
Another 10 years
               another 10 he hopes
When his tromping up floors will finally pay off
                                                      Will that day ever come?
                            a bigger car?
                                           a bigger house?
                                                          ­ a bigger safe for all his guns?
              He pleads
                      he wonders
                            blindly through life he blunders
hoping for when things will get better

                                                       ­          he was raised not to wonder
                                                          ­                     raised not to dream
                   into suited glass himself he must ream
Wanting not of the beautiful himself he will cry
                                        on his deathbed he will see but lonely sky
Too late to fix now
he wished he had realized younger
even fifteen years would have worked
       ­                                                Now he sits
                                                            ­              old and broken
                                                          ­                                       feeding breadcrumbs to flightless birds
                                                           ­               wishing someone would have spoken
                   Told him to cast off the shoe that left his foot choking and unable to breathe
                   His eyes fiery
                            heart masked with rage
                                      he screams ever upward
                           bent with age

                           Broken                                                  Heartless­
                                        Mourning the loss of his life
tyler ling Mar 2012
Horse heads tucked away
beneath your sheets
pigs root in the grass and the goats gently bleat.
All is quiet on the farm tucked in the valley
and in the small shack you built on the edge of the property,
with its round door you painstakingly framed,
it it beautiful
Barefoot in overalls your day is encompassed with sweet earth
and ever ripening carrots
it remains is beautiful
Armed with an 8 track recorder, a guitar, banjo and mandolin
you slowly construct the simple yet elegant notes
that speak volumes and leave those who listen
wondering where this noise came from.
You explain to them the unawares of the answer
you try to explain the movement
the feeling
the science behind the notes
they do not understand.
Precious few do
But thats okay
For the few that do it resonates to their core
makes them wonder
the hours spent and lost.
The timelessness,
the harmonics,
the ever lengthening prose that is engrained within the
Like that of a fine wood
much goes into the tight construction
and to make something truly astounding
it takes special care

So you work for a year or two in attempt to skull your way through the still waters
of the soul
to find the long forgotten island where the compositive chest full of you buried creativity lays
One may hope that this place truly exists
that somewhere deep inside there is the key to opening the box of your dreams
To understand there way there one must not look within
but outward
towards sky
The bounty the world prescribes will overflow the chest you find
To sit
to think
an introverted mess
a blotched paper with ink
tyler ling Mar 2012
Showering in creeks, eating stolen carrots and potatoes we were poor, but we were happy. Fools, destitute, introverted, lonely. Words were used to describe us but we cared not for the likes of a greater world, we valued the small things, took enjoyment of a long forgotten life known only in books and songs.
                         We would surely break ourselves, they said, come wandering home with ribs poking    
                         through skin, sunken eyes, callouses and blisters.
                             Nothing to show for it.
Remember the lives we chose for ourselves; the magic we found lost in the woods, in alleys, hiding beneath the cushions of torn couches.
                 The inkling of love for each other and love for ourselves,
    Springing forth to scorch our throats with every drag
                                      Smooth our skin with every hand covered with earth
                                                  With every lungful of air
                                                            we were the ones who got away

— The End —