"damning" poems - Hello Poetry

"damning" poems

a thousand brilliant lies (Hafiz, Iran 1320-1389); (L.F.P., USA 20~21st century) - Hafez - - Left Foot Poet- “I have a if only, in my meager possess, thousand brilliant lies, but one lie when easy asked For the question: the simplest damning of, How are you? are you generally happy? I have a what is god you ask, thousand brilliant lies. no lies required, For the question: many answers upon my face visible, What is God? unsure if any worthy of believing If you think that the 8 centuries separate us, yet Truth can be known, you lie; we poets - you, I, all believe From words in the divinity of words If you think that the a thousand brilliant sparkles Sun and the Ocean, when Sun loves the Ocean, Can pass through that each one a poem passing, tiny opening Called my mouth, my wide eyes, the mouth, uttering a Cohen's hallelujah O someone should So we gleam, mirthing in glorious start laughing! and gleeful delight at ourselves Someone should start for your brilliant happy lies easily wildly Laughing Now!" unravel into a thousand laughs

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Jun 21, 2018

Jun 21, 2018 at 2:30 PM UTC

a thousand brilliant lies (Hafiz, Left Foot)

a thousand brilliant lies (Hafiz, Iran 1320-1389); (L.F.P., USA 20~21st century) - Hafez - - Left Foot Poet- “I have a if only, in my meager possess, thousand brilliant lies, but one lie when easy asked For the question: the simplest damning of, How are you? are you generally happy? I have a what is god you ask, thousand brilliant lies. no lies required, For the question: many answers upon my face visible, What is God? unsure if any worthy of believing If you think that the 8 centuries separate us, yet Truth can be known, you lie; we poets - you, I, all believe From words in the divinity of words If you think that the a thousand brilliant sparkles Sun and the Ocean, when Sun loves the Ocean, Can pass through that each one a poem passing, tiny opening Called my mouth, my wide eyes, the mouth, uttering a Cohen's hallelujah O someone should So we gleam, mirthing in glorious start laughing! and gleeful delight at ourselves Someone should start for your brilliant happy lies easily wildly Laughing Now!" unravel into a thousand laughs

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Icarus washes up on Miami Beach over the spring break of 2k16 and finds a world where the gods roam the streets, where his wax wings burned themselves into trenches of scars down his back, where we warn our children of the dangers of flying too high, but forget the part about the riptides waiting if you fly too low. He asks Siri how far away the sun is, finds Apollo in the red rocks of New Mexico off I-40 just outside of Albuquerque, alone and basking in the heat. The ice caps are melting. The sun still hurts to touch, burning Icarus's hands and leaving fingerprints in the feathers of his melted wings, but Apollo is much kinder now, soothing the skin cancer with freckles and soft touches. It no longer feels like a damning. This is what happens to the children of tragedies: they flinch too much, they fall too hard, they're fragile as glass but immune to everything the world can throw at them. Icarus flinches at the sound of the oceans. He knows the wrath of Poseidon. Icarus rises from the dead with his irises washed white and his rips etched with Hades's name: he should have been a child of Persephone, spring in his hands and flowers in his hair. He should have spent his days sprawled in the sun's caress. He should have been infinite. Icarus flinches too much. That's what everyone keeps telling him. He flinches too much at every lifted voice and crashing wave and he flinches too much when he feels sunshine on his face. Icarus is sorry for flinching too much. Icarus is trying not to flinch too much. Icarus is sorry that it's taking so long to just get over his trauma and stop flinching so much-- sorry. He doesn't know what to do now that he's touched the sun and this time it didn't burn. He wanted it to burn. He wants to burn. He wants to feel his bones breaking all over again because that's the only time he doesn't feel like he needs to be in control. Why is he chasing things that hurt? Why does he feel like he deserves to hurt? He deserves to crash. He finally touched the sun. Icarus feels empty, and he's still flinching.

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Jul 13, 2017

Jul 13, 2017 at 2:10 AM UTC

the sun is 1,953 (92.96 mil) miles away

Icarus washes up on Miami Beach over the spring break of 2k16 and finds a world where the gods roam the streets, where his wax wings burned themselves into trenches of scars down his back, where we warn our children of the dangers of flying too high, but forget the part about the riptides waiting if you fly too low. He asks Siri how far away the sun is, finds Apollo in the red rocks of New Mexico off I-40 just outside of Albuquerque, alone and basking in the heat. The ice caps are melting. The sun still hurts to touch, burning Icarus's hands and leaving fingerprints in the feathers of his melted wings, but Apollo is much kinder now, soothing the skin cancer with freckles and soft touches. It no longer feels like a damning. This is what happens to the children of tragedies: they flinch too much, they fall too hard, they're fragile as glass but immune to everything the world can throw at them. Icarus flinches at the sound of the oceans. He knows the wrath of Poseidon. Icarus rises from the dead with his irises washed white and his rips etched with Hades's name: he should have been a child of Persephone, spring in his hands and flowers in his hair. He should have spent his days sprawled in the sun's caress. He should have been infinite. Icarus flinches too much. That's what everyone keeps telling him. He flinches too much at every lifted voice and crashing wave and he flinches too much when he feels sunshine on his face. Icarus is sorry for flinching too much. Icarus is trying not to flinch too much. Icarus is sorry that it's taking so long to just get over his trauma and stop flinching so much-- sorry. He doesn't know what to do now that he's touched the sun and this time it didn't burn. He wanted it to burn. He wants to burn. He wants to feel his bones breaking all over again because that's the only time he doesn't feel like he needs to be in control. Why is he chasing things that hurt? Why does he feel like he deserves to hurt? He deserves to crash. He finally touched the sun. Icarus feels empty, and he's still flinching.

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You’re not Pro-life, just Pro-Forced Birth Despite proclaiming loudly On signs accusing, ****** To one in three women, proudly You’re not Pro-Life, but Anti-choice And Anti-women, too Shutting down Planned Parenthood is A War on Women’s coup Your Pro-Birth stance is but a sham Backwards in time, you’re swimming Saying Jesus is your Lamb while Cutting aid for pregnant women I saw you there, in Salem, too Pointing, declaring them WITCHES Burned alive by your testimony Betraying and damning your SISTERS My mother used to say self praise Was not really praise at all How can you say you’re Pro-Birthers Causing WIC funding to fall? The schools that once were funded Providing breakfast for hungry kids Was cut-yet congress spends like Spartans Government sold to the highest bids Sixty percent of our money In good ole USA Goes straight to the military And I demand a say! ‘Health’ gets only five percent And ‘Education’ six Yet that’s where congress goes To cut funding to the quick You shut down Planned Parenthood with Dishonest screams and shouts… Support Accidental Parenthood- Is that what you’re about?

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Feb 19, 2016

Feb 19, 2016 at 2:41 PM UTC

Support Accidental Parenthood!

