"commandeered" poems
The rock slept
Genghis Khan clamped fingers
Over the edge of a land mass
And peeled freedom away from the East
The rock slept
The mob beheaded a woman who aided the American Revolution
Americans denied it later
But every town called Marietta is named after her
The rock slept
A vegetarian who didn’t drink and smoke
Commandeered information technology and chemical engineering
To commit the biggest murder-robbery
In the history of daylight and star-shine
The rock slept
The vegetarian cowered from justice
Committed suicide like the milksop/milquetoast he was
The rock slept
A fourteen-year-old boy clamped his fingers
Around it
Aimed it at High Strength Lexan riot shields
Protecting flesh, blood, and bone minimally paid
Protecting shields of numbers, theories, interchangeable office holders
Until he realized the futility of it
Dropped the rock
Turned south (or maybe north)
And walked away
The rock slept
Snoring unheard through the next spurt of tyranny
Sep 23, 2012
Sep 23, 2012 at 6:33 PM UTC
This is your reality, the brave new world;
i just hang out here:
birthed in the Cradle of Elam,
a mourning son of Baal,
smeared and anointed
with the oil from the
***** fingerprints of
countless scores of
sweaty neophytes;
carried, dropped, dented;
brought forth from eons passed,
updated for the 21st century,
gilded Krylon-gold.
This nebulous gift,
made tangible and
whole by blood,
a form fitting sacrifice,
transmogrified kudzu,
rootless, digging
talons' clutch into
our minds' construct,
seeks strength of
conviction, action.
Our ship is now
veering off course.
i must respond in kind.
i will not be led astray.
i will not have my good
intentions commandeered.
i will hijack your purpose,
screaming mutiny,
holding Occam's Razor-knife
to the throat of your jihads.
i issue a fatwa of peace,
as you once did,
before.
i renounce a kingdom of hate,
as you once did,
before.
i seek charity in effort,
as we once did,
before.
Let us rebuild.
Let us move forward.
***** a new Babel,
forsaking the sword.
Let our forks be on roads,
and not on our tongues;
a forging of union,
as we'd once begun:
My sisters, my brothers,
my family,
as one.
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 7:39 PM UTC
She hides in pockets of flesh in my gums
I can taste her in the morning when I spit
at night I can feel her swimming in an ocean of mouthwash
In sleep she oozes onto my pillow
moistening the dusty fabric under my cheek
When shes really playful
she will wiggle herself into my cerebellum
and dance furiously with my dreams
or gently sing lullabies when my heart wont let me sleep
when the world and its filth have commandeered my hope
she is there to brush away the dirt with untarnished hands
she is my religion she is my ******
without her I am sick
a smoldering heat of black matter and fungi
she is antibacterial soap on my soul
Lysol wipes to my tarred lungs
with one whiff I am cleansed of debris
she saturates the oxygen in my blood
she resides in my abdomen
I can feel her in my kidneys.
Oct 8, 2011
Oct 8, 2011 at 5:08 PM UTC
replacing white lines with gray ash and sleeping in beds for sleeping in bathrooms and you wonder if you had any self respect in the first place because this afternoon you tried to think of your happiest memories in the past year and it wasn't when you were in someone's arms or thinking of your successes in the mirror while you flexed your kickass young *** it was when you were smoking bummed menthols and your friend commandeered a miniature tractor in the tenderloin and conducted two drug deals in less than 30 minutes and you watched her disdainfully with her girlfriend and wondered where on ******* earth you could get a three dollar old fashioned and let a forty year old flirt with you for coke and you wouldn't even have to do anything for it wouldn't life be nice like that
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 5:32 PM UTC
It was July and something inside of her began to thud. small and light as a pulse grew from a seed at the bottom of her belly, weaved and braided with veins, commandeered organs like ivy on headstones. washed up and sprouted from her chewed down fingernails, popped blood vessels in her eyes. she thought, 'if this isn't dying then it must be blooming.' this new presence was abashed by the absence of Arabic script and an African summer. it wept at dogs as they panted; they could let go so easily- a few deep heaves and they're back to pure. easy and breezy and not the sad, harsh tear of skin below shoulders, the bruises creeping over wrists and the shredded esophagus. the soiled heart and tar-heavy soul. it panicked more and more as the calender blew past. it sobbed as tomorrow became today and today became yesterday.
