"drummed" poems
Somewhere
Somehow
I can’t identify when
it changed.
I saw things differently,
my eyes no longer covered
by an opaque way
of thinking.
Sunshine brightened this world
with unimagined colors,
butterflies broke free,
songbirds warbled lovely tunes.
Amidst emerging beauty
words became
every day’s lifeblood;
I found my voice.
All around me,
there was change,
yet everything remained
the same.
For it was me
that changed.
Reborn, rewired.
My heart drummed
a brand new beat.
Driven by transformation,
I wrote. I write.
Adding a dash of color.
Singing harmony
to surrounding melodies.
I am changing.
I am writing.
I am a poet.
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 5:47 PM UTC
My head feels dull.
Not even “comfortably numb”.
No mood for rhyme
Yet must cast my soul
Back through time.
No.
No more rhyme.
Just cast my mind back.
Seek that spark.
Call out my Muse.
Be inspired.
Excited.
Yes.
Excitement shines
Like a billion suns.
The merest touch
Explodes
My every nerve.
Magical mysteries
Unveil themselves.
Brilliant, fluttering butterflies
Flash and flicker
Those rainbow colours and more.
Deep inspiration.
Adrenaline rush.
Electrical discharge.
Cascading sweat.
Thunder-drummed tornadoes.
Lightning storms.
Rose tinged dawns,
And silver-ghosted Moons.
Inspirational volcanoes
Of Muse-blown delight.
That’s how it was,
To be in Love.
Jan 22, 2011
Jan 22, 2011 at 4:34 AM UTC
Drummed their boots on the camion floor,
Hob-nailed boots on the camion floor.
Sergeants stiff,
Corporals sore.
Lieutenant thought of a Mestre ***** —
Warm and soft and sleepy *****
Cozy, warm and lovely *****
****** cold, bitter, rotten ride,
Winding road up the Grappa side.
Arditi on benches stiff and cold,
Pride of their country stiff and cold,
Bristly faces, ***** hides —
Infantry marches, Arditi rides.
Grey, cold, bitter, sullen ride —
To splintered pines on the Grappa side
At Asalone, where the truck-load died.
4.2k
Scrapers will no longer scrape.
Fighters soon to lose the short fight.
Pilots are forced to surrender control.
Snakes on a plane will bank into a roll,
a scene that really no longer is scenic.
Leaders still read while getting a scare.
Huge landmarks that I swear were once there,
bridges in shortage are counting the tolls.
Dust that eventually will never be settled,
liquid support that used to be metal,
big bad crude that never was good—
things impossible suddenly could.
Answers quickly try to be drummed.
Future conflicts guaranteed to be won,
particles blocking our UV death sun,
days become decades and turkey is done.
Brave individuals are no longer bold.
Families’ histories are quite often told,
a baby’s bottle empty with no one to hold.
Government figures tilted but somehow sold
parades in protest with a circus in town.
A tiger got out, but why can’t he growl?
Seems that the cat’s got somebody’s tongue.
Another channel covers son after son,
numbers mounting, but not the right ones.
Cabbies still nose their thumb after thumb,
training centers destroyed one after one.
We should’ve just played “Drop the **** bomb!”
Fear is good, and of course good is feared;
it’s the only thing that drives us way over here.
Just like the Bible, it’s mostly made up.
The supersonic jet has just hit a rut.
The dirtiest of bombs versus our Smith and Wesson.
“Come on gang, why would you even question?”
Like death and taxes—there’s none that’s more sure,
but then there’s the free upcoming history lesson.
“Ain’t gonna do it” acting just like his pop.
This rancher really means it when tossing the slop.
“Still can’t find him—he’s with boys in Brazil.”
What’ve they done lately to lighten the till?
It’s time for the Allies to storm up this hill.
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 5:09 PM UTC
This house has been far out at sea all night,
The woods crashing through darkness, the booming hills,
Winds stampeding the fields under the window
Floundering black astride and blinding wet
Till day rose; then under an orange sky
The hills had new places, and wind wielded
Blade-light, luminous black and emerald,
Flexing like the lens of a mad eye.