You’re not Pro-life, just Pro-Forced Birth Despite proclaiming loudly On signs accusing, ****** To one in three women, proudly You’re not Pro-Life, but Anti-choice And Anti-women, too Shutting down Planned Parenthood is A War on Women’s coup Your Pro-Birth stance is but a sham Backwards in time, you’re swimming Saying Jesus is your Lamb while Cutting aid for pregnant women I saw you there, in Salem, too Pointing, declaring them WITCHES Burned alive by your testimony Betraying and damning your SISTERS My mother used to say self praise Was not really praise at all How can you say you’re Pro-Birthers Causing WIC funding to fall? The schools that once were funded Providing breakfast for hungry kids Was cut-yet congress spends like Spartans Government sold to the highest bids Sixty percent of our money In good ole USA Goes straight to the military And I demand a say! ‘Health’ gets only five percent And ‘Education’ six Yet that’s where congress goes To cut funding to the quick You shut down Planned Parenthood with Dishonest screams and shouts… Support Accidental Parenthood- Is that what you’re about?

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Could the sun be just a hole up there— that if I could leap would enter that breach of light Someone! Throw me a line! Give me a reason There’s never enough in this life of breathing! Someone! Explain why dreams roll a soul toward the cliffs of day Wakes to ache then stuffs its mouth with necessary same Inhale— button shirt—brush hair Exhale— necessary glance in the mirror (yes, still there) A lifetime! in a shallow instant’s stiff clear water (Yeah— still there) in endless caverns of tired eyes above mouth still trying to say SOMETHING! from ever smaller eternities in the glass-flat empty.... Please! Someone explain! this draw of breath one forcing itself upon another's life of beating — Violence in my chest! Why hearts don’t sleep— and I wind up watching again and again—till I am the ****** ...Morning lies in the mists of a humid ***** who moans and sweats and boils her hips— and I wind up watching!? “Will someone please…!" ...and I wind up watching bedspread, bed sore, death bed till you’re breathing easy when she sits and picks her collapsed bouffant damning the makeup that got crushed in the sheets …Morning Lies-- with no expectancy both tired of knowing... *...The Devil lost his balance in my presence one night* ...tired of knowing— THE WILL! THAT WILL! ...walk away or continue to play I could open this screen! watch the world STEP BACK! SLAP FLAT! as trees and dwellings flush like quail to prop their tottering panic against the blue— You—assume composure... compose assumptions Await my next— Move like a spy

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Jul 15, 2017

Jul 15, 2017 at 1:36 PM UTC

elizabeth-balise

Drowning in the Shallows

Could the sun be just a hole up there— that if I could leap would enter that breach of light Someone! Throw me a line! Give me a reason There’s never enough in this life of breathing! Someone! Explain why dreams roll a soul toward the cliffs of day Wakes to ache then stuffs its mouth with necessary same Inhale— button shirt—brush hair Exhale— necessary glance in the mirror (yes, still there) A lifetime! in a shallow instant’s stiff clear water (Yeah— still there) in endless caverns of tired eyes above mouth still trying to say SOMETHING! from ever smaller eternities in the glass-flat empty.... Please! Someone explain! this draw of breath one forcing itself upon another's life of beating — Violence in my chest! Why hearts don’t sleep— and I wind up watching again and again—till I am the ****** ...Morning lies in the mists of a humid ***** who moans and sweats and boils her hips— and I wind up watching!? “Will someone please…!" ...and I wind up watching bedspread, bed sore, death bed till you’re breathing easy when she sits and picks her collapsed bouffant damning the makeup that got crushed in the sheets …Morning Lies-- with no expectancy both tired of knowing... *...The Devil lost his balance in my presence one night* ...tired of knowing— THE WILL! THAT WILL! ...walk away or continue to play I could open this screen! watch the world STEP BACK! SLAP FLAT! as trees and dwellings flush like quail to prop their tottering panic against the blue— You—assume composure... compose assumptions Await my next— Move like a spy

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in the river of good company ***I dedicate this poem to Mr. Harlon Rivers, one of the best poets (here) and from his good company, i could drink all day and never be quenched*** ~ Preface sometime, the heart wants it wants, denial, temporarily from your vocabulary, excised sometimes, beauty keelhauls you, gets you awestruck inspired, then arrogance overcomes the brilliance of common sense and you go ahead and mess with perfection despite every sensor flashing uh oh, duh, oh no, fool on the premises, lockdown needed! do believe this condition can be found in the medical books under I, for Inspiration, Incantation, or S for Stupidifacation my heart wants to write a poem, cause I was a witness, sitting twenty feet from the heavenly crime scene, and every intonation swept my brain into that secret place, when I heard KD Lang singing "The Valley"^ ~~~ in the river of good company simple sentiment but good god all I ever wanted and so oft lacked such was my fate, one I made, had plenty good words for boon companions, the occasional touch of a woman rippling waves cross my face, a love lapping slapping of concentric pebble rings, till like most good things gone good goes bad, it just happens to evaporate and you think someday, maybe, you will walk again in good company the brain says quit right here but the heart brooks no damning tantrum of sanity imposition, for those handful of deepest, not quite six feet under palpitations of insensible, cutting glimpses of that word I hate so, memories, of when you walked in good company men women no different - it is that heated aura tween bodies that confirms that you are once again a human being, just a being, temporarily enhanced, elevated, by good company so go ahead sweet talks ya, that devil id a/k/a desire, says - one more for the road can't hurt ya, write that poem - and perhaps one good man, glory hallelujah, a good woman, will read it and you can stop weeping you idiot, do it so you will be back, nuttier but nurtured, drinking from the river of good company, mouthing not even dare whispering, satisfied satiated, loving and loved ~ all reposts greatly and grateful appreciated! 4/2/17 9:24am

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Apr 2, 2017

Apr 2, 2017 at 9:27 AM UTC

in the river of good company

in the river of good company ***I dedicate this poem to Mr. Harlon Rivers, one of the best poets (here) and from his good company, i could drink all day and never be quenched*** ~ Preface sometime, the heart wants it wants, denial, temporarily from your vocabulary, excised sometimes, beauty keelhauls you, gets you awestruck inspired, then arrogance overcomes the brilliance of common sense and you go ahead and mess with perfection despite every sensor flashing uh oh, duh, oh no, fool on the premises, lockdown needed! do believe this condition can be found in the medical books under I, for Inspiration, Incantation, or S for Stupidifacation my heart wants to write a poem, cause I was a witness, sitting twenty feet from the heavenly crime scene, and every intonation swept my brain into that secret place, when I heard KD Lang singing "The Valley"^ ~~~ in the river of good company simple sentiment but good god all I ever wanted and so oft lacked such was my fate, one I made, had plenty good words for boon companions, the occasional touch of a woman rippling waves cross my face, a love lapping slapping of concentric pebble rings, till like most good things gone good goes bad, it just happens to evaporate and you think someday, maybe, you will walk again in good company the brain says quit right here but the heart brooks no damning tantrum of sanity imposition, for those handful of deepest, not quite six feet under palpitations of insensible, cutting glimpses of that word I hate so, memories, of when you walked in good company men women no different - it is that heated aura tween bodies that confirms that you are once again a human being, just a being, temporarily enhanced, elevated, by good company so go ahead sweet talks ya, that devil id a/k/a desire, says - one more for the road can't hurt ya, write that poem - and perhaps one good man, glory hallelujah, a good woman, will read it and you can stop weeping you idiot, do it so you will be back, nuttier but nurtured, drinking from the river of good company, mouthing not even dare whispering, satisfied satiated, loving and loved ~ all reposts greatly and grateful appreciated! 4/2/17 9:24am

