"flyer" poems
i see the flyer at starbucks
"are you caucasian?
without mental health
and drug problems?"
wow
i don’t know the answer to any of these questions
is a jew a caucasian?
is the occasional naked, dick-slamming drunken rampage
a drug problem?
as for mental health
i’m a deadbeat poet and unpopular pop musician
i’ve got a job fighting death and boredom
and i just changed my facebook password to "eat ****
my frustrations have driven weaker souls to homicide
but are these PROBLEMS?
Sep 8, 2018
Sep 8, 2018 at 5:16 AM UTC
There was once a kite flyer
who flew his kites so high
He can hold on to his strings
and never get tired
He makes his kites by hand
He makes 'em colorful
He makes 'em grand
So one day, the kite maker flew his finest kites
In the hopes of showing everyone his amazing feats of flight
But because there were so many and the wind was strong
His strings tangled and the flight patterns got all wrong
one of the strings snapped and one of the kites flew
the wind took it and away it blew
One by one the strings broke
and all the kite flyer can do was to watch them float
away from him, the kites were set free
All his hard work, his dreams. his reality
The kite flyer looked up the sky
crying and regretting
There's nothing left of him
nothing but broken strings
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 2:55 AM UTC
Under the old house
cast in conglomerate mix
the cataract window
and cracked sill
broken joists
and cross beams
wringer wash
and saddle set
A draw string light
brings life
to the corner bench
fowler toads
and fingerlings
jitter bugs
and dazzy vance
dirt planks filled
with mason
crown classics
Buggy whip
and whippletree
shelved on the
chopboard
tackle and mucks
stacked at the back
horseshoe and jack rod
bend the pike pole
a sawhorse placed
for the Martindale push
Gallon jars
and growlers
prepped
for the taking
ropes and reins
for transport
and fest
goggle eye
jumps the flyer
setting up nicely
for the
Haldimand town fair
Jan 28, 2017
Jan 28, 2017 at 12:31 PM UTC
Not everyone flies.
You land hard a lot.
Then just as you think
it's time for a new direction,
just as you think
it's not worth another stumble,
a fresh fall onto your knees,
you launch and take flight.
An updraft catches your wings
and you're airborne.
And when you eventually land
you see that you've got
somewhere new,
a whole new perspective.
That's when you know you're a flyer.
Not every line flies.
You land hard a lot.
Then just as you think
it's time for a new direction,
just as you think
it's not worth another stumble,
a fresh fall,
your thoughts take flight.
An updraft catches your wings
and you're airborne.
And when you eventually land
you see that you've got
somewhere new,
a whole new perspective.
That's when you know you're a poet.
Not every prayer flies.
You land hard a lot.
Then just as you think
it's time for a new direction,
just as you think
it's not worth another stumble,
a fresh fall onto your knees,
your prayer takes flight.
Your spirit resonates with His
and you see His face.
And when you get to your 'Amen',
you see that you've got
somewhere new,
a whole new perspective.
That's when you know you're a pray-er.