At noon I scaled along the house-side as far as
The coal-house door. Once I looked up -
Through the brunt wind that dented the ***** of my eyes
The tent of the hills drummed and strained its guyrope,
The fields quivering, the skyline a grimace,
At any second to bang and vanish with a flap;
The wind flung a magpie away and a black-
Back gull bent like an iron bar slowly. The house
Rang like some fine green goblet in the note
That any second would shatter it. Now deep
In chairs, in front of the great fire, we grip
Our hearts and cannot entertain book, thought,
Or each other. We watch the fire blazing,
And feel the roots of the house move, but sit on,
Seeing the window tremble to come in,
Hearing the stones cry out under the horizons.
3.8k
They never spoke, but every time she walked into the train
He reflexively slid to the left and made room for her.
And they would travel together sitting one hand width apart.
He drummed his perfectly crooked fingers on his left thigh,
like a horse that galloped towards an unknown destination.
She clasped and unclasped her hands, and
chewed on the dry skin of her bottom lip.
She always switched off her phone before getting on the train.
She assumed he did too because no one ever disturbed their unsaid conversations.
The old man singing I Wanna Hold Your Hand provided the sound track to their journey.
Yet the most endearing sound was that of him sliding his right foot from side to side.
The soft scraping sound soothed her more than any song ever had.
The train ride lasted twenty-five minutes every night,
during which, in her mind they got married,
went to Vienna for their honeymoon,
and had three children: twin boys and a girl,
who grew up to be the perfect balance between the two of them.
His stop came before hers and
She wondered if one day he would miss his stop and
Ride with her to hers.
He knew her beginning and she knew his end.
She may never know any more
But that didn’t matter because for twenty five minutes a day,
all she needed was the soft scraping sound from his right foot sliding from side to side.
Dec 12, 2011
Dec 12, 2011 at 6:09 AM UTC
the hills were beginning to grow
the grass greening on the approach
to Blue Earth, and how
in summer
Minnesota shed her old coat
to shy guilty into brief silty lakes
like the
joy of a little kid, sneaking a forbidden dip.
remarking, casually, about
white warm flowers hung low from
planned oaks, and the impossible way the town
pulled local hills close, to coat
in dandelions. and cultivate
all under an ambitious midwestern sun.
rolling through the stop sign, hand on mine
you told me if you’re moving at all
you should keep it in second gear.
and we had so far to go, but in the light that
broke through westbound clouds,
we became less so.
contented to spread toes out in earth we
dug into Minnesota, the middle coast:
a land we could like to get to know.
and you:
looking down at the salt, the sand, the scars of
the grand american plantation:
the last coast.
knowing that by the next coast, we
you and me.
we'd be through.
saying, ‘how could anybody die?’
saying,
‘how could anybody tell you anything true?’
undercut by the honest waves of the little lake,
the hum that drummed in my gas tank.
trying, for once, at a little piece of truth:
when I leave this place I leave
a part of me behind.
and that part of me
will be you.
saying there’s only so much sweetness in the soil,
only so long after the thaw,
and grief is rich and dark and made for sowing:
must be, for maintaining verdant local hills, must be
for to keep corn sweet. must be for to put
grief
on the table. must be for to
keep with us.
for to keep a little bit to eat.
saying, we bleed but together we make a hole
to bury both our bodies in.
saying there’s a west out west but too late it’s
already hemmed us in.
saying now I am only a fragile assimilation of this weak
and fractured purpose that drives me, and you are
beautiful enough I would lie to let you love me.
even I would scorch this soil if only things wouldn’t grow I would
saying Blue Earth is still in the trucker's atlas is
only an excuse for sunshine. a point,
where freeways go.
saying,
“with earth, so green, that here they call it 'Blue'.”
saying
“I could learn to love a leopard.”
saying
“how dare you.”
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 7:20 AM UTC
Visual delusions:
*Scrutinizing the acuity of
what is visualized.
But sight is only validated
by the morality glazed over.
Until narratives are edited
to mimic a reality of self delusion.*
Oral formalization
*Dictation versed within syllable
delusions, never sounding
the reflection of thought to breath.
But sour exhalation collects on
vacant windows, spelling other
than what is breathed outwards.*
Auditory silence
*Auditions drummed within,
echoing on shallow walls,
nothing wrote within
A tirade of failures woven with
three perceptions. Collective ignorance*.
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 4:34 PM UTC
When all my five and country senses see,
The fingers will forget green thumbs and mark
How, through the halfmoon's vegetable eye,
Husk of young stars and handfull zodiac,
Love in the frost is pared and wintered by,
The whispering ears will watch love drummed away
Down breeze and shell to a discordant beach,
And, lashed to syllables, the lynx tongue cry
That her fond wounds are mended bitterly.
