"broomsticks" poems
witches witches everywhere
how many do you see
there's witches in the garden
hiding in a tree
there's witches playing football
witches having tea
witches walking down the beach
witches swimming in the sea
all around us witches
some are hidden
some are not
i have discovered lately
of witches....there's a lot
witches drinking coffee
witches at the store
witches at the doctors
witches sitting on the floor
witches flying broomsticks
and witches driving cars
witches riding bicycles
witches hiding in the stars
there's witches having picnics
witches playing in the park
witches lighting fireworks
witches dancing in the dark
witches running races
and witches playing games
witches riding horses
with funny witchy names
on hallowe'en the witches
get together, one and all
and while the kids are trick and treating
they watch movies at the mall
there's witches almost everywhere
you have to look and see
now, count up all the witches
did you get the same as me?
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 12:06 AM UTC
Gemini in seasonable evening,
serenely swirling in Septemberous
ferris wheels
reeling in the vast domain
of lonesome leviathans
and witch-fires;
nowhere bound in the boundless fecundity
[ the feral joys of creation... ]
twins
meander in gravity's
well of souls,
swollen with unknowns and proteins;
golden rods in pointless foam
brewing the elixir vitae
in the Dippers cup. the Milky Way,
a wayward gush
from an ancient Mother Goddess,
plump and shameless, pumping teats
to nurse worlds
infused with divine rays of gamma and x...
why set dark apart
from firmament burning
spheres?
dragons
must clutch eggs in the void
as much
as fork tongue white dwarfs.
of course, the Source
unfolds
as Love does. it's purpose,
in thrall of fearless veracity,
spinning yarns for glad garments
to clothe the naked dread
of such fearful symmetries
as roam the wild delights
of the infinite
meringue.
the Pi
on the window sill,
tempting the circular frame of reference
to square with the sublime Will.
another Fibonacci in your
bedpost,
to better hobnob with
broomsticks.
everything annihilates hatred.
from within,
we sojourn to sovereign super-continents
of opulent peace.
profound realities surge serpentine
with Meaning.
we are outdone on the inside by small minds
and farcical
hearts.
so at night
look up.
Love's Tongue Is
Love's
Word.
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 1:31 PM UTC
Night witches own the dark, as they sweep the skies on their knotted broomsticks. They take to flight, in pairs, under waxing or new moons, when the sky is darkest, the stars at their dimmest and gloom the deepest. They steal souls, drink warm blood, gather teeth and fresh, human meat.
They drift, smoke-like, with noir-intent, chewing their charcoal treats in that imperfect silence that prickles with all the sounds of the earth: growing plants, creeping insects, rustling leaves, and shivering birds.
Although their stygian laughter is frequently mistaken for cat fighting, they are soundless, becoming the shadows that disturb, that draw startled glances from the periphery of vision.
In their dark-passing, a mother will check her sleeping children one more time - dogs will whimper and fathers, the hair on their neck standing, will check already-locked windows.
Are you meandering out this night - to walk the dog or check the mail? If so, look to the sky. A little decision can be the worst mistake of your life.
Feb 15, 2022
Feb 15, 2022 at 9:31 AM UTC
Penelope Cruz
Used to muse
On the use
Of oversized microwave ovens
In the covens
Of Barcelona.
Give them their due
They know how to imbue
Broomsticks with fresh belladonna!
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 4:34 PM UTC
a high school football game.
the field is ablaze with juicy roses
and doves.
the athletes suddenly drop thier pencils,
their coughing hands made of melting wax.
all the trombones are falling apart, and
the flute players are losing their *******
under the bleachers, throwing away secrets.
heartbeats cracking broomsticks, the nuns
were always hitchhikers with resounding
gag reflexes.
i sail forward, snatching the time bomb
from the quarterback, snuffing out
a pall mall on his right eyelid.
the dead angel is summoned to slay
the horrible hippopotamus. she is ancient.
she has a mouth full of cavities and peace
in her veins.
the truth is a piercing thing, whose bitter tongue will decay me.
Jan 7, 2012
Jan 7, 2012 at 2:07 PM UTC
Nudge a numb cockroach and he'll love you for life
just ***** little lemonheads
can't actually survive a nuclear explosion
but can cause catastrophic evolutionary queries
like "Why do the good die young?"
