"garfunkel" poems
The Viet Nam era was a witches brew.Mission creep in Saigon
The evening news brought the ****** trips stumbling into
my TV dinner, kicking over my Tang.
Bouncing Betty went bang
Beans and ***** out the can.
Guys in my age bracket knew it was safe cause 18 was the magic Number.
RESPECT
Simon and Garfunkel ,The godfather of soul.
What we.
Had Here.
Was.
Failure to Communicate.
We were reaching for the stars with one hand and
squeezing of rounds with the other. Bobby was in the crossfire
Martin would retire,
I remember.
Guys slinking back home with broken minds
Baby killers all. No love ,No jobs. COMBAT FATIGUE. PTSD Came later.
Got a monster habit, Nose running of like a racetrack rabbit.
Oh yeah Asian Strain Gonorrhea.
Penicillin
Penishmillin. WTF
Hendricks.
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 3:25 AM UTC
we had been mopping
the kitchen floor all day
and the dirt never
stopped coming back
and earlier we had sprayed
the entire front porch
down with the garden hose
and now it was still wet
which made it feel as if
it had recently rained when in fact
the grass was a crunchy
brown carpet of regrets.
the night before we had
drunk orange smoothies
laced with lime and something
aged sleek and dark
(i think it must have been
the reason we couldn't
sleep that night
lay awake in my parents bed
and i told you why i
wouldn't go swimming
until the sun rose
the dog barked
the birds screamed
their morning songs
and my body stopped its
nightly spasms of fear.)
and the next evening
we put on a miranda lambert song
(the one we drank to
in your mother's van last winter)
sat on the wet
porch swing
and cracked open
our first beers
they were
really bad
i gagged
because it tasted
like carbonated
banana bread with
too much stale
baking soda
and we poured half of them
into the flower beds
the next morning
was sunday
and we had milk and muffins
in the kitchen with
simon and garfunkel
then went back out to the porch
drank iced coffee in the
eleven o'clock sunlight
and you said
"if this were a normal sunday
i would have been up at six
at church by eight
and done teaching my first
sunday school class by ten."
(is beer as much
of an acquired taste
as coffee is?
because i can't ever
remember not liking it
i used to think it was
bitter but i always
liked it anyway.)
i didn't say anything
because i didn't want to
say what was on the tip
of my tongue
that this kind of sunday
had become my normalcy
and our variety of saturday night
no longer felt like underage
drinking and more like
the way i was meant to be.
Aug 20, 2016
Aug 20, 2016 at 3:15 PM UTC
"The Sound Of Silence"
Hello darkness, my old friend,
I've come to talk with you again,
Because a vision softly creeping,
Left its seeds while I was sleeping,
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence.
In restless dreams I walked alone
Narrow streets of cobblestone,
'Neath the halo of a street lamp,
I turned my collar to the cold and damp
When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light
That split the night
And touched the sound of silence.
And in the naked light I saw
Ten thousand people, maybe more.
People talking without speaking,
People hearing without listening,
People writing songs that voices never share
And no one dared
Disturb the sound of silence.
"Fools," said I, "You do not know.
Silence like a cancer grows.
Hear my words that I might teach you.
Take my arms that I might reach you."
But my words like silent raindrops fell
And echoed in the wells of silence
And the people bowed and prayed
To the neon god they made.
And the sign flashed out its warning
In the words that it was forming.
And the sign said, "The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls
And tenement halls
And whispered in the sounds of silence."
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 11:29 PM UTC
Who will love a little Sparrow?
Who's traveled far and cries for rest?
"Not I," said the Oak Tree,
"I won't share my branches with
no sparrow's nest,
And my blanket of leaves won't warm
her cold breast."
Who will love a little Sparrow
And who will speak a kindly word?
"Not I," said the Swan,
"The entire idea is utterly absurd,
I'd be laughed at and scorned if the
other Swans heard."
Who will take pity in his heart,
And who will feed a starving sparrow?
"Not I," said the Golden Wheat,
"I would if I could but I cannot I know,
I need all my grain to prosper and grow."
Who will love a little Sparrow?
Will no one write her eulogy?
"I will," said the Earth,
"For all I've created returns unto me,
From dust were ye made and dust ye shall be."
Jan 3, 2013
Jan 3, 2013 at 10:51 PM UTC
I was two years behind Art Garfunkel at Columbia College, but I never met him. Nonetheless, like millions of other people, I consider him to have the most beautiful singing voice of the 20th century. Art's singing of BRIDGE OVER TROUBLED WATER is celestial.
