"aviators" poems
This isn't Rome
I'm standing still because of statutes
Stone grill: I a carved marble statue
not a muscle dares,
Near frozen by the fear,
let it go I hear
over shoulder: perfect pass
if I get shot over a penalty
Is it clear?
my arms are arms?
a load chopper; in his shades,
do those aviators make me even darker?
(if I studied aviation I could take off I can hover, I can…)
Wait.
he's moving closer,
every hair strand an antenna,
I can feel him,
The smell of disdain on his glare,
stained blood on his hands,
another brother,
my brother
Guiltier with every pace so
-- show your hands,
foot mixed with concrete
I take this order serious,
my motions are motive
and mistaken for resist,
Wait.
Is it his stare or am I ******
(Why did I decide to go my friends wouldn't believe this…)
limitations to the thoughts;
am I arrested or caught?
I'm cold on the surface,
Erode so slow is my sediment evidence,
A blue god so I'm pacified,
I'm hesitant,
he calls and I say that I'm innocent,
I'm witnessing
the transitioning from eruption to ocean
-- volcanic
Blue Medusa,
can you only sculpt destruction?
(I'm not 3 dimensional, I'm real and I matter, I'm real and I matter)
I'm real,
But I shatter,
Gravel if determined that I'm rude so I can't breath,
Gravel if My license plate removed I don't leave,
I don't speak,
I don't flee,
I'm not free,
I believe,
That this happen to my mothers, mother
mothers' brother,
Brother from another was granite
and granted he's valuable
but only in a home
-- of course
I'm quartz in the making
A corpse still shaking
Cause a wallet was mistaken
Or I.D. was misplaced
So, I'm on the rocks
since the bar says that I'm a criminal,
velvet rope divider marks my life
and a vigil,
a wake,
or a hashtag,
you choose,
glass house,
Cold Stone’s,
rocky road,
Medusa licks his finger tips
same finger which
petrified me in the first place,
Reminded I'm in Rome
as I'm standing there motionless
a statue for display
or a trophy for the kitchen,
this art is not for sale
there will be no shipping,
With solidarity
through our solidification,
It won't matter if I look back,
I Matter and I’m Black.
Aug 20, 2016
Aug 20, 2016 at 10:56 AM UTC
Got that green reverberatin'.
When to stop?
She comptinplatin' cause the train done left the station.
It's a indecation her imagination on incline.
It's the primetime in mankind she on a zipline.
The picture done popped out the frame.
She on a train called insane, that cant be tamed.
But she is still on her game.
She fly high with them aviators.
Cruising space with Darth Vader.
That green **** she saver
Oct 20, 2012
Oct 20, 2012 at 2:36 PM UTC
When I was thirteen, I had a running coach.
He was short, lean, and muscular.
An Italian man
with a whistle hanging around his neck,
farmer's tan, and below his black widow's peak
sat silver aviators, propped upon his shiny beak.
I ran miles and miles a day, but,
no matter how much I'd run
he never followed. He always trusted me to
stride my roads and lift my knees high
during the kick at the end of the races
against myself.
"If you want to run
you gotta drop that baggage," he'd laugh
between sips from his water bottle
as he towered over little me,
panting and red. We both stood
tall under the blazing sun.
I couldn't comprehend exactly what he meant,
I mean, I told him,
"I have ultra-light, top-of-the-line shoes,
compression shorts and athletic toes,
a hairless chest for maximum speed,
sweat running rivers down my spine,
legs that never exhaust, and,
above all, Coach,
a spirit that can move mountains." His response,
silence and a smirk.
Who was he to teach me about running?
"You're weighing yourself down boy,
you gotta drop that baggage."
It was his motto for me
every time my time would increase,
because, you see, when running,
increase is bad. Except for hills.
I can still hear his voice in my head,
"Uphill, increase exertion."
He never ran with me, he just told me to go.
He showed me the route and I did as expected,
six days a week, sometimes three miles, sometimes ten,
day after day, again and again,
shoulders hunched and me out of breath,
"runners high," they called it.