Can you believe
that long ago only the bad died elderly
and were witches with elixirs
potions and spells to make God blush and his **** turn to mush
so powerful
they made people go crazy with
judgement and micromanaging
but I'm the real witch
right-o I ride broomsticks and eat toads for snacks
my back is a lump of coal from the Devil's morning hookah
smoke billows from my ears
cockroaches my best friends
we cut off our heads and run into fridges
my pelvis is frigid except
for those **** roaches.
May 30, 2012
May 30, 2012 at 6:43 PM UTC
We proposed for Witches Abroad on Broadway, a costume.
As a lure to students, orange and black candy.
Dancing at the prom, cell phones caught the ghouls.
This stretch of road was full of cool cats.
Unlucky ones were left on the side as skeletons.
We swept them clear with our broomsticks.
Our guns were not as brutal as broomsticks.
Bristles hid the ******* end, as if in costume,
No flesh, just skeleton.
Like bags of orange and black candy,
They were left, full of calico cat.
Our familiars, our friends, dinner for a ghoul.
They pulled at the ghoul,
In the hands of a witch, danger came by broomstick,
When ghouls snacked on cat,
In their orange and black fur costume,
Tasting sweet, like candy.
They beat them up and down, but they find another skeleton.
Them ghouls come faster, giving birth to others, another skeleton.
Vocalizing desire for black and white, red and yellow make orange, a ghoul,
Howls for student flavored candy.
A witch lays out one, then another with her broomstick,
Removing the face mask and costume.
Them that can, holler their outrage in cat.
Your *** was revealed in orange and black on a calico cat.
Females cooled themselves of *** unwilling mates to a skeleton.
Once alive, copulating loudly, now in a death costume.
Walking upright, a neighborhood was destroyed by a ghoul.
Neighbors watched, a witch patrolled on a broomstick.
Your students were seen as human candy.
One wife beater had a juicy rind, sweet and soured candy.
At the dance, hors d’oeuvres were made of cat.
Shot forward, it can create a hole, can a broomstick.
Where stomachs used to be, a skeleton,
Death conquers all, no more ghoul.
One, now many properly attired for the Danse Macabre in costume.
I found an orange, as broomsticks cleaned Broadway of cat candy.
In my student costume and human face mask, my path is crossed by a cat.
It disappeared as if it never was, visible only to Death, a skeleton made by ghoul.
Jul 14, 2015
Jul 14, 2015 at 7:43 PM UTC
She bleeds ‘all tragic steam work blasted mists
‘All hobbled clamped free fall for ‘all seasonal depression slump
She’s ‘all death knell cramp urgency and held back suffering kneeling
on kitchen floors ‘all like boarding school broomsticks lessons
with ‘all that theoretical **** the ***** save the man type
schlock shock rhetoric shtick
so ‘all I’ll be is her savage heretic wagon burner page-turner
on the hot coal back burner ‘all boarded up sealed shut in the walls
until she calls
Expecting me to be 'all combat ready
‘all back with a vengeance
while her thrift store hazard suit groups and droops
‘all over my haphazard dream sliced hang nailed hangover hands
hiding ‘all derelict style while between the sheets confessional
gets voided by social media air raid sirens
bringing me ‘all too close to rocks and crystals
and who ‘all needs another pathetic apathetic
junk punk when
‘all and ‘all
I'd rather die for you
because
I just can't live with myself
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 3:08 PM UTC
Sages and broomsticks
motherless pearls
Witches that threaten
fatherless girls
Curse of the ages
old grudges remain
A coven of stages
to hide from the rain
The markings of Satan
the touch of the Lord
A death plated sunset
and winner forlorn
The trap now a quandary
and you must break free
As with all soiled laundry
to burn once deceived
The truth is not distant
first word never feigned
The peace that you’re seeking
inside you unclaimed
So let go of the dogma
the medals will melt
New songs of arrival
you’ll write most heartfelt
But the moment is now
and the moment is clear
Once the moment is christened
new joy spins from fear
To those who still threaten
with eternity ******
Say:
“Away with your blasphemy,
stop where you stand
These wings have reopened
my eyes looking in
New life has been gifted
—I’m blessed to begin”
(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2014)
Oct 21, 2018
Oct 21, 2018 at 5:07 PM UTC
A brook runs through my Grandmas farm,
That used to carry gold.
My Grandpa
-Benjamin-
Did not yield the land,
To the British, who wanted it dammed.