Dec 25, 2018
Dec 25, 2018 at 5:45 AM UTC
There was a shooting in Redstone
Only one man dead, none hurt
He was found dead in the morning
With just one hole right through his shirt
He was lying in the main street
Face down, right there in the dirt
He was found dead in the morning
With just one hole right through his shirt
I'T WASN'T SUPPOSED TO END LIKE THIS
FACE DOWN HERE, IN THE STREET
I'M A GUNFIGHTER OF MUCH RENOWN
I'M JUST A GUN WHO CAN'T BE BEAT
I'M NOT SUPPOSED TO BE HERE
LYING DEAD, SHOT IN THE BACK
I WAS GUNNED DOWN BY A COWARD
I DIDN'T HEAR THE GUNSHOT CRACK
The crowd had formed around him
Lying there, all hard and cold
No witnessess to the shooting
At least not one so bold
They knew him from his weapon
The sixteen notches on the grip
He came in on the Flyer
He won't be on the return trip
I'T WASN'T SUPPOSED TO END LIKE THIS
FACE DOWN HERE, IN THE STREET
I'M A GUNFIGHTER OF MUCH RENOWN
I'M JUST A GUN WHO CAN'T BE BEAT
I'M NOT SUPPOSED TO BE HERE
LYING DEAD, SHOT IN THE BACK
I WAS GUNNED DOWN BY A COWARD
I DIDN'T HEAR THE GUNSHOT CRACK
He was staying at The Belfry
He only brought one bag to town
No one knew why he had come here
Except to shoot somebody down
The papers ran the story
The next morning in THE SUN
They ran a picture and a story
Of the "Man With The Pearl Gun"
I'T WASN'T SUPPOSED TO END LIKE THIS
FACE DOWN HERE, IN THE STREET
I'M A GUNFIGHTER OF MUCH RENOWN
I'M JUST A GUN WHO CAN'T BE BEAT
I'M NOT SUPPOSED TO BE HERE
LYING DEAD, SHOT IN THE BACK
I WAS GUNNED DOWN BY A COWARD
I DIDN'T HEAR THE GUNSHOT CRACK
The story was quite lengthy
Considering no one saw him shot
But, as usual there was someone
Who had a story to be bought
He'd been shot from an end window
Above the Local Mercantile Store
One bullet from a rifle
And the gunman was no more
I'T WASN'T SUPPOSED TO END LIKE THIS
FACE DOWN HERE, IN THE STREET
I'M A GUNFIGHTER OF MUCH RENOWN
I'M JUST A GUN WHO CAN'T BE BEAT
I'M NOT SUPPOSED TO BE HERE
LYING DEAD, SHOT IN THE BACK
I WAS GUNNED DOWN BY A COWARD
I DIDN'T HEAR THE GUNSHOT CRACK
Turns out the gunman's killer
Was the one he'd come to find
The shooter was the killer's child
The only son, he'd left behind
They never met before this
He'd never ever met his Dad
But, The Gunman came to find him
And in the end, it's kind of sad
I'T WASN'T SUPPOSED TO END LIKE THIS
FACE DOWN HERE, IN THE STREET
I'M A GUNFIGHTER OF MUCH RENOWN
I'M JUST A GUN WHO CAN'T BE BEAT
I'M NOT SUPPOSED TO BE HERE
LYING DEAD, SHOT BY MY SON
I WAS GUNNED DOWN WITHOUT KNOWING
I GUESS HE'S NOW THE WANTED GUN.
Oct 1, 2012
Oct 1, 2012 at 8:35 PM UTC
I know how hard you’re trying:
caught between what’s good and what’s right,
triangulated by compliance to a routine that leaves you restless.
You’ve spent your childhood dreaming of ‘somewhere else’
but now that you’re here, you dream again:
of ‘somewhere new.’
You can’t pin down a pilot,
and you’re a high flyer
with a heart for danger and full of desire
from the stardust in your veins
and the galaxies mirrored in your eyes.
You’re no Harry Potter--
their attention drives you wild,
craving counteraction to the demons that
followed you from your home planet
and have tainted your every breath.
*(he’s got stars in his smiles
that stretch like galaxies.
oh, god, you know what that means.)*
Like I said, you can’t pin down a pilot,
and you don’t want to be found.
You’ll push and push until your heart gives out,
compensate and retaliate by breaking the hearts that beat for you.
If you’re going down,
they will too.
You’re a beautiful disaster creating
new paths for strength to rise out of,
a beautiful disaster caught between cliffs and a hard place.
You wanted to touch down on every planet in your system,
but you never planned
on your engines failing.
You can’t pin down a pilot,
not until he’s crashing.