My nostrils see her breath burn like a bush.
My one and noble heart has witnesses
In all love's countries, that will ***** awake;
And when blind sleep drops on the spying senses,
The heart is sensual, though five eyes break.
2.7k
The first song I ever drummed to
Was also, unfortunately,
The last song I ever drummed to.
But I'll never forget the way
The drumsticks fitted into my palms
And the rhythm just seemed to flow;
It all seemed so natural
The way my hands hit the drum and
My leg slammed the pedal,
All that anger channelled into a
Beautiful beat.
To that magical instrument I not yet have,
Fear not for we will one day reunite.
I will play you with
The beat of my heart,
Let the music flow and
Emotion part.
Thank you for returning
My right of expression.
Nov 9, 2013
Nov 9, 2013 at 2:53 AM UTC
Them bastardized youths fell outside, dizzied by a reality unsolved.
Their maws scowled judgment and drooled Pabst down improbable bodies each of them lay in the stink of subtle conformity.
Fiercely unique culture beasts starved away in suburbs; Wikidrifting, those drugged litterbugs scampered.
Dropout fish fast against the current of their time, tired from dancing through desperate crowded nights and disparate lonely dawns, dangling degrees and the specters of success burning incessant their pride.
They were the ******** made so over time contracted by blind parents to nine-to-blithes in which quiet desperation, credit nooses, and irony were the small print.
They were carpenters afraid of their hands. With chisel to headstone, they lied on the hoods of used Japanese cars, panning the radio for a real connection and gazing up at vanishing constellations.
They were their poison and they their elixir, but a cold cigarette was a much quicker fixer of Helplessness Blues and the back of a Bible where a brief intellectual wrote “I am suicidal.”
For how does the turn of the epigram read to those who care less with every new beat of a drummed-up society so high off its piety that seeing stars vanish is simply a shame?
Those ******** dropouts tragically remiss, those Supertramps, Kerouacs, Cohens, and wits.
They were the alternative, urbanite fools that littered alleys with Greek fables and Tibetan tattoos.
Criterion flash cards and the literary canon allowed them to flirt with god in verse and art clues until Pollock’s canvas did rip off their eyelids which left them to know only Socrates knew.
They danced and they writhed, then ****** to pass time, and kept on their passions till lost were their minds. Then they all died, those blasphemous ********
But at least they washed on the back of their crimes.
At least they danced.
At least they were.
And there may be something to movement in chaos.
Oct 29, 2012
Oct 29, 2012 at 8:06 PM UTC
My Grandmother had a sage saying,
she would regale us with, many times.
With various nouns for exchanging.
But, the meaning rang clear like a chime.
"Pretty is as pretty does".
If, as a diva, on of us girls was heard.
She would hit us with that saying because,
she knew actions spoke louder than words.
Being of a religious nature,
she deplored and showed her discontent,
of those that would shout out their own praise,
then would go about doing ill intent.
"Christian is as Christian does".
Grandma did guide us down that path.
She drummed into me that saying because,
she knew actions speak louder than words.
Aug 20, 2010
Aug 20, 2010 at 7:42 PM UTC
the whole uni-world-verse is a work of art
painted, sculpted, written, strummed, yelled, whispered, spoken, hummed,
watched, read, walked, met, clutched, felt, thought, fraught, shot, healed,
sealed, revealed, eaten, clapped, drummed, hugged, kissed, loved, hated, caressed,
sexed, hit, held, slit, melded, tripped, tasted, clothed, wasted, hurt, emaciated,
bounded, re-created, infinite, hallucinated, framed, contained, insane, profane,
profound, no-sound, throned, starved, crowned,
and could the hues and colors of experience be expressed
I would have worked this art to show and speak to no one
but as the same, no none
and yes some
to a sandwich multitude and the star-gaze vigil
from the back, to the front, in the middle.
all big, all mid, all little
and silent as a God watching young girls play fiddle.
Dec 27, 2012
Dec 27, 2012 at 2:37 PM UTC
The music's best on the dark
side of town, I heard. It seemed miles
from home, after waiting in a long traffic jam
But the lights finally changed
from glamorous shining to dull neon, covered in smoke
drifting up from drifters outside the Black Cat.
By the fluorescent green sign, a cat
was painted, its fur dark
as the alley I stood in, engulfed in smoke.