In 1968, they took him in,
To have his appendix removed,
And Grandma never remarried.
My Aunt Alice,
Was a witch.
She flew in on broomsticks
We never saw,
But heard in the barn,
Where she parked.
She brought foreign sweets that didn’t
Crack our lips,
And told us naughty jokes.
-Oh Pope the *******
Please pass the Custard!-
We’d squeal and never tell,
And feel all grown up and,
Conspiratorial.
Grandma says she died running with
The wrong pack,
That she was knocked from the sky,
By a cross.
Later we learned,
It was a broken heart that did it, that
Grandma wouldn’t accept a,
Jewish man in the house,
So she killed herself.
Mary was dead when we got here,
Her tree is the prettiest.
It’s a large yellow poplar that
Trembles in the slightest breeze.
She was a violinist,
A frail, little thing, who
Is fading away in family photographs.
Irridescent sparrows trill,
Beautiful harmonies,
From skinny branches,
Shielded by the most delicate,
Drooping fronds.
You see, my Grandmother has three beautiful trees,
Growing in her garden,
One for Benjamin, one for Alice, one for Mary.
My grandmother used to sit under these trees.
They’re feeding off the bones she says.
Jul 20, 2012
Jul 20, 2012 at 4:26 PM UTC
My vessels
My veins
My vessels
My fiend
My pen I never strayed
My lungs I do disdained
My legs not rightly placed
My hands, beyond tangled
This is just some words about
The ethereal wandering spine:
Made of hard candled wood
To be laid cold on the lane
The ghost of it, I dare say, wandered around
Spoken of shame and of the nomads
And in silence, it sew the raging sea
Into yarns of distraught constellation
All in this ill world, not above
The spine was of rage and of distress
Wished forever to stop standing still
And forever more, laid to rest
As broken bones, as thousand glasses
To be unnoticed and blend as well
Fifteen years of shame
Haven’t eaten
Fifteen years of shame
Haven’t beaten
But bathe in dirt
To blend means to fade away
And to fade means to accept
Annihilation and memories that may
Dangle from the tip of your bones
Why would you
Or the spine
Take it for granted,
wish it to be true?
Truth be told;
a spine helps you to stand still
Aside from your legs and your partial heart
Imagine;
if it wander aimlessly
Where would you belong,
and where would you stand?
But still the spine wanders around
To reign upright on its own
Then decorate beauty of its own
Oh, and perhaps, again
Blend in as well as to fade away
Away
Away
Away
From you
From:
Fifteen years of shame
Haven’t eaten
Fifteen years of shame
Haven’t beaten
But bathe in dirt—
And could not stay
Look at your spine
Which you can’t see,
why are you so sure
That it is there?
Look at the spines
On your surrounding:
Lampposts
Broomsticks
Electric poles
Candles
Pillars
Look at the spines
That stand on their own
Just a single stick
And nothing more.
Believed to be incapable
Wished to be broken shards
Ended up standing still
For eternity, for darkness beyond
And what are you
Without them?
Just a lump of flesh
A fabricated skin
An empty will
And nothing more
Living in
Fifteen years of shame
Haven’t eaten,
haven’t beaten
But bathe in dirt.
And what are we,
without them?
Just dark vessels
And distraught veins.
My vessels
My veins
My vessels
My fiend.
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 10:31 AM UTC
I fell in love with a superstition.
She kept crystals at her bedside
to ward off wraiths and bailiffs,
selling friendship bracelets to
strangers on the internet whilst
keeping family in her prayers.
She would wander the fields
of **** and sunflower seeds,
howling at the moon without
another soul to converse with;
obsessive-compulsive murmurs
of a Hail Mary and incantations.
Potions of ayahuasca and sugar
brewed on the hob in the kitchen,
fridge magnets full of idioms and
passages from the Book of Psalms.
By the fire sat a pristine tin cauldron
with the price-tag still left on it.
Broomsticks were mounted on the wall
like lazy guitars or executed deer.
No photographs, only proud trinkets
and yoga mats; a crucifix hung over
every doorway, whilst she had learned
to cross her legs from all men and pain.
She laid me down on the bed
with a hungry sleight of hand
to show me her favourite trick;
I saw the marks on her arms
before she came alive in the dark,
and by the daylight - she had gone.
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 1:01 PM UTC
He was sent to Aldershot for training
He would learn how to **** or be killed
The training was all done with broomsticks
When he thought back it made his blood chill.