i lived a hazy summer. brown skin and hair that turned red at the crinkly ends as it baked. i walked through cornfields and slipped on husks. landed on my back and erupted in giggles at the snowglobe sky protecting me and caging me. incense and gin were as consistent as the advent sun. music blaring and bodies bumping and no release. no escape. my little book of plans was solid and secure. and then smashed. ripped. no poetry and braids. not dreamy just silly.
Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 10:23 PM UTC
Rapidly writing
his ragged riddles
he giggles
and flips furiously
through his pad
Glad to be in his element
weaving his meanings
out of their words
hides dead drop spikes
and microfiche behind his verbs
Slice him open he bleeds
black and white
like ink and computer screens
The Enigma becomes a riddle to himself
lost in the context of his own twisted reality
he falls into his own textual mazes
and is enslaved, as a hologram,
a nightmare, or three,
the happy family
and the RaceCyst
Scarecrow stands silent
stealthily concealed behind a simile.
I observe
the Riddler weaving word nets
and lines of buried treasure truth
commandeered from the pits of shared despair
The Riddler knows what evil lurks in the deepest black,
even now he is giggling at the thought of it.
Aug 4, 2012
Aug 4, 2012 at 7:45 AM UTC
Nestled in a pencil case
And snuggled up in fluff
There snoozed a tiny pirate man
Of legendary stuff
He'd spied the hidden secrets
And trod the haunted shore
Blu-tack Beard the buccaneer
Scourge of the open floor
He stole a shoe-box galleon
And sailed the carpet blue
With pencil mast and paper sails
And crayons as his crew
They forayed on the crooked tiles
And crested every ridge
Blu-tack Beard the scallywag
The raider of the fridge
When moored up in the kitchen
With all his crew around
The captain showed to one and all
A treasure map he'd found
It bore a chart of distant parts
And quite a course it plot
It pointed to the bathroom lands
And tip-ex marked the spot
They crammed the hold with cornflakes
To feed them on their trip
They pulled hard on the piece of string
And weighed the paperclip
The crew they dragged their boat aloft
On neatly woven hairs
Blu-tack Beard the privateer
Surmounter of the stairs
They heaved their vessel restlessly
Atop the final brow
The crayon pirates caught their breath
And leaned against her bow
Then scaled tiny ladders
And each took to their post
Blu-tack Beard was at the helm
And watched the foreign coast
Through countless minutes voyaging
There loomed the bathroom door
They slacked the sail and went below
And each took to an oar
They pulled a mighty rhythm
Till their waxy arms were numb
And Blu-tack Beard the plunderer
Was beater of the drum
But though they pried in every nook
And each last inch of grout
They skirted round the skirting board
They tapped each silver spout
Illusive was their bounty
And they grew ever the crueller
They took their skipper angrily
And made him walk the ruler
He landed glum and ruefully
Amid the ***** socks
He heard the merry spiteful sound
Of laughing, taunting mocks
And saw the sight of mutiny
With waxen little smiles
Blu-tack Beard the cast-away
Alone among the tiles
He commandeered a washing cloth
And weaved himself a rope
He scaled the dreaded washstand
And stole a bar of soap
He carved himself a coracle
And set his sights on home
Blu-tack Beard the wanderer
Awash amid the foam
He slithered down the stairwell
And landed with a plan
For warmer climes and restfulness
A cocktail and a tan
And so he met his final port
Right then did he retire
Blu-tack Beard the pensioner
Of the warm spot near the fire
Feb 22, 2014
Feb 22, 2014 at 4:33 PM UTC
i sometimes think
that i've defeated the reaper
that lives in my finger tips.
the reaper that commandeered my hands
and made them weapons of
self destruction.