I was two years ahead of George W. Bush at Andover, but I never met him. Nonetheless, too many people voted to make him President of the United States twice. W. was not very smart. He did not do well academically at Andover and Yale and Harvard Business School. But his father, George H. W. Bush, had gone to both Andover and Yale, and later became head of the CIA, then Vice President, then President. Legacy was powerful in the 1960s, and still is.
I wish I could meet Art Garfunkel and thank him for the enormous pleasure he has given to millions of people. I would never wish to meet W.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Jun 3, 2025
Jun 3, 2025 at 10:37 PM UTC
By Simon & Garfunkel
I’d rather be a sparrow than a snail
Yes, I would
If I could
I surely would
I’d rather be a hammer than a nail
Yes, I would
If I only could
I surely would
Away, I’d rather sail away
Like a swan that’s here and gone
A man gets tied up to the ground
He gives the world its saddest sound
Its saddest sound
I’d rather be a forest than a street
Yes, I would
If I could
I surely would
I’d rather feel the earth beneath my feet
Yes, I would
If I only could
I surely would
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 12:26 AM UTC
As a newbie, we are unaware
We go through life as if we care
Incompetent inept go here or there
Thinking that we know it all
Inevitably comes the fall
Then we slowly realize
As it begins, the End
of our demise
we didn’t compromise
However, it’s more
Than just the fall.
We thought
We were
Impervious
10 feet tall.
The older we get
The more we realize
The ignorant follies
Of the less wise
Pride before the fall
Comes towards us all
We paid no mind
To the warnings call
Greed, Lust,
A wild ride
Envy Wrath
Look inside
Gluttony, Sloth,
Our Guilty Pride
Don’t let this list
Be your guide
It’s OK not to know everything
It’s OK to be a teen in between
It’s OK to misread a panic scene
It’s OK to admit your wrong
Do the dance,
Sing the song
Don’t act wise,
Apologize
Pretending
you know it all
Inevitably
The jig is up
Never ready For the call
Will you learn the lesson
of the fall
knowing you don’t
know anything at all.
There is always
a lesson.
To endure
It’s OK not to be sure
we were all
once an amateur
The difference between
a young adult
Sprung on life
And a middle aged
Disillusion lost soul
Is our experiences
The lessons learned
When It’s your turn
To be on top
Oblivious
Ignorant
Acceptance
There will be a time
When you’re not
It’s not how high
You climb
It’s how you endure
After the fall
Wisdom
comes to us all
Will you ignore it?
Or answer Life’s call
Inspired songs;
My life 1978
Billy Joel
Don’t fear the reaper 1976
Blue Oyster Cult
Signs 1971
By Five Electrical Band
Bridge over troubled Waters 1970
By Simon and Garfunkel
Both sides now 1969
By Joni Mitchell
Foot note
This was written for a seventh grade grandchild going through life on stress levels. She creates herself. She says this to herself now it’s OK to be wrong. I don’t have to know everything.
I’ve always said to the grandchildren, you have two ears, and one mouth listen twice as much as you speak
May 15, 2025
May 15, 2025 at 3:49 AM UTC
The lights were still on
As I lifted myself from
The air mattress
To check my back
For bedbug bites
I noticed a young roach
In the sink
He scattered quickly
Then stopped
Staring
As if to dare me
To try and **** him
He was the prideful matador
And I the swollen eyed
Stumbling bull
It was life and death
I tried to smack him
With a water bottle
But he ran and hid behind a pipe
So I took a bottle of aftershave
Tried to drown the *******
In a refreshing burning winterfresh
But he was untouched by the splash
Then he scattered across the wall
I ran and grabbed the worst book
In my collection
The premier book of major poets,
1970
They printed Simon and Garfunkel
In there
I tried to smash the
cunning cockroach
But my fingers touched the
Smashed corpse
Of a previous conquest
I quickly threw the book in disgust
And wished it was the roaches
Wife or mother
Lying dead
Smashed by an awful publication
He ran quickly
Laughing at my frustration
Proud
Then he settled in a hole
Under the edge of the counter
He was the victor
He raised his sword
Toward the sun
And stabbed me in the heart
I fell onto the air mattress
Drooling
The young roach returned to his nest
Proud
He found the fattest female
Flipped her over
With his filthy fluttering legs
He tore open her thorax
Then inserted his roach genitalia
Into the wound
Inseminating her
And assuring his legacy
While I slept
Alone
Aug 22, 2015
Aug 22, 2015 at 1:11 AM UTC
My Night with Art Garfunkel
some years back wrote a poem titled
My Night with Paul Simon,^
so it seems that in time,
this his companion’s piece would find me,
reaching its own due date, the timing right,
indeed, perceived, by the muses
that this one, the poet who cannot sing,