His unit was sent down to Portsmouth
To board a ship and go over there
It was packed to the gunwales with weapons
And the rations left no room to spare.
He practiced with his rifle on the journey
Like others who’d not held one before
He’d no sense of the horror he’d be facing
Nor the violence he’d always abhorred.
It was such a small piece of shrapnel
Caught both eyes as a shell case shattered
He never saw his two boys as they grew into men
Missing out on so much that had mattered.
His wife who he loved always helped him
And a life with new interests grew
He learnt how to read the braille papers
It pleased him he’d still know the news.
But the trauma from the experience scarred him
And ire with politics grew by the day
So he took to his new odd braille keyboard
And wrote articles and letters to complain.
He could sense the new way that the wind blew
In the corridors of power in the House
There was money to be made in new weapons
And politicians ignore those who grouse.
Then again two decades later it started
Another war that would mean more dead men
The obscenity rose like a bile in his throat
So once again he took to his ‘pen’.
©JRW2014
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 6:37 PM UTC
Legs astretched like venomous broomsticks
Fangs drooped lazily like a calm nosferatu,
Those eyes gold as sun on styx, treasures
that spun flame between his every blink--
Sandpaper tongue dragged over black hair
Nibbling his own wrist momentarily, then
Locking sleepy eyes on you, ascending fleece--
Retractable moonbeams flex teasing attack
then kneads, falling like a lullaby back into
uncapturable dreams; purring in the spirit of poe.
Jan 30, 2022
Jan 30, 2022 at 3:55 PM UTC
Foolish men.
You trust all that is around you,
you rely on the deceit, the deception,
like it is worth dying for.
You foolish men.
You’ve gotten so good at lying
that you can’t even tell the difference,
between your truths,
from your hollow lies.
I once believed that I can live happily ever after,
just as I’d watched in the movies.
I thought that I can have powers, cast spells,
and travel to a time before my own existence.
I once believed that,
I can fly on broomsticks, that I can make objects move with my mind.
I believed that I should just leave my cares behind,
that I should run away,
instead of facing the problems of life.
That even if words would afflict me,
or if the world persecutes me,
I should do nothing.
But we shouldn’t believe everything
that passes through our ears,
for we invest too much in these.
We should remember,
that we pour over worlds that have been imagined,
and that we watch scenes that look all
too good to be true.
Do not let these falsehoods keep you restrained.
But instead, let them make you better.
Let them make you bolder, fiercer,
and let them make you achieve.
Achieve in what was thought to be impossible,
what was thought to be unobtainable,
what was thought to be unachievable.
Don't let these lies keep you down,
because it is "I once believed" for a reason.
And that reason is,
that you didn't let the lies succeed.
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 10:25 AM UTC
They guard our gates. We are ruled by mechanised gods.
We are not free.
We are not real.
We are not awake.
Our mornings wake up to dew and smoke. We wake up and pick up our broomsticks and sweep.
You and I are made to sweep.
And it is through these sweeps we dance our fated dances.
Dance to wake the castles,
and water the gardens,
and venerate Emperors long dead and gone.
“This,” we say, “is our duty.”
“To belong.”
“To bow together.”
“To hope as one.”
We, all key cogs in the machinery. Everyone has a broom and dustpan. Everyone is made to sweep.
"Is this the land," we ask, "that we sang for and dreamt our feverish cartoon dreams for?"
Perhaps not. Our stories exist only in a land beyond time.
We’ve been there. It is a mechanism for the gods. They too hold brooms.
They too sleep in shrines of stone.
They too live in temples of steel.
The gold ones have long ago burned.
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 11:41 AM UTC
What does this letter stand for ----"M"?
Now read along, ahem, "M",
"M" stands for mummies,
Magnets for mess, and dummies,
"M" is for maestro,
Opera tonight? Bleeped if I know,
"M" is for misogynist,
Broomsticks up exes' male blips!
To women, they are not God's gift,
Yes, "M" is for misogynist!
Jan 17, 2017
Jan 17, 2017 at 9:32 PM UTC
So obsessed
She is
changed
Her Closet
Turn-on
Lover
Something
submerged____
Never full lips
sheath
dresses
Walk-in confesses
Vanderpump Rules
Just take one
ticket you mules
Being tagged
Pants Golden pocket
Price reduced
One chosen
Deep every breath
we take in
Miss Marilyn
Road some like it hot
More to hustle
(Monroe)
Curves and wiggles
Spiky heels
Named Doe
The Skid Roe
Never make a deal
The sheik riding hood
**** lower than hell
backs
Too unveil him
Who should?