I hated running, I hated my coach,
I didn't understand why
anyone would want run to anywhere.
Not now. Now, I love it.
It has become my hobby, a specialty
for when one grows up,
your body is built for it, and your mind
has been ready to run since junior high.
It starts as a seedling, when you're barely able to walk,
and by the time your cardiovascular system
has been assaulted by packs of tobacco
and rolled marijuana, it blooms green.
That's when you realize:
Running is easy.
And coaching?
Don't even get me started on how easy that is.
Aug 17, 2012
Aug 17, 2012 at 1:12 PM UTC
If I ever see you again
I'll spat insults and hope they
Spray on your aviators
like the bugs that squashed against
my windshield the last time
I drove away from you
If fate destroys me
and I am in the same pub one night
as your wormy self
I'll tell you how you're the most
arrogant, vapid, shallow, womanizing,
******* male mascot
I've ever had the disgust to know
I'll slap you hard across the face
Oh and not like Scarlett O'Hara,
you demon darling
No crushing kiss will follow
and I'll mean vengence
vile will seep through my mouth
instead of the sweet saliva
I let you taste
long ago
If I ever hear your voice
or see your mocking manequin
among my tele again
With disgraceful force
I will lift that 50 lb set
and propel that ******* screen
across the state
The way your black static apology
shattered the brightness
that used to reside
within
me
If I hear of you
one more dispicable time
I'll grow bombs maticulously
within my empty core
and time them so perfectly
that all of your dysfunctional doormat
confidants
will explode the second they come near me
and their manipulative cells
will burst
and be burried among the soil
of ***** words
you whispered in my ears
**** if I ever see you again
I'll shatter every martini glass around me
and down a fifth of fireball
and breath venomous fire
and burn you, you beastly boy
And I'll pretend beauty amongst you
and walk away, a tall glass of water
That could diffuse
that angry licking fire
that is swallowing you up
When I see you again
I won't acknowledge your existence
and I'll be dressed to the nines
and I won't do a ******* thing about it
Because you aren't worth a sentence within this stanza
But I know I am.
Feb 7, 2013
Feb 7, 2013 at 11:03 PM UTC
Hey girl where you going?
I’m very much a talker
Cos I can’t dance good
And I never been a stalker
Where you off to my l’il lady?
Hop in my left seat for a ride
Wind it up or slow it right down –
I can get you to the other side
I’m just a country boy
And I can take you up city streets, country roads
Just a poor l’il redneck
But I’m sure I can get you to where you want to go
I got a full tank of gas
I got an all-terrain SUV
You sure do look good
Buckled up next to me
I can take you up the fast lane
I can drive you round the cones
I can take you slow through the forests
I can take you fast through 30 zones
I got air conditioning in here
Chamois leather seats as soft as babys butts
I can take you across the smooth asphalt
I can take you through the deep ruts
Putting on my aviators
Just let me know if we’re getting close
We can slip on out
Or we can take the main roads.
Just listen to the music
And i can listen to you if you like
I can rev the V8 and take you there
Be it day or be it night
I got fully automated
And a nice little gear change
I got super beam headlights
With a three hundred foot range
I can go on the straight and narrow
I can take you down winding roads
Nothing’s a problem for us; we know where we come from
And I can get you where you need to go
Yeah, I don’t dance so good
But I’m a country boy,
A nice little country boy.
Dec 11, 2011
Dec 11, 2011 at 9:06 AM UTC
Skinhead
super short
military hair
with a strong jawline
jutting out
I saw you
One random
blindingly hot afternoon
In a jeep
I tried to squeeze in
the small space so the two guys
could scoot over
You’re the guy to my right
Reluctant to pass to the driver
my exact change
You sat upright
Your right arm lifted, hand
closed on the security rail
I could only see your profile
Your jawline and Aviators
Mouth set in a deadpan line
Lean, quietly confident
Dressed casually and carefully
Odd eggplant-colored shirt over
whitewashed jeans
You turned slightly,
your nose strong
chin dignified
skin clean, with slight
blemishes of stress
Pretty eyes
That never landed on me
Your lips slightly curved
as if remembering something
You are beautiful
Arrogant-looking
Bored
Worldly
You’re not from here
Not from common places
Not from this wretched community I belong to
Then my eyes traveled to the back of your head,
An inscription was tattooed
at the back of your skull.