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 9:26 PM UTC
I needed to do some shopping
On poem ideas I was running low
So I checked out the local flyer
To the downtown poet store
Just to see what they had on sale
Some of my friends they call me cheap
But why pay full price if you don't have to
On all the rhyming words I need
The front page slapped me in the face
With the Spring Cleaning Sale Galore
Everything I needed was half price
So I headed straight to the store
I ventured up and down the isles
Filling my basket with the best of rhyme
Getting a few extras of every word
So I'd have them when the time was right
I stocked up on love and encouragement
The right words I carefully chose
Because in my experience
You can never have to many of those
I even took a few from the back
Down a darkened isle where the lights were low
Being a poet my mood can rapidly change
And what words I might need you never know
With my basket full of wonder
I felt my day of shopping done
Confidant and ready
To go home and continue writing poems
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 5:23 PM UTC
Alone the groans of humanity that were once united in love at last. finds its rest .
We wait for a call that never comes ,
and close our eyes in death .
Now the cricket finds its leaf on some Tunisian shores weaves silk
it’s song of love ,
just as
My hand reaches out to yours only for you to flinch and turn from love .
the pebble washed over by the shore finds itself on ship wrecked Oceans of thee .
Where once lovers walked hand in hand their love like the sands of time exposed .
Like pebbles stolen from the beach where once Greek lovers found play ,Their. wedding songs bliss ,
hand in hand on moon set tidel bays .
So the twilight casts its gaze ,
Soon my time moves ever on ,
the midnight flyer i once caught
Only to never find the one .
Love and death have yet to follow me ,
their paths I know not well ,
the sunshine tomorrow’s ring brings sage of old to tell .
Out of these dark ages Saxon roamed ,
Autumn leaves once green in bloom ,
have turned a golden brown only
now to deaths decay .
Their sorrows winter shall take and find ,
An Ampetheatre of Chicken bones they gorge,
eight thousand demon hoards ,
helmet , belt and sword and my victory is assured .
“ Now set the table honey just mix the salad dear “
“ Look mother an olive all by itself can I have it please ? ”
“Yes , now wash your hands “
and i was swollowed ,
...whole ..
Sep 29, 2018
Sep 29, 2018 at 5:03 PM UTC
some years back, not too difficile to recall,
revive and animate those memories of love and disasters,
but the distance is comparable to half-a-dozen
eighty day trips around the world, many frequent
flyer miles accumulated with trips to love disasters,
interspersed with the days of shock and awe believing
(sigh) that stumbled, fumbled my way in what we silly
call true love, which is really the high of believing
that you deserved the easy way, but now know, there
is no easy way, and romance is a hard earned privilege,
and sensory deprivation can fool you, absence makes
you vulnerable, don’t be vulnerable, stand up right,
**** out, and eyes smiling but phasers on full, nonetheless…
this not a downer, but a dis-claimer, even I claim the
never be sure of the 100% foolproof methodologies for
discerning the genius of genuine,
when the risk is the reward
maybe when your 22, even 23,
you’ll be better at true discernment,
but until then be wise,
there is no saving the day,
till your knees are scraped,
and crackling and cracking
heart seem like the same thing
but they’re not
do not confuse
causality with correlation
love is not your cause, be-all,
or even the end-all, do the work
on your self to betterment
24/7, knowledge to be wiser
comes with vive les expériences!
and
someday you’ll senses will be tickled,
and the aroma of possibilities will
arose that dormant hunger, and may
be a correlation to another human in the
immediate vicinity, a man, swimming
in your moat without permission, then,
check him out and maybe, jump in,
once you’ve passed the red cross lifesavers
test, cause the murk is murky, and is never
fraught with just rose water, but jump a
few toes in and if you’re still sinking,
hell he’ll
find away and give him the rope to help
you climb a board, yeah, a broad tough as
clear varnished nails with a heart radiating
the nuclear fission of Strontium 90.
Jul 13, 2023
Jul 13, 2023 at 1:31 AM UTC
This is one American that drops beats, not bombs
This is one American that admits when she’s wrong.
But an ocean doesn’t divide us
Only you divide us
With your words for labels that say what’s you, not me
Your stereotypes are gunna be the death of me
You’re killing me with these close-minded philosophies
And Who the hell ever said you were the referee of me?