he lies dormant
long enough to convince me
that he's found another home.
but he takes me hostage
every now and again
to remind me he's here.
i forgot the thoughts
of an early death
and lived like i was planning
for next year.
i've been expecting a future
that i'm not sure exists.
but the reaper has made me
recall the consideration
that i may not be fit to live
a life as long as i would like.
as of right now
i have no plans to interrupt this life
with eternal sleep.
but i cannot promise
that in some time
the reaper will not convince me.
so while he sleeps
while i still have time
theres so much
i need to do before i die.
i need to feel love
without the fear
of that love being expunged.
i need to find my God
whether he be the one
i've been shown or not.
i want so badly
to look at myself
the same way
i look at a flower.
i want so badly to see
what others say they see in me.
i've always wanted
to be something good.
a good daughter,
lover,
friend.
and i have this desire
to help where i can
and not need any myself.
i want to matter
in a life besides my own
and hold value above my worth.
i don't want to
be a burden anymore.
i don't want to be
a pressing responsibility on anybody.
i don't want the few i love
to feel obligated to pick me out of
my own disasters.
i worry i won't fulfill
these aspirations in time.
the reaper will wake
and take control again
this time with the force
of ten thousand men.
ten thousand men
wielding my hands
instead of swords.
they turn my hands against me
as they had been turned before.
this time i will not survive.
such an incredible might
will devour and destroy
this fragile self i defend.
but what does it matter
what i want?
theres so much more
things that are so much bigger
than the desires of a deranged
little girl
Jul 28, 2016
Jul 28, 2016 at 12:20 AM UTC
The unscrupulous cavalry shuffled aboard narrow lanes,
Cutting in line towards Jager Bomb's tether,
Cluttered duffel bags concealing cheap champagnes,
Passing cruise ship commuter's ruffled feathers.
With their fake, "excuse me's" en route to the bar,
Coercing the conductor who's been under the weather
With smug smiles and counterfeit Cuban cigars.
Leaving the harbor three sheets to the wind
The cowards commandeered Grandparents pool chairs,
A little past midnight with no foresight of end,
An abrupt brawl broke out, fists flying through air.
A sightseeing whale trip turned into a ship from hell,
The assailants now held in a South of Wales cell.
May 2, 2018
May 2, 2018 at 12:07 AM UTC
"Y'got city hands, Mr. Hooper."
I felt his coarse hands grip mine, too;
I lived through Mr. Hooper vicariously
as I looked down at open palms
spread to the heavens,
illuminated in the flashy brilliance of the glare.
I saw wrinkled, calloused eyes peer into mine;
I stood on that rickety old dock
in my fitted and worn wool cap,
faded denim shirt matching pants
and dingy white tennis shoes.
"Y'got city hands, Mr. Hooper."
My ego crestfallen as well,
pride in my intelligence proven in the Academia
withering, as the gritty gap-toothed
leery-eyed barnacle of a sailor
peered inquisitively into my soul.
He saw the smooth hands--
ah, but the callouses engraved deep between joints
on my fingers; a musician!
His eyes grilled, "In bourgeois leisure,
smiling meekly dwelling within milquetoast afternoon hours,
or,
from downtown haunts sweating jazz in the midnight hour,
dancing screaming cursing moaning lovingly?"
My eyes cast down again.
But I know not of the city as my abode!
I know the ****** and the farmer
more than any contributor to painted landscapes, nay;
they are my acquaintances, neighbors, cousins, brothers, and sisters!
For I have lived on the water;
I have eyed the vessels
commandeered by the gritty, grubby,
greased captains of my soul,
as I float buoyed in their wake,
eager to catch a semblance of the waters
that trail before them.
I live treading their wake,
eyes open and pencil in hand.
And lo;
I found sanctuary in the vast fields of the rustic farmer!
For I ate breakfast of the freshly-slaughtered calf;
I drank its mother's milk,
eggs fresh from the poultry den--
I squawked along with the mother hens.