Your hair growing, beginning to cover up
the past?
A dangerous past?
New life?
A mere change of look?
Where are you going?
Where are you from?
Why are you taking this route
to and from common places?
What is your agenda
on this high afternoon?
Are you a rockstar?
Are you a poet
A gangster?
Then finally it’s my stop.
I got up and wished you
were following behind
That we have the same destination
Just so I could look at you
in full view
I stepped into
the sad, bright afternoon
Then I turned around
You’re not there
You sped away
To some place
Some life
With your Aviators
And your principles
And it hurt
That I never even
knew what
your tattoo meant
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 3:36 AM UTC
i couldn't stop looking at this girl. i glanced down at my black leather jacket, black v-neck, ripped blue jeans, and black boots with the buckles on the side. i popped my collar and set out to find the girl i'd just found. i noticed the lights of this weird indie club i'd somehow ended up in. this music isn't normal "club" music. it's all arctic monkeys. the lyrics of these songs empowered me, i felt as though i had to continue my search for this soul. despite the darkness, i slid on my aviators to protect myself from those blinding lights, and also to give me a hint of mysteriousness. girls love that.
and then there she was.
sipping on what appeared to be a bottle of coke, but i couldn't tell because of the ******* sunglasses i was wearing. she was standing laughing with one of her friends. she had such a different aura to her. i couldn't help but watch as she pulled out one of her organic cigarettes.
"i wanna make her mine." i thought to myself.
the lights reflected off the sweat on the walls as i tried to keep my cool, strutting my way over to her, hoping to get her eyes to lock onto mine. from what i finally saw of her in plain sight, she had love in her eyes and perfect lighting over her; like a camera plus filter. she took drags of that cigarette like some kind of goddess, causing me to get weak at the knees and form a lump in my throat, which i soon managed to somehow swallow. i had to find out who she was. i wanted her more than i'd ever wanted anything, or at least so i recall. i played out the scene in my head - we'd dance, and numerous guys would approach her. it was hard not to. i'd overpower them. "she's with me.", i'd say cooly.
i didn't realize all this fantasizing about my mystery girl had taken me so little time, because by the time i was finished my train of thought, i was standing right in front of her. god, i wanted her so bad. i swear, if i looked at her long enough, she'd steal my soul. the love in her eyes was contradicted by the incredibly **** sparkle in her iris.
"hello there beautiful. you seem to be having a lovely time. you're absolutely breathtaking, i'm forced to believe you are a certified mind blower. what's your name, milady?"
with a turn of her head, a bat of her lashes, and a flash of her perfect smile, she answered me in the most angelic voice i've ever heard.
"arabella."
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 7:36 PM UTC
I stared at my phone screen,
Waiting for you to reply.
With the soft winter breeze blowing through my heat filled room,
I could almost mistake this day for summer.
With you in your ray bans,
And me in my aviators.
I want to sit in a meadow of daisies
by the river,
watching you pick the petals from the stem.
And hear you laugh like sunshine rays tumbling down my skin.
It isn't only until just now,
That I realized that this is not
Summer,
and we are not laughing anymore,
And nothing is easy.
It is hard and I miss you..
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 11:38 PM UTC
All the best cover bands have leather jackets and aviators in play.
Feel the bodies burn.
Their polka dot calm pierces the noisy dark.
It slips between your lower ribs.
Trance hands in the air for shared emotion.
When the Sun dies out we'll light the world with disposable lighters.
We'll also flicker with emoticon implants.
Cold glitter on a dark planet.
Winky face.