The cat perched atop Miles
Davis's trumpet. Bums hassled me for change
and a few drummed on buckets, jamming
with a harmonica player, synched as jam
and peanut butter. I stepped into the Black Cat,
and from the facade saw no change.
The lights turned low, the club dark
as the alley outside. A Miles
record hovered through the smoke.
The people chattered like bees, smoking,
waiting for the players to jam.
At last, the bass player laid down a line miles
long, the drummer chinked in, and the cats
began to groove. They chilled my bones with dark
melodies, pounding through spooky chord changes.
Soon sunbeams shone through the storm, they changed
to an upbeat swing tune. The horn smoked,
hitting riffs unheard, astounding the dark
faces gazing on in awe. They jammed
endless as the ocean. The cats
started to play a popular Miles
song. The crowd hollered in Miles'
memory as the horn steered through the changes
with the skill of the legend of the Black Cat.
The band, nearly invisible through the haze of smoke
thick in the air, strawberry jam,
soon faded to dark.
Miles Davis’s ghost flowed through the smoke,
awakened by the chord changes, grooving to the jam.
The hippest cat alive or dead, now he plays in the dark.
Dec 26, 2009
Dec 26, 2009 at 11:06 PM UTC
Fire burning, logs marching
A path daunting, ranting taunts
Chanting seamed Arabic hymns
Chargrilled silky toned offerings
The exquisite yurt tent warm
Enclosed in ethnic kaleidoscope
Bedouin tribal pneuma radiates
Tensed and cordially punted
Feral wild ones sociably awake
Reticent,drained in frail noises
Fainting in lapses, trailed to fail
Tidal noises permeates above all
Waved and enveloped in beats
A drummed goblet, strummed oud
Announcement of the lived life force
The tidal rhythmic music timed
All clapping and mesmerised
Drawn in dangerous curves
A continuum of introversion sorted
The ever censored extroversion summed
Jan 2, 2016
Jan 2, 2016 at 2:54 PM UTC
1.
Do you know, I'm coming undone
And did you notice, I'm coming round less?
Did you ever see, me hardly at your door
Then, I'm already waiting to leave?
Chorus:
We used to fit so well together
But now, we're drifting far away
We were too busy to see...us
Come undone.
2.
You didn't see my threads come undone
Too busy tallying your brownie points!
You used to be a shining star
Then again, that was so long ago.
3.
Trying to learn what the ox cannot do
And that is to unshackle its heavy load.
Drummed in the guilt, weary and sad
Could never manage it all, had come undone.
4.
Have you any idea of the many times
I've tried to call you, with my courage undone
So, how can one tell when the time is right
To take a chance in life and make that change?
Sometimes, we learn only too well!
S T, 19 April 2013
Apr 19, 2013
Apr 19, 2013 at 10:08 AM UTC
once upon a time
there was
a circle
and it drummed
and it
strummed
and the lump
in
my
throat
the size of a tyrant's
fist
dissolved
into
a pure
white light feeling
and i was a
person
a part of something
not apart
not asunder
a heartspace coming coming
a star starring
afar
in the distance
guiding my lost feet toward
an oasis
that actually
is
a new start an art of being dreaming awake made
for you
a land of yay to hold in the palm of your hand and
a vibrating tone
resonates in that numb sternum
a tone that
lay
one
shade
away
from the ten thousand and ten whites of the first light
ever lit
Her womb receiving you
again
Oct 7, 2015
Oct 7, 2015 at 6:31 PM UTC
Courage is something I will never have.
Like Christmas presents,
I will never get what I asked for.
Content is something I never understood.
Like history and math,
I never really bothered learning.
Truth is something I can never believe.
Like magicians,
They put you at awe with a pinch of misdirection.
Passion is something I can never maintain.
Like Swiss watches,
Too much effort, too much time, too much risk.
Games are things I will never play.
Like Scrabble,
I have too little vocabulary for too many variables.
Greed is a part I can never avoid.
Like speed,
The faster I go, the faster I go.
You are something I will never get.
Like poker,
I must never cash in more than I can afford.
I guess you are something I truly regret.
Like soap opera,
I cried for something unreal, tear for nothing surreal.
I guess you are something dismay.
Like rainy nights,
Sad songs drummed the rain drops.
I guess you are you, ultimately.
We disconnect like two unfit jigsaws,
We reconnect like two fit strangers.