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I slept with her, my rapacious pen, took me in quiet vengeance in full on conjugation raken and taken, me, her overlording me now, her authorship, so long held in my maledom abeyance, a kept imprisonment, unleashing at last, a tongue lashing~leashing, de-spite my un-desirous craven lying supplications, excuses of innocence and accident, coincidence and conflation, ashes, ashes, denials incinerated, all fall down she wrote/stabbed upon my heartless chest, in the cheap crudités colors of a prisoner’s inking, “user of words mine, all mine” gathered up my innards of loose words, speculative notes & titles yet to be, born and kept hid in password protected silent back labor files, now hers, leaving me sputtering, unable to create, a homeless mute citizen, possession-less, helplessly hoping her hovering harlequin might relent, without any shelter, even a glimmering, a single aleph or bet she celebratory cackled and clawed, professed her reclamation ownership of all my poems predecessors, zola j’accusing that I, ripped from her forcibly, with no granted permission, her womanly touché of my scribing, warning of no more global warming for my unprivileged hands, daren’t try for pretenses of stolen legal guardianship, warning of a new, forced caining inscription, a tattooing of “thief” upon my 5 knuckled right ****** “plagiarist” boldly inked in back & blue upon my left palm I, predator, she, victim, of my now self-professed, admitted confess, she, my single victim, of a decade long serializing criminal coverup her parting poem a threatening, herein issued in this very verse, damning all who would falsely credit themselves, to suffer shame and an unimaginable curse, this, the newborn eleventh of ten commandments parting, she kissing my lips, even my emptied apertures, with warning bitings, she knew all my my numerous noms de guerre, no dead scrolls caves to hid in, and to be discovered some future day, and if ever marked as copyrighted, ’twas no tunneling escape, the exposed truth to be over-stamped upon all, upon each, in every language, ”copied right from the tongue of a woman!” and she would be wright...

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May 23, 2019

May 23, 2019 at 10:10 AM UTC

slept with my rapacious pen (she, full on conjugation)

I slept with her, my rapacious pen, took me in quiet vengeance in full on conjugation raken and taken, me, her overlording me now, her authorship, so long held in my maledom abeyance, a kept imprisonment, unleashing at last, a tongue lashing~leashing, de-spite my un-desirous craven lying supplications, excuses of innocence and accident, coincidence and conflation, ashes, ashes, denials incinerated, all fall down she wrote/stabbed upon my heartless chest, in the cheap crudités colors of a prisoner’s inking, “user of words mine, all mine” gathered up my innards of loose words, speculative notes & titles yet to be, born and kept hid in password protected silent back labor files, now hers, leaving me sputtering, unable to create, a homeless mute citizen, possession-less, helplessly hoping her hovering harlequin might relent, without any shelter, even a glimmering, a single aleph or bet she celebratory cackled and clawed, professed her reclamation ownership of all my poems predecessors, zola j’accusing that I, ripped from her forcibly, with no granted permission, her womanly touché of my scribing, warning of no more global warming for my unprivileged hands, daren’t try for pretenses of stolen legal guardianship, warning of a new, forced caining inscription, a tattooing of “thief” upon my 5 knuckled right ****** “plagiarist” boldly inked in back & blue upon my left palm I, predator, she, victim, of my now self-professed, admitted confess, she, my single victim, of a decade long serializing criminal coverup her parting poem a threatening, herein issued in this very verse, damning all who would falsely credit themselves, to suffer shame and an unimaginable curse, this, the newborn eleventh of ten commandments parting, she kissing my lips, even my emptied apertures, with warning bitings, she knew all my my numerous noms de guerre, no dead scrolls caves to hid in, and to be discovered some future day, and if ever marked as copyrighted, ’twas no tunneling escape, the exposed truth to be over-stamped upon all, upon each, in every language, ”copied right from the tongue of a woman!” and she would be wright...

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weary of mothers and friends losing their children, before their time, weary of failing to achieve reconciliation with whatever one nominates the force that regulates, fate, Name-Your-God, deity of your choice, nature, laws of physics, the "whatever" that controls, interferes, that you think to believe wills these event's occurrence non-randomly cessation of formalities, one sided truce signed and delivered, unafraid to call this what it is, **** and damning fate, for no god could be so cruel... If only there was a Dislike button for life and the poems wrenched from death at 5:00 am this thought is my sole inhabitant once again, nature's bosses distort, another friend's grief asks, cajoles me to betray my/thy belief banish it or me, for we both cannot be cohabitants under the one roof, of this limited mind, where flailing poems never good enough, failing to express my sorrowed rage

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Jan 25, 2015

Jan 25, 2015 at 6:03 AM UTC

A Childless Mother (weary of mothers losing their children)

weary of mothers and friends losing their children, before their time, weary of failing to achieve reconciliation with whatever one nominates the force that regulates, fate, Name-Your-God, deity of your choice, nature, laws of physics, the "whatever" that controls, interferes, that you think to believe wills these event's occurrence non-randomly cessation of formalities, one sided truce signed and delivered, unafraid to call this what it is, **** and damning fate, for no god could be so cruel... If only there was a Dislike button for life and the poems wrenched from death at 5:00 am this thought is my sole inhabitant once again, nature's bosses distort, another friend's grief asks, cajoles me to betray my/thy belief banish it or me, for we both cannot be cohabitants under the one roof, of this limited mind, where flailing poems never good enough, failing to express my sorrowed rage

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“…the grandfather’s camera with the last pictures of the youngest Colorado theatre shooting victim was stolen and the family’s sorrow has compounded…” Veronica, why did you love Anne Hathaway And why did you not go refill the popcorn, Veronica? You ate it all during the previews Though I warned your stomach would hurt. Sweet Veronica, how did you know to hate Bane And why did you not go to the bathroom, My dear. The hand-dryer’s scream is loud But it dries, unlike your wetting, red screech. Veronica, why did you insist that you were old enough For this fate? And how could I have agreed, Cold Veronica. Pigtails were meant to be springy, Not limp with blood, Pepsi, and regret. The Bullets. The Cape. The damning shot Would have slapped Even Batman Dead. Young Veronica, why is the memory of you And your innocent flesh fading fast, To red Veronica? Wet too young and too alive For the four-foot long coffin we buried. Yesterday. Cop lights. My camera with The last shots of you “Stolen, sir.” Wail, Veronica from the camera screen In the hands of this thief, oh, convince him, Stab, Veronica, with your pixilated smile Until the guilt brings your smile home, to my eyes.