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 6:00 PM UTC
***perhaps if you are
one of the few
multiyear variates,
still here, still seeking
solutions
to the
equations of
human formulation,
one of the veterans of the
early word wars,
when the line between fellow poet
and human being was full of
invitational openings,
tween those dots and dashes,
we all eagerly entered those places,
crossing over into
those human openings,
making poets into friends***^
yes,
we were social for the humanity
patented in the very word
social
we encouraged,
we critiqued wearing a flag
made from the fine fabric of fellowship,
crossing global borders and time zones,
even planets,
with only a hand-made
poetry passport
constructed from the
tissues of our hearts
each one of us,
A Little Prince,
lost
from other worlds,
but all
found
ourselves together in a
hospitable desert
so strange,
we found companionship,
genuine in ways that
make me weep when I recall it,
so many aviators,
flying low, neath the radar screen,
speaking one language of a thousand dialects
the networking was spontaneous,
friendships formulated,
real hugs exchanged,
no ulterior purpose, no quantity of glory sought,
no favors traded,
there were friends,
not followers,
just sharers
we valued the first amendment of our lives,
the right to speak freely in poetry
***I wish you had been there,
here,
back then***
Jul 16, 2015
Jul 16, 2015 at 8:21 AM UTC
Two rows of towering oaks
Line the water.
Stronger than concrete,
Their trunks spiral up,
Supporting a labyrinth of limbs.
After the Spring’s renaissance,
Thousands of leaves wave
In the salty, summer breeze,
Protecting the cool park below.
Ripe with age, he walks beneath,
Never venturing out.
Across the asphalt, down the sidewalk,
He tastes sweet sea's salt
As he forgets to breathe.
Gray fluttering strumpets, those winged rats,
Fighting for what’s left as he follows stale crumbs,
His from yesterday. Once, twice around,
Through the middle, the garden’s heart,
The white gazebo, the painful memories.
He climbs the stairs, pausing every few steps.
Grinning at the top, he lights the corncob.
The moment fades quickly and deliberately
Into the next like frames of a movie.
He sits across from me, I get a look.
Deep eyes, hidden behind aviators;
A rough grey beard;
His father’s green jacket.
“Son,” he says,
A small plume of smoke rising from his lips,
“I’ve walked this park before,”
His tired eyes shut,
“And I remember more shade.”
His eyes open for the last time.
Slowly rising, he fades away.
I taste the sweet sea's salt,
And I forget to breathe.
Oct 21, 2012
Oct 21, 2012 at 11:21 PM UTC
She faked her own death
and is believed to be buried
beneath the fourth runway
by the new apartments
fire engine red doors
over there:
the sunset is dripping
on to chewing gum pavements
in the window
a silhouette of her ******* prove
that she's alive, amongst silly revolutionaries,
aviators
avatars
and questionable friendships.
Scandinavian diets are seen by the satellites.
Jan 1, 2013
Jan 1, 2013 at 5:32 PM UTC
I’m a country boy, girl
And I don’t usually act this way
But what have you gone and done
To make me hope you’re crying today
What have you forced me to?
Now I got nothing left to say
I’m locked and loaded baby,
So you best get out the way
I’m armed to the hilt
I’ve got lead up till the teeth
Guns cocked on the table
Rhinestone boots with high-riding heels beneath
I got my aviators on, stubbly
I tug at my neckerchief against the dust
Of that love that we destroyed
Now point-scoring replaces where once was trust
You’ve got me to the point where
I just want to see what can **** you off
How did this all get so ugly between us?
Call somebody who cares, enough is enough.
I hope you’re lying awake tonight
I pray that you’re scared to sleep
Because that’s how you made me feel
Leaving me feeling so shallow when I got so deep
I hope you don’t know where you are
I hope you don’t know how far you have to fall
I never want you back again, he can have you
You never saw this coming? It was writing on the wall
Baby, one day you’re gonna realise
It doesn’t matter who was right
Because at the end of it all
Nobody ever wins a fight.