needs urgently another soft poet’s voice,
to come to me at night, and so it came to pass last night
a regaler, the teller of tales, both of us looking admiringly upon what was our youthful appearance that only we see in a vintage Murano mirror
the where the why, no matter, just two NYC boys
in their declining years reminiscing about growing up
in Queens, telling tales with no need for exaggeration,
too old for that, for old men lying is always sadder than sad and the truthful stories are not stories, but harmonies
the voices are worn soft, the worse for wear, and the velveteen
is two shaded where usage has reduced the weave, and sunlight has discolored but not discouraged the aging agents
we exchange verses, the swapping of our ****** fluids,
I do not share my prior pope paul adventure,
a separate but now equalized recording
he signs his new book for me,
full of reminisce and new verses
and I am thinking
Art for art’s sake, or art for Art’s sake
or both
wistful higher and higher notes that can longer be reached
of no consequence,
for the body is the work and the work is from the body
let’s take a selfie I ask, but a polite demurral hints of better a preference remembrance of things the way they were, in the past, but I snap a quick photo and it resides on a Facebook entry, unless the muses deleted it without telling me
(which they do quite frequently,
hoarding the best I made all for their elusives elfish selfish-selves)^^
Dec 5, 2017 10:20pm
<•>
^
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/387251/my-night-with-paul-simon/
June 2013
^^
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/747333/the-elusives/
June 2014
Jan 13, 2018
Jan 13, 2018 at 5:19 AM UTC
~~~
*"and ev'ry stop is neatly planned
for a poet and a one-man band"
Simon & Garfunkel "Homeward Bound"*
~~~
***just one more,
for Sally B.,
who loves their music,
and all the poets here***
~~~
when best messing with perfection,
hope for a close enough
second place finish,
at best
when tendering a gift,
gotta give only your
best,
for this is how,
you will be
best
remembered
yet all our stops here,
were and we're
never neatly planned,
indeed,
as you
sail on silver girl,
through to all
of our
unscheduled ports o' call,
and though our fingers may never intersect,
they have touched,
more than once,
on this poetry river
of electrons,
this bridge
over troubled waters
no need to make a plan,
to get yourself free,
even tho' I am no more
than a poor boy from New York City,
I make no jest,
always laying low,
but not here, not now
for this job I took upon mine own,
so after changes upon changes,
mount the stage, spotlighted,
one more song,
one more poem from a one man band,
this poet~fighter composes alone,
ill prepared,
carrying a reminder of every poem that laid him down,
but
tasked and
accepting nonetheless,
this challenge bout
old friends,
he sings,
i've come to talk to you again,
for this revelation still remains,
well planted in the brain
this song, this poem
will be shared,
let us all read it aloud
to break
the sounds of silence,
in a chorus of a cappella voices,
this simple verse upon which
I cannot improve
this poem, this stop,
this hello
to an endless poetry voyage
that transports human finery,
was indeed
never planned neatly,
but here was born
a sole sufficient refrain,
contenting the writer and the reader,
all of us poets,
all of us one man bands,
all of us in one voice singing
*you are simply the
best here,
you are home,
and to you,
we are bound*
~~~
August 9, 2015
Shelter Island
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 2:12 PM UTC
Si yo tuviera un millón de dólares
Si yo tuviera un millón de dólares
Bueno, me compraré una piel una capa
Pero no es un abrigo de piel auténtica, eso es cruel
Y si tuviera un millón de dólares
Si yo tuviera un millón de dólares
Bueno, me compraré una mascota exótica
Sí, como una llama o un emú
Y si tuviera un millón de dólares
Si yo tuviera un millón de dólares
Bueno, me compraré los restos de John Merrick
Todos esos huesos de elefante loco
Y si tuviera un millón de dólares me compraría tu amor
Si yo tuviera un millón de dólares
No tendríamos que caminar a la tienda
Si yo tuviera un millón de dólares
Nos tomamos causa de una limusina 'cuesta más
Si yo tuviera un millón de dólares
No tendríamos que comer la cena Kraft
Pero nos gustaría cenar Kraft
Por supuesto que nos gustaría, acabábamos de comer más
Y comprar ketchups muy caros con ella
Así es, las más elegantes ketchups Dijon
Si yo tuviera un millón de dólares
Si yo tuviera un millón de dólares
Bueno, me compraré un vestido verde
Pero no es un vestido verde verdadero, eso es cruel
Y si tuviera un millón de dólares
Si yo tuviera un millón de dólares
Bueno, me compraré un poco de arte
A Picasso o Garfunkel
Si yo tuviera un millón de dólares
Si yo tuviera un millón de dólares
Bueno, me compraré un mono
¿Siempre ha querido un mono?