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Oct 9, 2012

Oct 9, 2012 at 6:22 PM UTC

Veronica, Stolen

“…the grandfather’s camera with the last pictures of the youngest Colorado theatre shooting victim was stolen and the family’s sorrow has compounded…” Veronica, why did you love Anne Hathaway And why did you not go refill the popcorn, Veronica? You ate it all during the previews Though I warned your stomach would hurt. Sweet Veronica, how did you know to hate Bane And why did you not go to the bathroom, My dear. The hand-dryer’s scream is loud But it dries, unlike your wetting, red screech. Veronica, why did you insist that you were old enough For this fate? And how could I have agreed, Cold Veronica. Pigtails were meant to be springy, Not limp with blood, Pepsi, and regret. The Bullets. The Cape. The damning shot Would have slapped Even Batman Dead. Young Veronica, why is the memory of you And your innocent flesh fading fast, To red Veronica? Wet too young and too alive For the four-foot long coffin we buried. Yesterday. Cop lights. My camera with The last shots of you “Stolen, sir.” Wail, Veronica from the camera screen In the hands of this thief, oh, convince him, Stab, Veronica, with your pixilated smile Until the guilt brings your smile home, to my eyes.

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Bring to me a strong *** By which my soul's sorrow will be forgot: Filled with an ****** divine So that Woman may be driven from my mind. For I no longer want This stream inspiring a heartly haunt, That once flows will not stop 'Til my heart's blood drains to its last drop, And so drained, then breaks. Leaves me with an art held for its own sake. So bring me forth this draught, Deepest as ever one from Lethe quaffed. From my broken heart charm This fair Image of the earth's Fairest Form That ever my heart has held, That ever my reveling heart has swelled. Alas, seems never shall be My mind's eye, my heart, my soul ever free Of this tort'rous torment. Left with naught to do, only lament. Away I cannot chase The mind numbing beauty of her face. 'Tis all in vain it seems For such a draught appears only in my dreams. My sight did so invest, Bringing damning pain abreast. No longer can delight Be brought forth from sights seen in any light. Had she only known how My heart, once free, only beat for her now And with but a smile Assuaged that murd'rous pain but for a while I would then know relief, That most bittersweet pain, the "joy of grief."

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Jan 28, 2013

Jan 28, 2013 at 11:17 PM UTC

Everything Forgotten is Never Truly Forgot

Bring to me a strong *** By which my soul's sorrow will be forgot: Filled with an ****** divine So that Woman may be driven from my mind. For I no longer want This stream inspiring a heartly haunt, That once flows will not stop 'Til my heart's blood drains to its last drop, And so drained, then breaks. Leaves me with an art held for its own sake. So bring me forth this draught, Deepest as ever one from Lethe quaffed. From my broken heart charm This fair Image of the earth's Fairest Form That ever my heart has held, That ever my reveling heart has swelled. Alas, seems never shall be My mind's eye, my heart, my soul ever free Of this tort'rous torment. Left with naught to do, only lament. Away I cannot chase The mind numbing beauty of her face. 'Tis all in vain it seems For such a draught appears only in my dreams. My sight did so invest, Bringing damning pain abreast. No longer can delight Be brought forth from sights seen in any light. Had she only known how My heart, once free, only beat for her now And with but a smile Assuaged that murd'rous pain but for a while I would then know relief, That most bittersweet pain, the "joy of grief."

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We think in money patterns No peace from here to Saturn When we live in money caverns Tranquility lies in the clatter Of echoes bouncing off walls Traveling down darkened halls Yet to be seriously explored Where knowledge is stored But the paths are abyssal Leading to our dismissal We cower next to the fire It once provided light and warmth Now we're just fascinated by it's chaos I know I'm right Eventually humanity will evolve And if humanity doesn't reach that point I'd be more correct than I'd like to have been We need to withdraw from this system And buy stock in each other Whether you're Muslim or Christian We should still be brothers For we pursue freedom As they purchase kingdoms We wither in the waters of their wealth We can see this isn't good for our health When our species' main asset is empathy And understanding Now reaches no longer than the interest fee And we're damning Ourselves to a life in the furnace With no humanity to be purchased

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Aug 29, 2017

Aug 29, 2017 at 3:15 PM UTC

We think in money patterns No peace from here to Saturn When we live in money caverns Tranquility lies in the clatter Of echoes bouncing off walls Traveling down darkened halls Yet to be seriously explored Where knowledge is stored But the paths are abyssal Leading to our dismissal We cower next to the fire It once provided light and warmth Now we're just fascinated by it's chaos I know I'm right Eventually humanity will evolve And if humanity doesn't reach that point I'd be more correct than I'd like to have been We need to withdraw from this system And buy stock in each other Whether you're Muslim or Christian We should still be brothers For we pursue freedom As they purchase kingdoms We wither in the waters of their wealth We can see this isn't good for our health When our species' main asset is empathy And understanding Now reaches no longer than the interest fee And we're damning Ourselves to a life in the furnace With no humanity to be purchased

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I Hate You, My Love No longer together, in a world of madness; Just sat alone, in my world of sadness. So come with me, on this journey through life; I'll enlighten your eyes and I'll open you mind. Open your mind, Open your mind, Open your mind, to another kind. Something new, old, bluesy or rocking; Musically free, from you becoming damning. Criticisms needed, if your work is wrong; But you’re perfection in a glass, so I wrote you a poem. Softly bang your head and break your neck; Live a life of missed opportunities, but have no regrets. Hold me in your arms, because I've become contagious; Come die with me…nobody can save us. And save us from what? This living Hell? Your perfumed body has begun to smell. No longer the fresh smelling roses from Heaven; You’re disgustingly ***** since you let me in. No longer a ****** do you think they can tell? Your mothers lead you to believe, you’re condemned to Hell. I see through your eyes, as you describe what you see; You've now become a part of me And now I've let you, smoke my **** I've now shown you, all I need. Everyday I'll write you a song; Everyday the words will be wrong. Everyday you'll see that you hate me; Everyday we'll disagree. Everyday I'll want to **** you; Everyday you will **** me. Everyday is a whole new day; And everyday is wrong for me. Everyday I kiss you with passion; Everyday I get satisfaction. Everyday we drift apart; Everyday you break my heart. Everyday I **** myself And everyday I need your help. Everyday you must die with me; Everyday we must both believe. So everyday let's both fall to the ground And everyday the lyrics will crumble down. Ashes to ashes and blunts to blunts; Come die with me ***** you ******* **** I love you dearly, but I hate your guts; You drive me crazy. Completely nuts! I'll love you forever, until I don't; This is my suicide letter, now I have to go. **** it I didn't go through with the plan; Because of you ***** you held my hand And told me that you understand And told me that I'm your only man. Can you not see how much I hate you? Can you not see how much you hate me? Why don't you believe, what I say is true? Why are you here, when I told you to leave? You’re a punk rocking beauty, but completely false. You’re a grunge kissing psychopath, that I completely love. I have to say I hate you, so I don't feel we’re too close; But promise me Angel, you will never go. (C)2005 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.