We reflect, deflect and subject to many a change,
But at the end,
We conclude in silence.
As the curtain drop to a close,
Stillness filled our hearts.
Emptiness filled our dreams.
While speechlessness filled our mouths,
We forget every nip of attraction lost.
Lost to, not mine, but your utmost desire.
Apr 10, 2013
Apr 10, 2013 at 10:08 PM UTC
Rest your head upon my heart.
Listen to the beats you've drummed.
Feel each throb of destined love.
Don't you see, what I've become.
How you've shifted all my dreams.
How you've taken my last breath.
Oh Your warmth, burns every doubt.
And your smile puts fear to rest.
Rest your head upon my heart.
Close your eyes, so you can gaze.
There's an ocean you haven't discovered.
There's a love that will amaze.
As the night had left you lonely.
And the moon dance in your eyes.
Lay here with me, lay in silence.
As I light your gloomy skies.
Rest your head upon my heart.
Make this place you lay your home.
As you nest I'll kiss your fears.
Take my heart it is thine own.
Let the walls you've build be crumbled.
Let the trust you've lost be found.
Oh let me kiss you with my beating.
Let me loose what had you bound.
Rest your head upon my heart.
Oh, rest your love upon my life!
Apr 17, 2017
Apr 17, 2017 at 8:23 AM UTC
The Drummer Brothers of Ikku Ukku
Heard from the bathers that-
The Princess had been abducted
By the Dark Beast.
A bounty of thousand gold coins was announced
If you brought her back alive and the beast dead
And Death if you brought the beast alive and the Princess dead.
The Drummer Brothers of Ikku Ukku
Hung their drums around their necks
And drummed their way
Through the Forest Dark
When the Elder Brother drummed the sleep-inducing roll,
The storks that roosted in the trees
Dropped as if they were one big bunch.
He picked them up one by one
While the younger one,
Elated,
Shouted 'Pelicans!' and drummed the defeathering roll
Upon which the plumage came off
The Elder Brother drummed the roasting roll
And the birdflesh caught fire.
On the second day a leopard that looked-
More like a boulder in leopard's clothing
Lurched at the brothers.
The Elder Brother drummed the age-reversing roll
And the poor old leopard grew younger and younger
Until it became a watery foetus which-
The Drummer Brothers ate,
Dabbing crushed chillies, and sprinkling salt.
On the third day a bear of grisly proportions
Ambled, roaring, into their sight
The Younger Brother drummed an organ-enlarging roll that-
Stretched the bear's mammaries far too long-
They dragged on the ground like two pythons.
The Elder Brother drummed the light-the- candle roll
And the oily **** caught fire like wicks.
Having vanquished the two deadly beasts
The Drummer Brothers of Ikku Ukku met,
On the fourth day of their journey,
The Dark Beast.
The Dark Beast, as it turned out,
Was no beast as such
But an Outcast once expelled
Into the heart of darkness
Who wrapped himself
In the dark of the Dawn
And became one with All the Beasts
And rumbled.
The Princess' pygmy horse was impaled
With the stake coming out of its mouth
Grossly gory, its hindlegs missing
And the blood, coagulated, hanging like icicles.
Near it was the Princess herself,
Naked, except for the gold waist chain
And the anklets.
The Drummer Brothers of Ikku Ukku
Drummed a very ordinary roll,
Steady and throbbing.
The Dark Beast who listened to it
Was transported into his past,
His memory of listening
To the old drummers of Ikku Ukku.
Excited,
He spun on his heels and stretched out his arms
He gyrated and pirouetted-
And on reaching the peak of his frenzy
Exploded, like a watermelon
The pieces flew in all directions.
The Drummer Brothers picked them up
And licked
While the Princess, shaken out of her languor,
Rose and sauntered towards them.
Holding out her honey hands
She said, "Now I belong to both of you."
The Younger Brother came up with a plan:
The elder one would have her from the waist up
While he would have her from the waist down.
The Elder Brother approved.
Vain and coquettish,
The Princess rammed her fists into either drum
And said: "I loathe their sound- too unrefined."
On the fifth day,
The Drummer Brother drummed a jazzed up roll
On their new drumhead
Made of the Princess' hide.
Jul 24, 2020
Jul 24, 2020 at 6:15 AM UTC
Easter Monday (2015)
The silence
It was the silence
As we entered the gates of hell.