I took in the bucolic smell of the country
atop the rugged tractor,
eyeing squinting
grimacing like a smile in the sun
burning burning down upon stiff backs
and leather necks--
I, the leaves of grass scattered
in the wake of the farmer,
I, the bails of hay furled tightly
sitting patiently in the once golden meadow,
I watched the tractors and their commandeers
disappear in the bombinate horizon;
the sound of insects ushering in the night sky
like unrolling the starry-eyed carpet
before the hazy late afternoon moon.
I watched, I lived,
waiting coiled in their wakes
eyes wide open and paper clenched in hand.
I lifted my eyes to once again
hear his curt admonition:
"Y'got city hands, Mr. Rhine."
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 3:37 PM UTC
Stasi shredded stripes
bags of systematic
bureaucratic
destruction
of memories &
moments in time
Bagged, gagged & tagged
in sylo’s
bunkers full
crammed with broken
histories
fragments of faces
letters
postcards from beyond
blue, yellow and green
in grey
Inhumane
cynical destruction
of hope
slivers of the disappeared
commandeered
processed
pushed
mechanically
through the sharp teeth
of a hungry system
The greatest reconstruction
Reconnection
Resurrection
Of a nation
Continues
Every weekend
As the many mend
the states’ excess
Feb 6, 2012
Feb 6, 2012 at 8:34 AM UTC
we have been deceived.
corralled like tepid sheep,
fattened beef
waiting beyond
the doors of the slaughterhouse.
as pigs lick their lips,
a daemon’s death dirge drifts
listless across the
Atlantic, an erratic dichotomy
corroding rationality—
this executive edict
barring refugees.
caught without a compass,
a flotilla of ships weathering
the elements.
for forty days
and forty nights,
we’ve been lead
two-by-two
by elephants
and donkeys.
demagogues commandeered
the lighthouse, directing
our ark across
scattered rocks.
an armada
of shattered splinters,
remnants of water-logged vessels
we’d hoped to sail to utopia.
caught in the webs
we wove, droves
of drones spewing
bombs across Aleppo.
as spittle collects
on spluttering orange lips,
will we
pause
for but a moment?
collect
our thoughts.
reflect.
history is a shattered
mirror and we’ve pricked
our fingers trying
to piece the image
back together.
there’s a hunger
for blood
refracting in our eyes.
a misanthropy
that smarts and stings.
a recalcitrant population
coerced by a television
rhetorician’s clever
devices, devised
to separate and segregate
during this crisis
caused by our missiles.
there is no moral arc
to the universe. hope,
Hedges wrote, is mania
if it remains vapid
and refuses to address
the depravity of our
physical reality.
we’ve already lost.
just ask the children
barely clinging to life,
covered in the debris
of their former homes.
all that’s left for us
is to bash the fascists.
smash every illusory border
in our heads and hearts.
burn down the walls
they try to build
around us.
overturn the tables
of the oligarchs,
stuff Molotov cocktails
down their bloated throats.
open revolt is our only hope.
we’ll build a sanctuary
in this City Beautiful.
Jan 28, 2017
Jan 28, 2017 at 10:12 PM UTC
Moon of Pythagorus, such proofless arithmetic derived,
No sigmoidal curves or cold calculus of the divine,
But pale barbarian, war-bringer of straight lines,
Your sea drifts commandeered like lit ash-spears in line,
Or the thrashing of wind-whipped rags of horses’ manes.
Moon of Pythagorus, the phantasms of your campfires
Of waiting armies flicker like fireflies along the stream.
Burn me, Moon, with your fire-tongued spears,
Your haunt of horses, unbridled and reared,
Burn an eye through my heart like the oculus of the Pantheon,
So I can see my pulse beat against the ash of naked footsteps
Of those who make false shrine to me.
Aug 7, 2019
Aug 7, 2019 at 7:27 PM UTC
This precisely is the secret hour, that brings to an end
of the long wait of patient bats, now let them ecstatically mate,
mind, wakes up from stupor,in creative instinct,becomes a ******
though peering in to own hidden shadows, from a pantomime past.