We gotta spend less time sneering and swearing
We gotta spend less time jeering and tearing
You should never have to defend when you love
You should never have to defend why you love
You should never have to defend who you love
We are all created equal;
That’s the condition of the receiver
And we are all the receivers
But some keep spewing that hate; those hate-believers
But we don’t accept their judgment upon us
We gotta rise up out of adversity placed on us
Some out there will go to their graves justifying
Committing acts based on fear is nothing but mortifying
And I’m gunna be truthful; I’m not even lying
When your preach your ******** the human race is dying.
You see United this house stands strong
Every new hand we hold pushes us along
Every brick makes us higher
Acceptance makes us flyer
Gotta keep hate out of your heart
And maybe then we’ll get to start
To come together
To love one another
And to be free like it is intended
Maybe then the human race will be mended
Maybe then this bad movie will get a better sequel
Maybe then we’ll realize We are all created equal.
I want to stop it all
To go into a free-for-all
To rip those signs apart
To take that hate from that heart
All I can do is spread the word on love
And hope to God that will be enough
All I can do is be me and let you be you
All I can do is all I can do
But together we can appreciate
That all together we can officiate
Love that knows no bounds
That type of harmony with unreal sounds.
We may measure success by what’s published
We may measure it by what’s re-said
By how much money we make
By the course that we take
But one thing I know that will bring us deliverance
All that matters is that one voice that says
You make a ******* difference.
Apr 20, 2013
Apr 20, 2013 at 5:45 PM UTC
Glances in passing and nothingness,
I'll drop out and take up gardening.
And you are so cool, all German bred,
and sometimes braided. I see you, so
well-read and rather regal. ***** blonde
nuclear, alabaster, aluminum rods -
electricity dripping from the soles of
your shoes. This classroom, my own
ink blotted incubator, the radiator sits,
flatlining. Your jaw as two razor blades,
your shoulder blades, broad, gentle.
I wonder how you look in the morning,
How you look at yourself in the mirror.
Do you practice smiling, and
how often do you wash your hair? Oh,
you exist in glass, and I will not try to
know you. Leaving this poem limited,
and yet. Your jam drop mouth houses all
well-spoken soliloquies, radical requiems.
So, what would happen if we brushed
shoulders in passing? Your little accent.
Accident, we appeared in the same
huddled mass. Literary plugs in the
drain, and your new American. So,
why don't we just go walking on
airplane wings? Some transcontinental
affair. Frequent flyer ******* stranger.
Feb 27, 2017
Feb 27, 2017 at 5:48 PM UTC
Children of Louisiana,
Swept away and drowned,
In the river’s flood
And the ocean surge.
Never have recovered
Fully from the rain falling down,
And of a city that was purged.
Ignored by the government
And its fellow man,
Follow in a long line of sufferers
Since the melting, ice age glaciers
And even a tsunami in the North Sea
That wiped out Doggerland.
Dark Ages got darker as people ran
And Britain’s white cliffs were sheared.
Times got better and then got worse,
But the people carried on.
Now, the floods are a weekly thing,
A blip on a newscast,
As lost as the victims in a mess
Of other disasters,
Of wildfires, droughts and don’t
Even mention the quaking earth
Or volcanoes! We can’t take credit
For causing those!
Rich men in their castles,
Feasting and clapping each other
On their fatty backs,
Rolling in the spoils and spills
Of oil, on the flaming water of
The American plains.
Sheikhs in old Mesopotamia
Whine about oil pipelines,
Promised to them by President Cheney,
While the people starve.
Bloated oligarchs spread destruction
All over the world, from
The Congo to Chernobyl,
Melting icecaps and raising the sea,
Sinking islands where they don’t live,
Vacationing in the Maldives,
On special rates before those go under.
They won’t fix Miami, but let it sink,
But not before they plunder
The empty towers built on foolish dreams.
Of course, they’ll be the last to go,
Crammed into mansions up in the Alps,
Fighting with the European nobles
Over who gets a crumbling palace
Now sitting on the last ice floe.