The warm sun camels
closet smells slender
Cigarettes
Never cracks
That whodunit
Walk-in
Only low backs
Sherlocked dress
Mystique to guess?
Monique
He spilled
Sinnamon latte
Exotic Tiger print
Whispers Walk-in
Hints?
Love magnetized
late
The caramel
sensuous sips
A girl best
friend
Not one
ring or
love note
Valentine email
Dressed in closet
But it wasn't mine?
Stacks of
dresses
A+ Yes, never a no___
I believe
I will find
your vote
Coziness Closets of
many
alterations
Altered her vision
Designer maniacs
Never ticks
**** hens and clocks
Guys under the weather
The Umbrella ladies
Eating chocolate
Being bombed
Mr. Drakes
All latex
Younger
man
Plastic
double
agents
Of Botox
Oh! Dear
Mommy
Closet case!
Can you spell
spellbound
The green envy
dress
Near her
wallflower
the wax museum
of witches
Breaking some
britches
Broomsticks
Fly Robin Fly closet
Oh! Why
So subtle the Seance
Copies in her Palace
Something rearranged
her closet
Humanity switch
Her designer
hangers
underground
She became
the closed
closet mute
Shabby chic
out of lines
Never bling
I am going
to wash
that man
out of
Ponytail
I wonder
Why? whipped
hair
My big
walk-in
closet
You're invited
The girls live in
her shoes don't
judge a closet
With all her books
Tied to his ankle
Whip cream-color
Come over
You stepped
accidentally
into her dirt
French
tulip skirt
Her walk-in closet
she calls them
on skype lips up
The Closet
always shuts up
May 9, 2018
May 9, 2018 at 10:57 AM UTC
There are castles, high and grand.
There are towers,, which stand on clouds,
Fog and air, cold and wet, sweet breeze, sour rays.
The hearths of knights and maidens fair.
They bring the stars down on earth;
They strum the night with voices high;
They fill the skies with uttered hope.
But in the hills, there breathe the witches.
On some days, old. On some days, young.
They hoot like owls and ride their sticks,
Like dappled rainbows, pass the moon.
While maidens sing, the witches snort.
While knights hunt, the witches slay.
They live on fear and not on glee.
They bathe on tears and feed on gloom.
Vile, they say, vile and banished.
But forgotten, I always bawl.
One fainted night, while red flames flare,
Not failing the heavens like swirling bones,
While roaches march on grey, tan dirt,
The witches dance, their broomsticks tap.
In one crooked wood, there sat one witch,
Pale and brittle, her eyes are black, her lips so red.
She freed one sigh and looked beyond.
Down! Away! Where the princess chant.
Oh, how she wanted to flee from dark!
Oh, how she wished to see moist grass!
This witch was called the bleak, weak witch.
She wishes on stars and drinks not mire.
Her black eyes wish to see blue skies,
No more grey, she always says.
The witch’s name, they didn’t know, they dare not ask,
For those black eyes rein the grass,
The swamps, the ants and the blue, white fire.
She was a princess, herself, she was.
She ruled the hills and the under lives.
Yet they did not know,
She need not rule,
She need not want to fly and slay.
Jan 22, 2010
Jan 22, 2010 at 7:24 PM UTC
Through misty alleys and darkened streets
Romp ghouls and goblins, looking for treats
In every town and every village
Children come to plunder and pillage
Knocking on doors, oh what a sight
Out in the streets on Halloween night
Riding on broomsticks, howling at the moon
The ghouls and ghosts sing their eerie tune
Raising eyebrows as they pass
Each one more frightening than the last
All begging for candy, they do roam
Till their bags are full, and it's time to go home
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 7:45 AM UTC
The moon was lost behind a cloud
When something weird went by
I tried to see what it was
But it flew so fast and high.
I don'tbelieve in witches
But that is what I saw
Sailing high in the sky
On broomsticks made of straw.
The stars were gone the night was dark
When something else took place
I couldn't quite believe it
There was a gruesome face.
A skeleton with corpse like face
I viewed it in awe
I don't believe in zombies
But that is what I saw.