Si yo tuviera un millón de dólares me compraría tu amor
Si yo tuviera un millón de dólares
Si yo tuviera un millón de dólares
Si yo tuviera un millón de dólares
Si yo tuviera un millón de dólares
Si yo tuviera un millón de dólares
Sería rico
Jul 6, 2013
Jul 6, 2013 at 12:12 AM UTC
To the tune of the song "The Sound of Silence" by Simon and Garfunkel
Verse 1
Hello toilet, my old friend
I've come to **** in you again
I've been waiting for a great while
This time I'm going the ex-tra mile
With a force that few have ever known
Will power alone
I'm taking...the poop...GINORMOUS
Verse 2
In struggling feels I might pass out
There is much sweat upon my brows
And a straining-pushing as such
Upon a mountain where lightning struck
Where I felt the challenge
Seemed beyond my strength
What it might take
Attempting...the poop...GINORMOUS
Verse 3
And in the end I can now feel
This force of nature makes me reel
Pushing a boulder that may not pass
Pushing a stone with such great mass
Making a log of the greatest immense size
Yes-in all my life
As this was...the poop...GINORMOUS
Verse 4
By my word-I feel-that this is it
Upon this toilet throne I sit
Feeling like an explosion from inside
With no place in my mind left to hide
And the size-like a moose now giving birth
The enormous poop...GINORMOUS
Verse 5
And my goal it now seems in sight
I give it all with all my might
In a strange vision this very moment
As this an unreal bowel movement
And soon I feel:
Like the clear shaking in the earth
That as making n' breaking waves
I'm stunned and dazed
From taking...the poop...GINORMOUS
Nov 20, 2020
Nov 20, 2020 at 12:26 AM UTC
I'm having the hardest time
Trying to find something that rhymes
With Paul Simon's counterpart
Garfunkel so I'll just call him Art
Always standing to Paul's right
Feeling left out in his life of strife
Struggling in the crossing over
This bridge of his troubled waters
Although he can sing sweet as sin
There's nowhere for Art to put his hands
While Rhyming Simon strums his guitar
Empty are the tinder hands of Art
Pockets front and pockets back
Are his only plan of attack
If he had known it'd go down this way
An instrument he would have learned to play
But as far as history goes
Who wouldn't love to have his voice
Although he can sing sweet as sin
Art Garfunkel has nowhere to put his hands
Apr 21, 2017
Apr 21, 2017 at 9:18 AM UTC
Goodmorning, Donald, my sick friend.
I've come to help you tweet again
Because your vision's simply creepy,
Has left you vulnerable to tweet with me.
And these visions I have planted in your brain
Are quite insane
Within the bounds of violence.
Of careless schemes you talk by phone.
Narrowed choices cobbled in stone
'Neath my control, you are a champ.
I turn your thinking to the cold and damp
Through your eyes stabs the flash of terror and fright
That blocks all light
Revealing the bounds of violence.
And in this blackened night I saw
Your MAGA People, by the score.
People jeering without speaking.
People fearing without listening.
So you tweet along to voices that they share.
And so they care
To set the bounds of violence.
"Tools," say I, "With Trump you'll know
Violence, likens more and grows.
Read Trumps words that he might teach you.
Feel my charms so I might reach you,"
And Trumps words like giant droplets fell
Which scattered cross the bounds of violence.
And these people cowed and bayed
To the tweets The Don had made.
And the News Reports flashed out warnings
But their words were never quite forming.
And the News said,
The Tweets of the POTUS are written as satanic calls
When darkness falls.
And prospers the bounds of violence."