Silence of many shades reign in the mansion of magic beyond space,
along the labyrinthine inner corridor, lighted seldom or even never.
The dark nimbus clouds above, purge, thunder roars,victorious,
outside the cave rain in torrents lashes, winds whistle like possessed,
heart fills with an urge urgent,words fumble to express with verve,
blind bats, hanging upside down, wake all at once, shaking wings,
they arise creating a cacophony,then the transformation is quick,
what results is a frenzied ****** fight for colored words to mate.
The pairs suited most, in the crowded cave , intuitively selected,
commandeered, brought together, merged perfectly, without effort,
blending with the rare beauty of light filtering in, striking images
of different hues appear on the screen, moving pictures of creation.
Everything is still here except,a fecund sense, awareness in fire,
thoughts are in a churn, turn towards the starlit firmament,
and fertile red earth doused in the scent new rain roused,
blue water expanses, rippling moves as waves after waves
all finally settle, mind's creative pool now, is a placid reservoir.
Astonished he is, by the immortality of words, that acquire
an escape velocity to project, shoot up through the clouds,
it's payload, is carried by a fuel, alchemy created propellant,
that ensures poetic transcendence,the fused golden words live long.
The creative moments, are pure wonder, when within the folds
of primordial sound,he waves silk blending it with golden threads,
The poet becomes the word first and the word speaks through him,
poem is a canal perennial,for the flow of desire, hope and pain concealed deep,all projected by the mind continuum that never sleeps.
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 12:14 PM UTC
Layers of mud and dirt,
Fill homes water commandeered;
Human lives eclipsed!
Sep 4, 2018
Sep 4, 2018 at 9:58 AM UTC
In the space between walls
stagnant dust swells with manor house tales
of births and deaths, a ****** or two,
marriages, affairs and locked away shames.
We squint and we peer at moth eaten carpets
that hang from the wall, too delicate now
for tread underfoot, for stamping and squishing
and pounding out rows, unravelling structure,
whispers carry to the end of the hall
"have we made the right choice?"
"Please lower your voice,
I would find it too hard, but I can't know your pain"
The heart is merely a muscle afterall.
It was a hospital once, commandeered for the rest
of shell shocked tommies, basket case brigade
gone mad from the sight of vaporized mates,
claret sprays like champagne in traumatised hands
and they're there in the dust,
deformities rot in the space between walls
"and is this the right date?"
"yes" (I'm hoping we're late)
but an embryo is only a blob afterall.
A natural progression from soldiers to nutters
a bedlam, barbaric defective discharge
"if they wont agree then persuade them".
"Just do what is best".
Take the pill force the fluids
splayed over a bed,
and then throw out what's left,
the muck and the grief,
after scraping and clearing
the space between walls.
Dec 15, 2010
Dec 15, 2010 at 1:46 AM UTC
I want to be under your skin, lying placidly, feeling the rush of your beats around me.
I wish to fall asleep to the rhythm of your breath
the pull of your muscles
the shocks of your nerves.
This relationship has been commandeered by desire, recklessly veering off the path of pleasantries.
Caged and wild, it waits...
Fighting the desire to claw and rip its way to the surface.
To give in is to destroy this ethereal state of what may be.
Only once chance do I have to sink into you, meld us together and adapt to this foreign occupation.
I don't wish to slip
I want to stick
like resin to fingertips...
I wish to stain you and leave you forever marked.
Fear races wildly in my eyes, drives me out of mind but I must keep it cool...
so very cool...
As if just one skittish movement could leave me alone.
could have you leave me alone
I'll play this marionette game, responding to your movements and your impulses.
Eventually i'll be a real person to you, not just another object to play with.
I'll be your shadow my love
Kiss the very ground you walk on
Just see me always...
Don't let the darkness dissipate what this light illuminates.
I want to be under your skin, safe and sound.
I'll stay here.
Waiting...
Patiently...