A few American cousins round each other up
To catch the Dixie Flyer down to New Orleans,
Trying to hide from the polar vortex,
A dazzling case of ignorance and greed,
Only to find the tracks buried in the sea…
Down in the mud of the deep, brown sea.
Mar 10, 2021
Mar 10, 2021 at 4:26 PM UTC
its funny
a flower called impatient
still has to root down
and tangle with grass
you too
never to be caught dead
in the same social circle
as a window planter
or aluminum pinwheels
the same instruments
that brought you radio flyer wagons and torn-knees in your jeans
innocence
****
you window-shop
with a brick in your handbag
and a white patterned dress
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 10:38 PM UTC
Producers are making films
On the decades of my life.
I'm sitting there, and
I think out loud:
I remember that!
At the Henry Ford Museum
They've displayed my Radio Flyer
And wooden Yo-Yo.
I lost them long ago.
Flea Markets sell postcards
Of Grand Bend Beach and Casino.
I bet my life there.
I've been told
My steel tubular kitchen set
Is retro.
I didn't know.
Classic Car Shows
Put barrier ropes
Around VWs.
They were cheap,
Dependable.
And everything's back in vogue,
'cept me.
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 3:35 PM UTC
Royal indeed it is my Scottish mile,
May I borrow your body awhile,
Your brew gives me just the smile,
I'll save you forever in my travelers file!!
Another year now, another year new,
whiskey, one too many a few,
like strangers who haven' a clue,
one more night, at the backpacker's blue!!
Now or never, those eyes shine forever,
in my senses, in my heart, in my pyre,
bagpipes printed over the hogmanay's flyer,
singin, hey ya'll, cry me a ****** river!!
Jan 7, 2013
Jan 7, 2013 at 4:38 PM UTC
#I'm as lonely as a station at night.
The december mist and the moon
peaking high over the iron fence
dulled the low volt into weird halo.
But like bats I reap the rewards of night.
The buzz of the crickets rose in crescendo
from the undergrowths around the track
sounding as unreal as the silent platform
abruptly cropping up on nowhere land
doubtful if ever a train would notice it.
*Days are dull actings dancing to strings
yielding nothing to let you know you.
I'm in full vision before the lightless mirror
opening up alone but with the many faces
the dreary day ruthlessly hid from me.*
The mist was engulfing the iron railings
and when a distant engine whistled
there was no track or platform
but only the lone flyer hung on the moon
like a bat glued to the scent of night.
May 9, 2018
May 9, 2018 at 10:39 AM UTC
When the clouds below turn to into carpet
Up there in the cold morning light,
The VFR pilot jitters and frets:
Time to check fuel, to come up with a plan
To search for a hole in the billow below,
And bring the craft in to land.
So it was when a pilot coming back from a lark,
Flew in a circle somewhere over Williston,
Above clouds turning thicker and dark.
In his office sat Phil, across the state line,
When the radio crackled, pleading a break:
"VFR practice," he thought, "He's probably fine."
Phil headed to lunch, had an errand to do...
Drove downtown for a couple of hours,
Returning somewhere around 2:00.
The radio tone carried tired despair
When Phil walked back in from his break
And heard the pilot, still stuck in the air.
Phil knew that the fuel must be drained
In the old Piper Cub overhead,
So he logged a flight plan and ran for his plane.
He flew to the east and banked to the north,
Rising above the gray carpet below,
And spotted the wanderer holding its course.
Coming in fast, cutting his distance by half,
"Super Cub over Williston, this is Bonanza
On your left. How much fuel do you have?"
"About 30 minutes," came a despondent reply,
Standard answer, but gauging the hours,
Phil calculated the response was a lie.
"I am going to fly by your side.
Follow me and dive when I dive;
Keep contact and enjoy the ride."
The planes in tandem turned around;
Phil flew by IFR to find the runway end,
Backed off the throttle, and led them down.
The tail dragger followed, did not complain,
Dropped into the soup gliding blind
Except for the strobe on the faster plane.