Jun 9, 2012
Jun 9, 2012 at 8:24 PM UTC
overcast
i pull on the day brightly
mine it at the maternal sources
and form a radiant :
a bloom from within fledgling elements
illuminant grenades
and the sky is peppered with characters
it's a wild play of childness
an old world whimsy
of 'here be monsters'
and shiny scrapbook havoc
the compass steps in
and with the turn of the globe
scores the horizon
clouds and the aviators
are combed into the soft crust
a spiral quilting
to cover the gift of a dream
given by one thirsty visitor
who stole it lightly
from the prism
of another travelling dreamer
God knows what'll grow
if there's a pillow fight
a deranged rain of innovation
perhaps some fiddly creation
will fast take over this world
and it's lover other
with the sky allied and fraudulent
we can host an early night
the stars (in strand)
prattle the ocular sense frontier
all constellations are like a single ribbon eel
never quite nourishing
upon its own thoughtless loop
a corduroy display
overcoat
Nov 27, 2021
Nov 27, 2021 at 9:55 PM UTC
She’d been my best friend in high school, marked by her pale skin, cynicism, and lovely smile. She was unique, hard edges softened by square teeth, arranged perfectly behind full lips.
It’s odd to think it’s only been year, now, her hair has been cropped short in the French style, her eyes hide behind enormous polarized aviators. Her navy tank top worn thin, bra straps exposed. Her jeans rolled short, revealing rubber flip-flops that’d been on her feet since high school. It felt strange, like I was seeing a relative I hadn’t seen since I was six. I could see her changes, taking them in as we made awkward conversation, free of the easiness we used to share. Something was off, and continued to pull my mind from the strained conversation. Just as she’s told me her aspirations of being a French major, I see it. The Hard “f” exposing what I was trying so desperately to find, it’s occurrence has impacted her gait, her presence, her attitude. Her teeth; now chipped, broken, browned. The vicious despair surrounding her started seeping in to my brain, my eyes, my teeth. I can’t resist the pull behind my eyes, drawing me back to the new-found flaw. The infallible feature I’d always expected, disfigured. Gone before I wanted to let go. My best friend finally exposed in front of me, no witty sarcasm and smile to hide behind. I couldn’t comprehend the context of the ruin. An abusive relationship? Drug Addiction?
A fall, certainly, farther and faster than I’d ever care to see. Harder and more dreadful than I’ll ever know. The fall the world can see, the tragedy only I can hear.
Jul 18, 2010
Jul 18, 2010 at 11:33 AM UTC
Cross things off Instead of erase and feel lost
but you dont have to think I am lame because
its too late to wear aviators-since its not the summer
and I got arthritis.
Feeling swept up in fall like brushing leaves off the sidewalk
I was captain bazaar with my sidekick
flying in on a broken engine
smoke rushing out the side
trying to lift a plane
the subsequent pain in my wrists
and the rest of my limbs
brought me to this bridge
its another thing;
multifaceted.
clever coat
and correct.
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 9:43 AM UTC
I hear the roar of your truck engine as you wait patiently atop my driveway
I slide on my sandals hurriedly, slip out the door
Dressed in a loose, ripply top with my favorite shorts
Bouncy hair and glowing skin
Edible fragrances dripping off my figure, into your nostrils, in which drag themselves to the lobes of your brain, the taste buds of your tongue
And you
With your golden rod complexion, form-fitting black t-shirt, exposing the contours of your sculpted chest, loose Bermuda shorts
Complementary ball cap and aviators
The faint hypnotic smell of sweat and my favorite cologne that compliments your natural aroma perfectly
A playlist of songs reminiscent of old memories
Singing
Dancing
Laughing
Crying
Beats on my eardrums
"Fat bottomed girls, you make the rockin' world go round!"