For you to let me come around.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 6:33 PM UTC
flying over Harrisburg (Seat 8C)
transcontinental traveller this day,
from a city island onwards to a city by the bay,
the mileage sum greater than a lifetime of M31 bus trips,
but the in-transit poem-notion-potion elixir in blood stirring,
when a seated poet greets the jet stream
motion turbulence
,
one more rightful writ to the
flying poem chapter,
additive motivated and self-commandeered
airborne in the selfsame real clouds
where the poems are plucked from,
their distance to my body’s poem functions,
vastly abbreviated so they arrive more wet, chilled and urgent,
we become heated tango paired
already approaching Indiana, crossing Ohio,
over whose living souls have I traversed,
over whose stored poems have I flown through,
ruffling their crinkled white wrapper covers, the decorative ribbons,
whose hand waves have I discerned,
and whose cheeks have I gently kissed?
this land is my land, this land is our land,
and from the soft cream of moisture white,
stumbled on my long lost and well forgotten poems, thereby
freshly creasing and dampening yellowings
with the renewable tears when greeting old friends
of the who and when poetry was a secret garden
where I hid and withdrew and transpired the essential oils
of my deconstructed constitution
see this poem is more me just checking in on you below,
you up ahead, and those in arreared reared view mirror,
and on me, composing at an altitude of 31,824 feet to
strings of violins, my one true plane
as compensator for this ramble unfocused I gift you this:
*conscripted by the thin atmosphere,
constricted by my failings, my limited stock of words,
my extra clouded judgement, my heartbeats rapido speak,
telling me to tell you my brothers, my sisters,
mine own adapted children,
we have never been closer than we are today,
until that day I knock and grinningly embrace and erase
that tiny space between our ******* and in unison breathe*
8:50am EST entente
entering into Illinois
Mar 23, 2018
Mar 23, 2018 at 9:16 AM UTC
the fails the falls actual trips
on the pavement
flat out in male heat whimpering
commandeered by mating itches
you trace the pattern pursuing your needs
you've probed the city beds
for the love song some tremor of heart
but it becomes more akin to research
lurching through the 'feeding grounds'
too many 'successes' and some hard 'romantic' hurts
it becomes numbers
and used condoms skinned off your member
you do that long enough
and you've become something criminal
you act the brag call it 'throwing cock'
and imagine it 'the glorified hunt'
your discourse with girls
power toward vital recitals that 'score'
toss out your heart and suss out 'weaknesses'
(the same weaknesses you loathed
in your own beginners wounds)
before long you've become a bored and pushy criminal
never quenched
chasing the young with vile deceit
not even a shower between each 'victory'
you daren't bring them to your place anymore
taxi cabs have your address flagged
send up verbal flares
to any potential fares
with you a daring destination
***** lair of aggressor ego
mister 'never takes 'no''
****** predator
Jun 12, 2025
Jun 12, 2025 at 6:20 PM UTC
ok, things are getting better!!
got my ducks all waddling
in a row.
my tin solidiers standing
to attention in a line.
my cats all in pyjamas and spats...(gotta tell ya that one was a bit tricky).
also put mittens on those
curious kittens.
don't want them dying,
ya know.
the mutt, is busy looking for
nuts.
and i made the elephant
comfortable in this small room.
he is now, chatting with
the paper tiger,
over by the fireplace
my fish swimming happily
in their barrel.
and the bees,tending
busily to arthritic knees
so almost all is well...
but sheeesh!!!
my geese are running around pell-mell
and are likely to give
the mittened kittens
a fainting spell.
all that,
honking and flapping about
mother goose going to hell.
so....... now......
the ducks are wandering
tin soldiers, planning
a gruerilla wafare attack.
the cats now naked
****
how did they,
get out of those spats.
the mutt still looking
nothing, will stop that
fool dog, those nuts are,
looooong gone.
elephant is embarrassed,
the tiger squashed flat.
fish, floating, not swimming.
now food for the cat.
and the bees and their
knees are creating
stinging, verbal retorts.