The old Cub flared when Phil said, "Land!"
Settled onto the runway end as the propeller stalled,
And Phil had saved a desperate man.
On the hangar wall now hangs a plaque,
Though Phil himself is gone,
The Governor's gift for bringing a flyer back.
--------------
My brother once watched Phil Petrik of Sidney Aviation fly off the Sidney runway, disappearing into a pea soup fog, carrying our father and mother on an emergency flight to Billings, to save my father's life.
I lay this poetic rose upon Phil's grave as a slim tribute to a man who earned my admiration and life long gratitude. Rest In Peace, Phil Petrik.
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 11:18 AM UTC
Twisted tales come surging
From a mind writhing and purging
In an oft fomented urging
For expressions, pure and raw
That fight repressions, lure and claw
Their way up to the surface
To effect a sense of purpose
But it's really all just worthless. . .
That's, unless you think it's not!
But if you don't: Your brain might rot!
Your skin might bubble, blood might clot
Leaving you heaving bile and snot
Or maybe phlegm and sputum
So your mental stores, you loot 'em
Load these rhymes up and you shoot 'em
Into repressed regression's mains
Into depressed suppression's veins
Until they sing a glad refrain
Of being decoagulated
Platelets become agitated
Now the blood is circulated
And the brain that hibernated
Has awakened from its slumber
Now it ponderously lumbers
With intentions unencumbered
Gotta do it by the numbers
So, them synapses start firin'
Them cortices start wirin'
And belly full of fire sings
Of jelly beans and tire swings
Of silly schemes and flyer wings
On foul mouthed little parrot,
Owners ***** laundry, airs it
Polly want a *******
Just a snack sir?
But old Polly sez:
**** me harder, Álvarez!"*
Look aghast, her husband Ted:
*"Oh hell no ***** 'cause that's the bed
that both we AND our children sleep in!
you've got Latin Lovers creepin'?"*
She vacates the bedroom weepin'
Well . . . that took a drastic turn
To dwellings where disasters churn
So silly, will we ever learn
Or for mere want of learning, yearn?
(Tom, to himself: Go eat food. . . .)
(Tom, back to himself: Good idea!)
I think he left, but I'm still near
As tattered, scattered writing, dear!
So, read me well and read me clear,
And bring some friends to visit here!
Jul 28, 2019
Jul 28, 2019 at 1:03 PM UTC
Hiro, the Kamikaze,
Happily lives just over the hill,
Sleeps every night quite calmly,
So proud of his never a ****
Hiro, the Kamikaze,
Veteran flyer is he,
Flew back from 33 missions,
Dropped his payloads in the sea.
----------------------------
Mar 2, 2014
Mar 2, 2014 at 1:31 PM UTC
My attire, flyer than a kite
Bellowing higher
Floating, but ******
Sober, I'm told
The only state I'm in
Ain't about sin
Just a means to avoid
a loose mind
Of a multiple kind
Where happy and mad coincide
Follow me through the workings,
Go inside.
Where the mood pendulates
side to side
With reckless abandon.
Manifest in a man
To have childish tantrums
Self righteous in his self deprecating anthems
To spring one's phantoms alive.
This, I strive to evade
I hide, but to save
No one else, but me.
Everyman for himself!
The mantra (sadly) of anyone seeking to be Free!
Jun 20, 2017
Jun 20, 2017 at 6:54 PM UTC
If you’ve only ever smelled fir trees covered with freshly fallen snow-
then you haven’t smelled it.
It’s an acquired smell, for sure.
It comes just in between the whiffs of
mashed potatoes
mashed carrots
mashed peas
mashed turkey
hell, mashed ginger-ale for all I know. . .
Somewhere amongst that microwaved menagerie, masked with the smell of eau de toilette,
it lives, and smells sweeter the longer brown sugar bubbles on top of caramelizing yams.
If you can’t smell it, maybe you can find it.
Not many can, or do.
It hides in plain sight, though.