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Sep 20, 2018

Sep 20, 2018 at 10:01 AM UTC

I hate you my love

I Hate You, My Love No longer together, in a world of madness; Just sat alone, in my world of sadness. So come with me, on this journey through life; I'll enlighten your eyes and I'll open you mind. Open your mind, Open your mind, Open your mind, to another kind. Something new, old, bluesy or rocking; Musically free, from you becoming damning. Criticisms needed, if your work is wrong; But you’re perfection in a glass, so I wrote you a poem. Softly bang your head and break your neck; Live a life of missed opportunities, but have no regrets. Hold me in your arms, because I've become contagious; Come die with me…nobody can save us. And save us from what? This living Hell? Your perfumed body has begun to smell. No longer the fresh smelling roses from Heaven; You’re disgustingly ***** since you let me in. No longer a ****** do you think they can tell? Your mothers lead you to believe, you’re condemned to Hell. I see through your eyes, as you describe what you see; You've now become a part of me And now I've let you, smoke my **** I've now shown you, all I need. Everyday I'll write you a song; Everyday the words will be wrong. Everyday you'll see that you hate me; Everyday we'll disagree. Everyday I'll want to **** you; Everyday you will **** me. Everyday is a whole new day; And everyday is wrong for me. Everyday I kiss you with passion; Everyday I get satisfaction. Everyday we drift apart; Everyday you break my heart. Everyday I **** myself And everyday I need your help. Everyday you must die with me; Everyday we must both believe. So everyday let's both fall to the ground And everyday the lyrics will crumble down. Ashes to ashes and blunts to blunts; Come die with me ***** you ******* **** I love you dearly, but I hate your guts; You drive me crazy. Completely nuts! I'll love you forever, until I don't; This is my suicide letter, now I have to go. **** it I didn't go through with the plan; Because of you ***** you held my hand And told me that you understand And told me that I'm your only man. Can you not see how much I hate you? Can you not see how much you hate me? Why don't you believe, what I say is true? Why are you here, when I told you to leave? You’re a punk rocking beauty, but completely false. You’re a grunge kissing psychopath, that I completely love. I have to say I hate you, so I don't feel we’re too close; But promise me Angel, you will never go. (C)2005 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.

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In contemporary belief. A archer went to a shaman for relief. A answer to ease fear of thoughts. Finding his way home, the trail of war became too much. He struggled with the regret of building a life away from what he knew. When he came to the shaman. The shaman hung his head low. Smelling the stinch of blood. Still he could not turn his back to the archer. When posed with the young archers question. He sat puzzled. Summering the long winded statement to "a great change must be made. Else all will fade." Knowing of the young archers longing for a maiden. The archer looked puzzled. Yet the shaman spoke nothing else. The young archer was called upon. A war broke on the opposing side. They needed his skill in fear that survival was utmost. Without time to think the archer grabbed his bow. His arrows and darted quickly in the direction the war has taken place. He quickly coiled arrow to bow. In repeated motion until none were left. A field of arrows covered the small space. War does something to a man. A brief clarity after the slaughter of contemplation. The shamans words dawned upon him like a snake. He darted to the shamans place in great discoverly. Finding that the shaman as well as his possessions were completely gone without trace. He darted back to the field. Searching through a forrest of arrow. A heart wrenching feeling stuck on his face. Guiding his way through the arrows he found a familar hand. Connected to a familar torso. A face stuck in agonizing eternity. The shamans words made more sense. Backing away from the body. Thinking deeply. Damning his hands. The thing that came as habit. He broke his bow in the reflection of his maiden's eyes. This war gone astray inside of him

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Feb 13, 2017

Feb 13, 2017 at 12:00 AM UTC

War Of Arrows (Detailed)

In contemporary belief. A archer went to a shaman for relief. A answer to ease fear of thoughts. Finding his way home, the trail of war became too much. He struggled with the regret of building a life away from what he knew. When he came to the shaman. The shaman hung his head low. Smelling the stinch of blood. Still he could not turn his back to the archer. When posed with the young archers question. He sat puzzled. Summering the long winded statement to "a great change must be made. Else all will fade." Knowing of the young archers longing for a maiden. The archer looked puzzled. Yet the shaman spoke nothing else. The young archer was called upon. A war broke on the opposing side. They needed his skill in fear that survival was utmost. Without time to think the archer grabbed his bow. His arrows and darted quickly in the direction the war has taken place. He quickly coiled arrow to bow. In repeated motion until none were left. A field of arrows covered the small space. War does something to a man. A brief clarity after the slaughter of contemplation. The shamans words dawned upon him like a snake. He darted to the shamans place in great discoverly. Finding that the shaman as well as his possessions were completely gone without trace. He darted back to the field. Searching through a forrest of arrow. A heart wrenching feeling stuck on his face. Guiding his way through the arrows he found a familar hand. Connected to a familar torso. A face stuck in agonizing eternity. The shamans words made more sense. Backing away from the body. Thinking deeply. Damning his hands. The thing that came as habit. He broke his bow in the reflection of his maiden's eyes. This war gone astray inside of him

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Can I tell you how seriously I take this poem! _____ Could the sun be just a hole up there— that if I could leap would enter that breach of light Someone! Throw me a line! Give me a reason There’s never enough in this life of breathing! Someone! Explain why dreams roll a soul toward the cliffs of day Wakes to ache then stuffs its mouth with necessary same Inhale— button shirt—brush hair Exhale— necessary glance in the mirror (yes, still there) A lifetime! in a shallow instant’s stiff clear water (Yeah— still there) in endless caverns of tired eyes above mouth still trying to say SOMETHING! from ever smaller eternities in the glass-flat empty.... Please! Someone explain! this draw of breath one forcing itself upon another's life of beating — Violence in my chest! Why hearts don’t sleep— and I wind up watching again and again—till I am the ****** ...Morning lies in the mists of a humid ***** who moans and sweats and boils her hips— and I wind up watching!? “Will someone please…!" ...and I wind up watching bedspread, bed sore, death bed till you’re breathing easy when she sits and picks her collapsed bouffant damning the makeup that got crushed in the sheets …Morning Lies-- with no expectancy both tired of knowing... *...The Devil lost his balance in my presence one night* ...tired of knowing— THE WILL! THAT WILL! ...walk away or continue to play I could open this screen! watch the world STEP BACK! SLAP FLAT! as trees and dwellings flush like quail to prop their tottering panic against the blue— You—assume composure... compose assumptions Await my next— Move like a spy 1990 Take careful note: **Why I don’t play chess or any other game for that matter.** “...and when you're really out there the windows all have opened onto nothing... Death having long since-- left the scene. When you get really out there it's all-- and nothing…”