Our vocal chords stretch like rubber bands as we scream to these memories in motion
The beach is reserved for our use, or so we pretend
Together, we are alone on this small strip of land
I run to the sand, allowing my toes the comfort of such a familiar feeling
White hot, burning, tingling, relief within seconds as the warmth conducts and disperses across my skin
I unbutton my shorts and pull my top over my head, run to the waters edge in hopes of pleasure, alleviation from the gnawing humidity, liquefying my bones
I submerge my head, fogging my mind, allowing complete relaxation to fill my entire being
I find you beside me as I surface for Oxygen
Beads of lake water cover you cheeks like melted snowflakes
You stand there, naked next to me, your clothes at shore
Your hands search my back, find the fasteners of my bra
1
2
3 un-clipped by your hungry fingers, which now travel to my hips
Tugging at the thin, lacy fabric covering my
innocence
Now, in your palm
And with your other palm you beckon me back to the sand as you say, with tender breathlessness,
"You're beautiful"
In which I believe you as I lie upon a sandy towel
As you carefully lower yourself upon me
As our fingers interlace
And our lips, thirsting for lust, bind together
We are one
We are love
Jan 20, 2012
Jan 20, 2012 at 8:02 PM UTC
Somewhere, Mother Nature’s breath floats
Under a patch of crying sky
And a sunset’s crayon box is reflected
In the aviators of a thousand clouds.
Here, the mind’s altar chooses
The union of human thought and infinite atmosphere
And a blue field pretending to be heaven
Turns mortal vision into kaleidoscope dreams.
Somewhere, love is worn not ragged,
But on the skin of a body that knows the touch of life’s electricity
And chocolate kisses melt on tongues
In the mouths of a thousand faces that refuse to turn away.
Here, the body’s compass creates
Direction and vision rather than following it
And glowing heartbeats bound in red ribbon
Are cast into the wind and caught in old jam jars that illuminate with their fire.
Somewhere, a beautiful stranger’s thoughts are woven
Between a street performer’s nylon guitar strings
And the space around a piano key
Ripples with the color of a thousand unspoken wishes.
Here, the soul’s music dances
In the kingdom of the sound
And expression overflows into a single note
Because conversation is too light to bear the weight.
Somewhere, butterflies fall
Into the ashes of burning desire
And bitter secrets burst open to scream
The harvest of a thousand agonies.
Here, the spirit’s window shatters
Into infinite jagged shards of jealousy and greed
And no matter how soothing, the dark of the night
Never sings them to sleep.
Where angels make conditional love
My mind makes chalkboard scribbles
And sepia dreams flood through the skylight of my vision
And I wake up to a world where
Love is real
And pain is proof
And lukewarm living is not an option.
Here, the world’s seven wonders are immeasurable
Tiny explosions called happiness and freedom and peace
But the human eye is blind to this miracle.
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 7:08 PM UTC
The beers are flowing I'm winning all the bets,
The barman's sat on the frame throwing out cassettes,
A couple of Yakuts come to me smoking a joint,
It was so poorly rolled I had to press down on the point,
Excitement buzzes around about this rave in the jungle,
When in walks a man with tattoos all over his knuckles,
He hollers "Hurry up guys the taxi's coming in an hour"
The DJ adjusts his aviators and turns the music up louder,
I look up above the trees,
And it might be because I'm high,
But the stars sparkle like a million possibilities,
Exploding across the sky,
We're rattling in a Mondeo, no light but those from the front,
Khmer music drowned out by the creaking of the rust,
The driver hits the breaks we arrive in a serenade of sand,
Our English too fast for him to even try to understand,
We're here in the jungle and there's a ferris wheel,
And a stage made up of abandoned automobiles,
A carousel that'll set you back a couple of Riel,
The whole thing just feels so ******* surreal,
I look up above the trees,
And it might be because I'm high,
But the stars sparkle like a million possibilities,
Exploding across the sky,
The sky is full of stars but there's no sign of the moon,
We head to the back by the glistening lagoon,
Share the powder and lace it into our beer,
Clink cans and smile, down with a cheer,
I bounce from chat to chat,
All smiles and hope,
My spirit is soaring as everything,
Spills from my envelope,
As I look up to the black above the trees,
And it might be because I'm high,
But the stars sparkle like a million possibilities,
Exploding across the sky.
Aug 29, 2019
Aug 29, 2019 at 12:23 PM UTC
Alcohol tastes like watermelons
and it reminds me of the sweetness
coated upon your lips.
Nothing left but a cold tile floor,
memories put under the spotlight
induced by a glass or two or three
of strawberry daiquiri
that bring the breeze back to me.
The feeling of the wind
cascading through the rolled down windows
of your '08 Honda,
and the goosebumps on my legs
that you smooth over like bubble wrap.