....as for the geese
and the mittened
kittens....
they have, commandeered
the black forest torte
and are gulping it greedily
down.
so... it is certainly not me,
no siree,
who is in charge of this madhouse mind,
in this mindless town
of mine.
not me,
who wears the king's crown.
you will find me,
the fool......
down by the pool,
....sunbathing...
when all this weird ****
is going down..
**nothing to see here,
move along,
nothing to see....**
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 11:41 PM UTC
When hope and home sound the same,
then you're probably nowhere near it.
I've commandeered someone's private plane,
but I have no idea where to steer it.
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 12:33 AM UTC
part 4 of 5
three years earlier
The Gallows Society
"This, THIS! I'm so tired of all THIS!"
Blurted Giles as Zamira dressed his wrists
Pathetic! (she thought) A dismal attempt
Then left the room concealing contempt
Giles just stared at the
drip
drip
drip
dripping of the morphine
Candle light danced on the walls
The demons sank back into the shadows
Giles returned to the womb
Basking in weightless warmth
Comfortably apathetic
Numb
The drudgery of the next day unfurled
As Giles accepted defeat around noon
Something had to be done about life
That something had better happen soon
He brunched in his office
and so began his search
All that day
and night
that week
That month
Deeper into the cavernous "dark web"
seeking any answer to end his despair
but every search became a cul-de-sac
No doors opened for this millionaire
No doors would open
All remained firmly locked
Sitting in his office chair
Feverishly typing as he rocked
He rocked as he typed
He swiveled as he clicked
Searching for something
That he was less able to predict
But that something found him
And sent him an invitation
Explaining that they had been watching
Seeing his frustration
Understanding his world view
May he could understand theirs
But before he were to be accepted
He must climb down the seven stairs
He
Must
Climb
Down
The
Seven
Stairs
Distant from the blinding light
Cast yourself from the hallows
Embrace darkness embrace night
Take the Noose and the Gallows.
The mouse pointer hovered
over options "Yes" and "No"
His heart beat quickened
But then came the red glow
of two laser beams from directly behind
circling the yes option
From past the windows' opened blind
"Yes" and the two red dots disappeared
The wheels were put in motion
His future was now commandeered
A force that seemed greater than him
Changed the rules and took control
Embers deep inside of him flickered
Re-igniting the coals of his dark soul
The seven steps awaited him...
What ever could they be?
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 7:10 PM UTC
the garbage truck
didn't turn up this morning
and there is *******
around all the house's awnings
apparently the truck's gear box
had a major collapse
which caused the gear stick
to go into relapse
the council rang the town's folk
at nine o'clock
to let them know that the truck
would be staying in dock
they also stated that another truck
had been commandeered
by the environmental officer
Mister Mark Beard
at some stage during the day
the ******* will be collected
which will make the house awnings
look less neglected
we take pride in having
a ******* free town
and we the residence don't much like it
when the garbage truck breaks down
our council's fleet of trucks
should be in working order
so as not to cause
the residence of the town disorder
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 4:16 PM UTC
Can you answer this question
With a smile on your face?
Can you answer this question
With confidence in place?
In your mirrors of thought
Do you see your belief?
In the pool of your essence
Could you find relief?
Do you pilot your life
Or are commandeered by emotion?
Could you tell me who you are
Through all of the commotion?
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 9:47 AM UTC
I'm sitting in class
bored to tears.
What's this I hear?
Your voice in my ears
and it is ever so clear.
Pulling me back to the night
Your love for me disappeared.
I knew when I found you with
that volunteer and
His **** in your rear.
I was hurt so severe.
We're never going to persevere.
The image of you as a souvenir.
Forever you will be a smear
As you failed to adhere.
I commandeered all the
***** whiskey, and beer
From the cashier.
Driving in high gear
in my drunken sphere.
I went to the end of the pier.
Put that gun to my inner ear.
Pulling the trigger is near
when I hear in both ears,
"Class! Get out of here!"
As my peers cheer and clear
I am left to think of
My Greatest Fear
Adhere to me you have for
and entire year.
I love you my dear.
AO
Feb 7, 2015
Feb 7, 2015 at 4:37 AM UTC