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Jul 11, 2018

Jul 11, 2018 at 7:57 PM UTC

elizabeth-balise

Drowning in the Shallows

Can I tell you how seriously I take this poem! _____ Could the sun be just a hole up there— that if I could leap would enter that breach of light Someone! Throw me a line! Give me a reason There’s never enough in this life of breathing! Someone! Explain why dreams roll a soul toward the cliffs of day Wakes to ache then stuffs its mouth with necessary same Inhale— button shirt—brush hair Exhale— necessary glance in the mirror (yes, still there) A lifetime! in a shallow instant’s stiff clear water (Yeah— still there) in endless caverns of tired eyes above mouth still trying to say SOMETHING! from ever smaller eternities in the glass-flat empty.... Please! Someone explain! this draw of breath one forcing itself upon another's life of beating — Violence in my chest! Why hearts don’t sleep— and I wind up watching again and again—till I am the ****** ...Morning lies in the mists of a humid ***** who moans and sweats and boils her hips— and I wind up watching!? “Will someone please…!" ...and I wind up watching bedspread, bed sore, death bed till you’re breathing easy when she sits and picks her collapsed bouffant damning the makeup that got crushed in the sheets …Morning Lies-- with no expectancy both tired of knowing... *...The Devil lost his balance in my presence one night* ...tired of knowing— THE WILL! THAT WILL! ...walk away or continue to play I could open this screen! watch the world STEP BACK! SLAP FLAT! as trees and dwellings flush like quail to prop their tottering panic against the blue— You—assume composure... compose assumptions Await my next— Move like a spy 1990 Take careful note: **Why I don’t play chess or any other game for that matter.** “...and when you're really out there the windows all have opened onto nothing... Death having long since-- left the scene. When you get really out there it's all-- and nothing…”

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There’s no grace for a sinner here. In this little white room, with the little white girls and the good little boys. They all cast the stones, cracking my fragile bones, and making my dress quite black. There’s no place for a sinner here. Where they all look the same, all out to tame us, damning us all to hell. Technicalities steal pride, and Legality’s crushing tide forces our dignity to fall. There’s no room for a sinner here. You’ll do as you’re told. Dare ask why and you’re bold; never to make much in life. Backsliders are peered on over pretty noses apparently smeared on, by simplicity and a bit of wine. There’s no peace for a sinner here. Perfect footprints are left over, those lively blueprints we pored over through many a midnight candle. Both innocence and experience leave them incensed and indignant. keeping our consciences guilted. There’s no rest for a sinner here. Enjoyment is frivolous, laughter is selfish, and love must be evil incarnate. If this is what perfect, must look like, then I’m perfect- ly happy with the mess that I’ve made.

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Apr 30, 2013

Apr 30, 2013 at 3:53 AM UTC

There's No Grace for a Sinner Here

There’s no grace for a sinner here. In this little white room, with the little white girls and the good little boys. They all cast the stones, cracking my fragile bones, and making my dress quite black. There’s no place for a sinner here. Where they all look the same, all out to tame us, damning us all to hell. Technicalities steal pride, and Legality’s crushing tide forces our dignity to fall. There’s no room for a sinner here. You’ll do as you’re told. Dare ask why and you’re bold; never to make much in life. Backsliders are peered on over pretty noses apparently smeared on, by simplicity and a bit of wine. There’s no peace for a sinner here. Perfect footprints are left over, those lively blueprints we pored over through many a midnight candle. Both innocence and experience leave them incensed and indignant. keeping our consciences guilted. There’s no rest for a sinner here. Enjoyment is frivolous, laughter is selfish, and love must be evil incarnate. If this is what perfect, must look like, then I’m perfect- ly happy with the mess that I’ve made.

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How can you not hate me even if you don't know who I am there is a chance that you should since I am male and we've been bred in a way making people say "where the **** are my brother's decency. Because when I speak to them it's idolizing women then damning those girls for having the same ideas as my brothers-- they hurl insults and call them compliments telling girls to be objects treating females as plastic when they are humans made of blood. She is not barbie you do not get to change her clothes and dress her down to make yourself feel more like Ken-- her accessories and personality are not defined by your hands men can not force themselves onto women and tell them they dressed as a sex-doll does. I'll be ****** for your lack of decency, people will treat me as a "man", but in reality-- those are not men they are devils trying to stay hidden in the dark and one day feminism will bring equality for humans, and then we'll have to deal with the devils hiding beneath our skin.

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Feb 23, 2016

Feb 23, 2016 at 9:02 AM UTC

Misandry: These are not Men, but Devils

How can you not hate me even if you don't know who I am there is a chance that you should since I am male and we've been bred in a way making people say "where the **** are my brother's decency. Because when I speak to them it's idolizing women then damning those girls for having the same ideas as my brothers-- they hurl insults and call them compliments telling girls to be objects treating females as plastic when they are humans made of blood. She is not barbie you do not get to change her clothes and dress her down to make yourself feel more like Ken-- her accessories and personality are not defined by your hands men can not force themselves onto women and tell them they dressed as a sex-doll does. I'll be ****** for your lack of decency, people will treat me as a "man", but in reality-- those are not men they are devils trying to stay hidden in the dark and one day feminism will bring equality for humans, and then we'll have to deal with the devils hiding beneath our skin.

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Brevity is suited for the ****** Elocution can be twisted into a knot, and used for courtly euthanasia. Brevity is best used for condemnation. Concordantly, circumlocution is perfect for the panegyrics, of that same party. So if your the ****** or damning keep it brief; no one wants to hear a fool trip over his words, or a liar sing praise of his foe.

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Aug 21, 2013

Aug 21, 2013 at 2:06 PM UTC

Brevity and the like

Brevity is suited for the ****** Elocution can be twisted into a knot, and used for courtly euthanasia. Brevity is best used for condemnation. Concordantly, circumlocution is perfect for the panegyrics, of that same party. So if your the ****** or damning keep it brief; no one wants to hear a fool trip over his words, or a liar sing praise of his foe.