Your hand is warm,
a little clammy as the temperature hits 75
and your lead foot pushes 95.
You're wearing aviators and a white shirt,
2 buttons closed, 3 following an Open Door Policy —
the color matches my porcelain skin,
and The Temptations sing
the closest thing we'll ever have to
a first dance.
My fingers waltz around your palm,
the only parts of our bodies
following the reckless pursuit
of our minds.
My love for you just grows and grows
You smirk and set free the adorable school boy laugh I fell in love with;
you look over at me,
but I can't focus on your singing voice —
oh-so-beautiful to my ears,
but oh-so-lacking in talent.
This —
wow.
This, is the first time you've ever
told me you loved me.
My hair doesn't get kisses from the wind
when I feel trapped inside.
The fruit isn't as sweet as your charm.
The wine isn't as deep as your grey blue eyes.
The adventure to the bottom of glasses,
the bottom of bottles,
isn't as captivating
as getting lost with you.
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 10:16 AM UTC
So you are bringing me pain
I tear at my face
Hoping the flesh will mold itself
Into something
better
I look like a zombie tonight.
Im tired of executing this fight.
I thought i could do this 'till i die
Truth is all I wanted to do was chase you.
And in the end the question is what did you even amount to?
I was willing to give up my skinny jeans,
Aviators
And band shirts
In turn for your attention and love
But you took me and made me a fool.
"All in the name of love"
I tried to be what you wanted
But what you wanted was a swimsuit model and a load of ca$h.
Im sorry,
But im not saying sorry to you.
Im apologizing to myself.
I was willing to wash myself away
For a girl.
And it seemed like my body and heart was shot at with an rpg.
But know,
I wish you
A very special
**** you***
Aug 21, 2016
Aug 21, 2016 at 9:02 PM UTC
*I hope there's a place, way up in the sky
For old aviators, when they say good bye!
A place where a fella’ can get a chilled beer
‘Chug-a-lug’ for a mate, whose memory was dear
A place where no doctor or lawyer can be a threat
Just an aircrew rest room, reserved for the very best.
A quaint little bar, kinda’ dark and full of smoke
Where they sing loud, and guffaw at a good joke
The kind of place where a lady could bravely go
Feel safe amongst gentlemen she would know
There must be a place where thoughts fly like an arrow
When the sortie is over, for landing airspeed gets low.
Where the whiskey is old, great are the ***** and ***
The songs are about group combat and one versus one,
Where you'd meet all fellows who'd flown the coop before
They'd call out your name, welcoming you through the door
Who would buy you a drink should your throat be parched
And tell others, "Here comes a new lad, lookie ye! all starched!"
Then through the mist, you'd spot a grand old guy
The one missed for years, he taught you how to fly
He'd nod his old head, and grin ear to ear,
Saying, "Welcome, my son, I'm pleased that you're here
I forgive you; you botched up the last landing
But you led a life that was by far, outstanding”.
"Guys, he has come here to let his spirits fly and not groan
Skip the earthlings who lived lives like miserable clones
Politicians, lawyers, the Feds, the guys with little poise
Here, where it is ‘happy hours’ for our good ol' boys
Pass on that glass of rye, for he deserves a well earned rest
Cheers! This is ‘Heaven, my son’; this is your future nest!"*
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 5:45 AM UTC
How many times has the summer stuck to the back of your thighs
as you peel them away from your leather bucket seats,
Clung to you
with it’s skipping rocks and carpenter bees
and there’s too many dandelions on the lawn.
How many times has the citrus ******* sunshine
drifted through your rose-gold Aviators
and touched the crispy skin around the corners of your eyes,
made it crinkle when you laughed.
Count the times you padded barefoot into the Dairy-mart
just for the AC and the way the linoleum tiles
felt on your feet
And add that to the number of nights
the whole town smelled like honeysuckle.
Divide by the amount your pores the humidity clogged,
And tell me how long it took you
to kneel in the baby’s breath
and beg for more.
Jul 1, 2011
Jul 1, 2011 at 8:08 AM UTC