The howls and cries
Under the moons eerie light
A master of changing shape
With one infectious bite.
I don't believe in werewolves
But that is what I saw
Walking down the street
With blood stained jaw.
Another creature of the night
With fangs dripping red
A piercing bite upon your neck
Then you are bled.
I don't believe in vampires
But that is what I saw
Lurking near the graveyard
When the moon was low.
All too soon the mellow moon
Lights an empty late night street
Children dreaming, planning, scheming
For next years trick or treat..
© Hazel
Oct 29, 2012
Oct 29, 2012 at 12:25 PM UTC
A little girl and her father broke into my house
Their aim was to steal my daddy’s records
Later they said it was to open a bar
There were way more records there than I remembered
Crates and boxes stacked on top of each other
They let me keep some of the Doors’ records
I don’t know how they knew I liked that band
I panicked, knowing how long my dad had kept and preserved his collection
My sister showed up somewhere, somehow
I asked her to call the police, but she refused and refused
I was bewildered
I finally got a phone, but it didn’t work.
I found a gun
But it was a water gun
It shot out pink goo at the offenders
Finally I flashed to the scene of a hollowed out lake
We must have looked like witches and wizards
Flying on our homemade broomsticks
Soaring just below the clouds
Swan-diving into pillows of treetops
The feeling was indescribable-
Being in control
Until a sister sold me down the river
Placed you on sale to the highest bidder
Words were exchanged
My heart took flight and was broken
God and the devil were in cahoots that night.
Jun 9, 2013
Jun 9, 2013 at 5:42 PM UTC
It is time to change the way things are, scratch that smell from our noses, like **** in a bottle chucked out the window while going 90,
The free fall fogs up the glasses on a blushed face, 40oz till we down the sound of crying,
Lie across the ocean
Lie across the land
Send truth over and watch it slip through the cracks,
Breached news of frustration calls "Canada is coming, what the **** is America doing,"
We do our best to travel against all odds, piloting a spoon made of silver into a greedy pocket originally meant to feed those eating mud pie, baking in an ever dying sun as fish float up to the surface,
Choking down the salt water to avoid drill, give them a gun instead, it will protect our false memories and concocted purpose,
This was paid for by ink soaked bones working in minimum oxygen to the brain, featured on rolls of film stripping off clothes covered in lust,
Taking hold of a crowd with merely this voice, conducting an audience with bed knobs and broomsticks, rhythmically grinding the **** awry, taste this sun from the lips of a fairy, mystical or not we were there to receive,
Open our hearts via chaos trained messages, massaging back pains to the point of tears, electromagnetism therapy causing the lights around the dance floor to flicker, moving at incomprehensible speeds relating colors between points B to Z,
On numbered grids the scale is curved to fit the description of another one biting the dust,
And as we finally rest on cold stones the Panic sets in.
Jul 3, 2017
Jul 3, 2017 at 3:30 PM UTC
Magic,spells,
Witches and wizards,
Broomsticks and moon beam,
Near the moon,
above lake,
I know a land in which,
Is found all of this,
Not my imagination,
Some say idiocracy,
some call me stupid,
Some say am abnormal,
But I call it natural,
for me is what my eyes see,
And it is all the sight you see,
i believe in a different world,
I live in a different world,
Don't think I'm different,
I'm just one of you,
Its just that I've seen enough,
Which the world had for me to see,
So I wonder about that crazy place,
Just 'cause they accept me the way I am,
I was, I am and I'll always be this way,
A movey little shadow,
Which ought to be seen....
Dec 22, 2012
Dec 22, 2012 at 2:03 PM UTC
My private username is in the Public Domain
I guess I'm too headstrong for all the bubble bursters
Placate my phosphorous soul
I'm sorry for my outburst
I'm an oddball
Inconceivable
What am I to do with these overdone and overdue Blockbuster tapes I have just finished over viewing?
I contrive white elephants for all those who tip the scales
Whose guesses are as good as mine as to how some make time to fold a thousand origami cranes
I've been beaten with broomsticks and Plexiglas riot shields
Because I was looking for the middle way between indulgence and denial
But rest assured, the glum lobbyist is going to counter balance the dumbwaiter
As the elevator operator takes the escalator because he's all about time management
When I was young I could see people's guardian angels and auras
But now the angels are gone and only the auras remain
"I hate my life and all the choices I'v mad that have brought me here"
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 3:47 AM UTC