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Tucked away in our subconsciousness is an idyllic vision. We see ourselves on a long trip that spans the continent. We are travelling by train. Out the windows, we drink in the passing scene of cars on nearby highways, of children waving on a crossing, of cattle grazing on a distant hillside, of smoke pouring from a power plant, of row upon row of corn and wheat, of flatlands and valleys, of mountains and rolling hillsides, of city skylines and village halls. But the uppermost in our minds is the final destination. On a certain day at a certain hour, we will pull into the station. Bands will be playing and flags waving. Once we reach there, so many wonderful dreams will come true and the pieces of our lives will be fit together like a completed jigsaw puzzle. How restlessly we pace the aisles, damning the minutes loitering, waiting, waiting, waiting for the station. "When we reach the station, that will be it", we cry. "When I'm 18", "When I buy a new 450SL Mercedes Benz", "When I put my last kid through collage", "When I have paid off the mortgage", "When I get a promotion", "When I reach the age of the retirement, I shall live happily ever after." Sooner or later, we must realize that there is no station, no one place to arrive at once and for all. The true joy of life is the trip. The station is only a dream. It constantly outdistances us. "Relish the moment" is a good motto, especially when coupled withe the Psalm 118:24:"This is the day which the Lord hath made, we will rejoice and be glad in it." It isn't the burdens of today that drive men mad. It is the regrets over yesterday and the fear of tommorrow. Reget and fear are twin thieves who rob us of today. So stop pacing the aisles and counting the miles. Instead, climb more mountains, eat more icecreams, go barefoot more often, swim more rivers, watch more sunsets, laugh more and cry less. Life must be lived as we go along. Then the station will come soon enough.

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Aug 13, 2013

Aug 13, 2013 at 2:05 AM UTC

Relish the Moment

Tucked away in our subconsciousness is an idyllic vision. We see ourselves on a long trip that spans the continent. We are travelling by train. Out the windows, we drink in the passing scene of cars on nearby highways, of children waving on a crossing, of cattle grazing on a distant hillside, of smoke pouring from a power plant, of row upon row of corn and wheat, of flatlands and valleys, of mountains and rolling hillsides, of city skylines and village halls. But the uppermost in our minds is the final destination. On a certain day at a certain hour, we will pull into the station. Bands will be playing and flags waving. Once we reach there, so many wonderful dreams will come true and the pieces of our lives will be fit together like a completed jigsaw puzzle. How restlessly we pace the aisles, damning the minutes loitering, waiting, waiting, waiting for the station. "When we reach the station, that will be it", we cry. "When I'm 18", "When I buy a new 450SL Mercedes Benz", "When I put my last kid through collage", "When I have paid off the mortgage", "When I get a promotion", "When I reach the age of the retirement, I shall live happily ever after." Sooner or later, we must realize that there is no station, no one place to arrive at once and for all. The true joy of life is the trip. The station is only a dream. It constantly outdistances us. "Relish the moment" is a good motto, especially when coupled withe the Psalm 118:24:"This is the day which the Lord hath made, we will rejoice and be glad in it." It isn't the burdens of today that drive men mad. It is the regrets over yesterday and the fear of tommorrow. Reget and fear are twin thieves who rob us of today. So stop pacing the aisles and counting the miles. Instead, climb more mountains, eat more icecreams, go barefoot more often, swim more rivers, watch more sunsets, laugh more and cry less. Life must be lived as we go along. Then the station will come soon enough.

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We are the poor. We have no wealth. Don't ask about our mental health In fact walk past us. Don't ask why Just do not look us in the eye Especially if you knew us before When we wore socks and brushed our teeth And hadn't given up and sank beneath The awful maelstrom in our brain Of fear, pain and damning shame. We are the shadow people But I see you, And I know that you have shadows too.

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May 13, 2022

May 13, 2022 at 10:11 AM UTC

The Shadow People

We are the poor. We have no wealth. Don't ask about our mental health In fact walk past us. Don't ask why Just do not look us in the eye Especially if you knew us before When we wore socks and brushed our teeth And hadn't given up and sank beneath The awful maelstrom in our brain Of fear, pain and damning shame. We are the shadow people But I see you, And I know that you have shadows too.

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My feet are so cold to lay on yours Your hands busy chasing my curves Paddled in cuddles, pebbles carved Doodles dwindles all over my body Tinkering hands as they reach a ****** Ripples twisting blossoming bosoms Rage the sleeping animated power Break your wings as the rod erects Alas! The touch disappears in thin air Feet warmed in the damning chamber The perpendicular collapses in angle Sailed to dally in uncensored snores

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Mar 10, 2016

Mar 10, 2016 at 4:56 PM UTC

Uncensored Snores

My feet are so cold to lay on yours Your hands busy chasing my curves Paddled in cuddles, pebbles carved Doodles dwindles all over my body Tinkering hands as they reach a ****** Ripples twisting blossoming bosoms Rage the sleeping animated power Break your wings as the rod erects Alas! The touch disappears in thin air Feet warmed in the damning chamber The perpendicular collapses in angle Sailed to dally in uncensored snores

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hedonic adaptation living, breathing an idealized state transparent powers an aesthete with an affinity for anarchy shamelessly insinuating fatal errors in identification extraterrestrial *********** at the core of our unity probing at a molecular level damning the will to connect a creative protest against the artificial daydreams bleach inferiority complexes and insight breaks through dark and damaging sacrificial secrets thrusting toward the deep end forgoing progress through flawed perception the bright light shining through your self inflicted wounds cannot be ignored

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Jan 21, 2015

Jan 21, 2015 at 4:24 PM UTC

hedonic adaptation living, breathing an idealized state transparent powers an aesthete with an affinity for anarchy shamelessly insinuating fatal errors in identification extraterrestrial *********** at the core of our unity probing at a molecular level damning the will to connect a creative protest against the artificial daydreams bleach inferiority complexes and insight breaks through dark and damaging sacrificial secrets thrusting toward the deep end forgoing progress through flawed perception the bright light shining through your self inflicted wounds cannot be ignored

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What makes men manly? Is it depth in tone, Is it large in build, A claim of the throne, And dominance at will? Or is it indulgence of temptation, To be a sovereign of fear and pain, Using women as ************ Destruction sought to be obtained? To reap the feral fruits of life, To sow the damning consequences, Causing mourning, loss and worldly strife, Chaos of man’s expenses. What causes me to seek it, What causes me to weep, How I lack these biological ticks, That keeps the world apart from sleep. So what if I’m not big and strong, So what if I’m not masculine, So what if I can’t be the cause, Of humanity’s need of Aspirin? Put me in a quiet room, Let me stew and think, I aim to be the greatest groom, My life will cease in a blink. Father, son, holy trinity, A woman’s man is not for lust, My love transcends to infinity, But women’s approval is a must. Color me short, Finger me stout, Characteristics I constantly sort, What is this all about? Who cares if I’m not mean and cruel, Who cares that I’m not suave, Who cares if I’m not chill and cool, I’m him whom man should evolve.