Then…
The bird song,
It was the bird song
That chorused our way
To the well
Of tears at the wall
Of many tongues
That speak to the silence still,
Of the voices that cried
For the people who died
The void only time will fill.
The sun
It was the sun
Shining on the wooden cross.
And…
The sky
It was the sky
So blue, and flecked with the floss
Of clouds so white
So pure in light
That the wall of the well of tears
Transfigured the sin
We heap on Him
Whose loss for many
Is the only way
To feel the void time fills.
The woodpecker drummed a beat
On the trunks
Of the trees so parallel still.
A whisper of wind
That rebounds the sound
Of innumerable roll calls
Of the thousands who now
Lie deep in the cradles of mounds
Stone faced, inscribed Toten
With the number interred within
Verboten… now
But why not then?
In that world of men
And women, when humanity’s meaning
Was turned on end.
And a godless creed
That shadowed the world with grief
Which now for many,
Is beyond belief.
The stillness
It was the stillness
That gave silence the space to breathe,
To remember the times, the godless times
That now are so hard to believe.
But silence and stillness envelope the House
A silent place to be
To hear the past that shows the present
The prayers for a future that sees
What could be,
What can be
But will we
Learn, the history from then to now
To forge that future for future’s sake
And answer the question…
How?
David Applin
… late afternoon and evening of Easter Monday 6th April 2015 following a visit to Bergen-Belsen earlier in the day, completed 7th-9th April.
15th April 2015 … 70 years after the liberation of Bergen-Belsen by the British Army.
David Applin (Copyright 2015)
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 5:32 AM UTC
Let us find again the beauty in simple things
not just in designer labels and diamond rings
for the worth of what we crave
should not be drawn from sweatshop slave
Let us find again the beauty in simple things
Let us see things once again just like a child
In the days when we'd go out and explore the wild
Building tree forts in the woods
cops and robbers, robin hoods
Let us see things once again just like a child
Let our innocence and trusting be our strength
not something that gets drummed out of us at length
lets not live our lives in fear
of dangers far away from here
Let our innocence and trusting be our strength
Let us open up our hearts without reserve
and let someone in without trying to conserve
let us love just once again
like we'd never know pain
Let us open up our hearts without reserve
Let us die without one outstanding wish
live our lives with nets always full of fish
lives with bounty all around
all friends and loved ones have we found
Let us die without one outstanding wish
Aug 16, 2010
Aug 16, 2010 at 3:12 PM UTC
Living the dream or so it seems
Riding the waves, cascade after cascade
Jumping through hoops,
going round loop de loop,
like a roller-coaster
Believing you've got closer
To what:
you're supposed to do.
what you,
perceive to be
what you,
intend to see.
Knowing that, this is your goal.
The thing that drives your soul.
To reach to the sky,
stretch up to the stars,
float upon the clouds,
make yourself proud.
Because this is your dream.
it's something that means,
everything to you.
there's nothing that you wouldn't do, to reach the heights of success.
Continue to achieve your best.
Push through till there's nothing left.
Because this is a passion, a craft, a choice.
Don't listen to nay sayers,
down players,
people who say:
This isn't the way to go,
this is something you should know.
And it is something you know.
Why wouldn't you.
It's drummed into you day after day,
you get used to the people being that way,
it's a hard business.
Okay, okay
I get what you're trying to say but I don tell you day after day;
That your job is monotonous.
A corporate chain,
whose only aim
is more money to gain,
from your daily pain
of trying to maintain the face of joy
when your boss walks by
and asks how it's going.
With a nod all knowing you reply
"It's going great Mr Johnson."
Yet in your head you weep
And wish to retreat, back to the age when you could openly phrase a strong affirming gesture.
A finger raised to the sky,
Stating **** you and goodbye.
But you don't.
You nod and say "yes"
Cause that is your best
There's no passion inside you.
No craft that will drive you, to achieve.
So stop for a minute and believe
Believe in the strength of desire in your heart
let me take my path, leave me alone and then start on your own.
Mar 18, 2015
Mar 18, 2015 at 11:00 AM UTC
He was a beautiful enigma.
A bonified butcher knife
whispering against my throat
on a wooden dorm room desk.
His hands drummed
to beats my heart missed.
My lungs forgot the in and out,
we’d been perfecting
all these years.
He brought me closer to divinity
Than I had ever come before
I can see him now, eyes ignited
to match my joint.
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 2:37 PM UTC