A lost and found box with accumulated cobwebs - everything still unclaimed.
A flyer for free puppies that no one ever took because they were “too much responsibility.”
Maybe there aren’t enough seekers in this game of empty rooms and blank guest books.
But keep looking, until bingo prize hand-me-downs after school plays look like Oscars.
You won’t see it until it makes you believe that plastic Mardis Gras beads are Tiffany-blue boxes.
It’s not so much in the nose, or the eyes as it is in the endurance.
Endure the voiceless Glenn Miller until his brass bellows become her voice -
whispering “I love you” to the effortless rhythm of “Moonlight Serenade.”
And imagine her,
swapping her orthopedics for black heels,
elegantly taking Pop’s hand as he helps her up from her wheelchair,
to join him for just one more dance.
Watch as they become the sepia-colored couple in every anniversary photo.
That black dress. Those fake pearls.
The crescendo of the band.
It’s hard to miss when it’s screaming at you.
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 11:38 PM UTC
Do you remember when we met?
Cuz I feel like it was so long ago;
That you handed me that flyer
And invited me to your show
I thought it sounded stupid
So I decided not to go
But you didn't hold it against me
And our friendship managed to grow
Eventually you became my person
The one that was always there
You held me in my hardest moments
And could always show me you care
Even when things got rocky
We knew how to work it out
And it was only ever a matter of days
Before a new level of friendship would sprout
But lately things have started to change
I feel that you don't have my back
And though I'm trying hard to forgive
I feel our friendship is starting to crack
You started to call me less and less I've started to give up on you
And then you just stopped coming by I've began to drift away
The worst part is you always defend I don't want to put in the effort
All of the people who make me cry On a street that's just one way
You never seize opportunities I just don't have it in me anymore
To have me in your life To always be fighting for you
Then whenever we finally talk It should be this freaking lonely
We usually get into another strife It shouldn't make me feel so blue
And I'm not saying it's all your fault... ....I'm not sure what went wrong
I'm just not sure what to think... ...How we got so disconnected
We just keep drifting apart... ...And you don't seem to care
We are just SO out of sync... ...And I just feel dejected
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 5:19 AM UTC
it's time
time to load my most personal things
taking only the most important
escape this apocalypse
you'll see me on the side
of the road
my cardboard box full of notepads
a lifetime of heart things
feelings tear stained yellow
page after page
pulling a Radio Flyer
on I-10
three cats and an old faithful
black labrador dame
and one box
Jun 28, 2017
Jun 28, 2017 at 2:24 AM UTC
Summer night bonfires
Tanning days
Hella beach babes
Party all night
Here take a flyer
Our shades were Gucci
Is it always this bright
Phone calls until sunrise
Search for similarities
Good head that's the prize
New girls everyday
Short shorts and high tops
Grind on me when the beat drops
Loud pack don't forget to pay
Take your top off just for a tease, circled nah ellipse
Summer's ended
We all went different ways
Xbox live? No one plays
Now all we leave is our legacy
We were the kids everybody wanted to be
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 2:03 AM UTC
Already so much distraction
You're always so close
Yet still just out of my reach
Like trying to catch smoke
You're a freedom flyer
"She dreams of love
He lives to run"
You can't contain a snowflake and expect it not to melt and evaporate. This is the science of nature, and thus is the nature of life. However unwilling to alter they seem.
Communication is key.
It's been lacking
My patience waning
The edge is near but I'm not weak
I refuse to succumb
There's little more satisfying than winning a fight. But how do you expect to win when the referee is a liar?
A thief of truth
So cold
Too proud to admit defeat
The only war being waged is within the self-his self.
The day is coming upon us that we will not fall
But rise in the glory and beauty of love
Where the
Loneliness in
Ourselves
Value
Everything
An ethereal utopia
A world where there is no defeat
A world only big enough for us
A world where you will let me set you free
Where nothing is forced but as natural as the mechanics of lungs created to subconsciously allow our meat suits life.
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 1:44 PM UTC