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Jan 1, 2024

Jan 1, 2024 at 11:48 PM UTC

saint_francis422

What makes men manly? Is it depth in tone, Is it large in build, A claim of the throne, And dominance at will? Or is it indulgence of temptation, To be a sovereign of fear and pain, Using women as ************ Destruction sought to be obtained? To reap the feral fruits of life, To sow the damning consequences, Causing mourning, loss and worldly strife, Chaos of man’s expenses. What causes me to seek it, What causes me to weep, How I lack these biological ticks, That keeps the world apart from sleep. So what if I’m not big and strong, So what if I’m not masculine, So what if I can’t be the cause, Of humanity’s need of Aspirin? Put me in a quiet room, Let me stew and think, I aim to be the greatest groom, My life will cease in a blink. Father, son, holy trinity, A woman’s man is not for lust, My love transcends to infinity, But women’s approval is a must. Color me short, Finger me stout, Characteristics I constantly sort, What is this all about? Who cares if I’m not mean and cruel, Who cares that I’m not suave, Who cares if I’m not chill and cool, I’m him whom man should evolve.

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Oh, these women In their heels and mini-skirts With their painted youth dripping from their faces; Oh, these fruits of the city, These sumptuous, soft, plump, self-destroying Women that need devouring - God, can't you help them? You made them this way, Hung them in your garden From Eve's forbidden tree, Gave them sweet juice and lust to be consumed; Only to plant the seeds of knowledge In the dumb beast who eats them. Oh these damning fruits of the city, Who bring forth generations of saccharine poison By nature of their trade, Oh, these women In their heels and skirts, They were born to be condemned.

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Apr 20, 2011

Apr 20, 2011 at 5:19 PM UTC

Oh, these women In their heels and mini-skirts With their painted youth dripping from their faces; Oh, these fruits of the city, These sumptuous, soft, plump, self-destroying Women that need devouring - God, can't you help them? You made them this way, Hung them in your garden From Eve's forbidden tree, Gave them sweet juice and lust to be consumed; Only to plant the seeds of knowledge In the dumb beast who eats them. Oh these damning fruits of the city, Who bring forth generations of saccharine poison By nature of their trade, Oh, these women In their heels and skirts, They were born to be condemned.

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Well I like the taste of Whiskey, but today it was just a disguise. The reason I’ve been drinking, Is because she said goodbye. She turned away from me and she walked right straight to him. So I called up my 3 amigos Johnny, Jack and Jim. Chorus Johnny Walker, Jack Daniels and Good old Jim Beam, Whenever I need them, they’re here for me, They’ll drown out the hurt and dry up the tears, And do in one glass, what takes 15 beers. So I don’t drink Bud, Miller or Coors light, I go straight for the whiskey and knock it out right. So I got in my truck and headed for the creek Pulled out my pole and I started a streak 15 bass and a couple of brim Then I started thinking about her and him Her in his arms in the back of the truck I started damning all of my luck Walked to the yeti and popped open the top Nothing in there that would make it stop Drove to the house and opened the door Those three bottles where there on the floor. Johnny Walker, Jack Daniels and Good old Jim Beam, Whenever I need them, they’re here for me, They’ll drown out the hurt and dry up the tears, And do in one glass, what takes 15 beers. So I don’t drink bud, miller or Coors light I go straight for the whiskey and knock it out right. Woke up in the morning with the light creeping in Sitting in the chair right where I had been Phone started ringing; my head was pitching a fit Recognized the number, so I answered it She said she was sorry and that she had been wrong She started crying, saying she wasn’t strong I’d heard enough, I was trying to mend I told her no, goodbye, so I pressed end Sat back down, phone ringing again Decided to spend some more time with my men Reached on down picked em up off the floor One more time I wouldn’t need her no more Johnny Walker, Jack Daniels and Good old Jim Beam, Whenever I need them, they’re here for me, They’ll drown out the hurt and dry up the tears, And do in one glass, what takes 15 beers. So I don’t drink bud, miller or Coors light I go straight for the whiskey and knock it out right.

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Sep 17, 2016

Sep 17, 2016 at 10:02 PM UTC

Johnny, Jack and Jim

Well I like the taste of Whiskey, but today it was just a disguise. The reason I’ve been drinking, Is because she said goodbye. She turned away from me and she walked right straight to him. So I called up my 3 amigos Johnny, Jack and Jim. Chorus Johnny Walker, Jack Daniels and Good old Jim Beam, Whenever I need them, they’re here for me, They’ll drown out the hurt and dry up the tears, And do in one glass, what takes 15 beers. So I don’t drink Bud, Miller or Coors light, I go straight for the whiskey and knock it out right. So I got in my truck and headed for the creek Pulled out my pole and I started a streak 15 bass and a couple of brim Then I started thinking about her and him Her in his arms in the back of the truck I started damning all of my luck Walked to the yeti and popped open the top Nothing in there that would make it stop Drove to the house and opened the door Those three bottles where there on the floor. Johnny Walker, Jack Daniels and Good old Jim Beam, Whenever I need them, they’re here for me, They’ll drown out the hurt and dry up the tears, And do in one glass, what takes 15 beers. So I don’t drink bud, miller or Coors light I go straight for the whiskey and knock it out right. Woke up in the morning with the light creeping in Sitting in the chair right where I had been Phone started ringing; my head was pitching a fit Recognized the number, so I answered it She said she was sorry and that she had been wrong She started crying, saying she wasn’t strong I’d heard enough, I was trying to mend I told her no, goodbye, so I pressed end Sat back down, phone ringing again Decided to spend some more time with my men Reached on down picked em up off the floor One more time I wouldn’t need her no more Johnny Walker, Jack Daniels and Good old Jim Beam, Whenever I need them, they’re here for me, They’ll drown out the hurt and dry up the tears, And do in one glass, what takes 15 beers. So I don’t drink bud, miller or Coors light I go straight for the whiskey and knock it out right.

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Edgeless days are the hardest to let pass you by as you stare at all the pretty things Just out of sight. There sits, heavy in atmosphere, On these days of no ends, A timelessness in the most tragic way. All your toiling begins to feel useless, and errors make a mess of this. Your anger - Instantly boiling Futile barking. Damning non-existent gods,, And then a mocking laughing- Since you are alone. Because, of course, You are alone, Chained to the room They're paying you to | When the crushing Endlessness to your day Could be so easily been remedied with conversation or, some play And now those gods are laughing. And you wish to be alone From yourself.

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Oct 16, 2011

Oct 16, 2011 at 7:57 PM UTC

jeremy-r-frenette

I Need a Keeper

Edgeless days are the hardest to let pass you by as you stare at all the pretty things Just out of sight. There sits, heavy in atmosphere, On these days of no ends, A timelessness in the most tragic way. All your toiling begins to feel useless, and errors make a mess of this. Your anger - Instantly boiling Futile barking. Damning non-existent gods,, And then a mocking laughing- Since you are alone. Because, of course, You are alone, Chained to the room They're paying you to | When the crushing Endlessness to your day Could be so easily been remedied with conversation or, some play And now those gods are laughing. And you wish to be alone From yourself.

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