Jan 19, 2018
Jan 19, 2018 at 9:07 PM UTC
She asked me to paint her
an angel before she died
But she died a week later
She was surprised in your liking
for Reggae and Garfunkel
and the tiniest sparrow
that had not a friend
in the world except
for the Earth
that birthed him.
Dec 2, 2012
Dec 2, 2012 at 12:52 AM UTC
200,000
200 K
200 thou
Reads as of today
I wrote of Orion
And silly sleigh rides
Wrote about hometowns
And passionate nights
****** damnable wars
And narcissistic politicians
Wrote sorrowful elegies
Extolled the human condition
Offered odes to loved ones
And critiqued the powerful
Celebrated the splendor of nature
And children most wonderful
Honked loud about jazz
And hot improvisation
Poked fun at the MoMA
Held deep blue introspection
We got many more reads
Than actual likes
I’m growing concerned
That I have more dislikes
But here is one more
Silly trite poem
I hope you like it
You can read it at home
Thanks for all your support….
Simon and Garfunkel
Poem on the Underground Wall
Love Mac…..
Oakland
5/23/16
May 26, 2016
May 26, 2016 at 12:58 PM UTC
Without you, I don't make any sense;
Like macaroni noodles without cheese,
or Tweedledum without Tweedledee,
Like Abbott without Costello,
or a lemon that isn't yellow,
Like Chip without Dale,
or a ship with no sails,
Like Rocky without Bullwinkle,
or Simon without Garfunkel,
Like Yin without Yang,
or Zig without Zag,
Likeasentencewithoutspaces,
I'd be lost without your embraces.
Mar 22, 2011
Mar 22, 2011 at 8:41 PM UTC
Hello darkness, my old friend,
I've come to talk with you again,
Because a vision softly creeping,
Left its seeds while I was sleeping,
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence.
In restless dreams I walked alone
Narrow streets of cobblestone,
'Neath the halo of a street lamp,
I turned my collar to the cold and damp
When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light
That split the night
And touched the sound of silence.
And in the naked light I saw
Ten thousand people, maybe more.
People talking without speaking,
People hearing without listening,
People writing songs that voices never share
And no one dared
Disturb the sound of silence.
"Fools," said I, "You do not know.
Silence like a cancer grows.
Hear my words that I might teach you.
Take my arms that I might reach you."
But my words like silent raindrops fell
And echoed in the wells of silence
And the people bowed and prayed
To the neon god they made.
And the sign flashed out its warning
In the words that it was forming.
And the sign said, "The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls
And tenement halls
And whispered in the sounds of silence."
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 2:26 AM UTC
Day 1
We'll maneuver down your ecosystem driveway onto
Latcha; not on red-spray painted bikes, but in maroon Civic.
Lunches packed, cooler stacked, en route for 8 hours [we reckon].
I presume five hours away and three hours to Waterloo my dad will wonder about our E.T.A, and I will say, "we are about three hours away."
We'll have fought over D.J. and agreed on the Stones,
but you'll know the words more than I.
But we'll save money and lodge ourselves at a
friend's house with the same last name as a vacuum.
Day 2
9 hours to Rapid city, South D
hopefully to see the faces of old men carved into a big old rock.
I'll look out the window and quote lines from "America" by Simon
and Garfunkel and be the best ********* co-pilot that ever was.
Day 3
Country Motor Inn, drive on, to the Country Motor Inn!
Hey,
now's a good time to take that Adderall.
Day 4-8
To the coast,
to hike around the area,
to rent bikes,
to drink hip-hoppity PNW brews with yous
and you're new, cool roomies.
Day 9
South,
Southwest
Airlines.
Clenching the arm chairs,
would rather take a 74-hour train ride
than be up in the air.
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 10:08 PM UTC
Garfunkel was two years ahead of me at Columbia,
but I never met him, let alone got to know him. But
I just watched and listened to Simon and Garfunkel's
1981 CONCERT IN THE PARK on YouTube for almost
the one-hundredth time. Both had to be geniuses. You
can't be as good as both of them were without being
geniuses. I think Simon was the greatest lyricist of the
20th Century. I think Garfunkel's rendition of BRIDGE
OVER TROUBLED WATER will go down as the SONG
OF THE 20th CENTURY. Garfunkel's voice was
unmatched, as were Simon's extraordinary lyrics.
The tragedy was that Simon and Garfunkel, as SIMON
AND GARFUNKEL, performed professionally only
three years. Think of that. Only three years....
What if Brando and Streep had acted only three years...?
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Mar 20, 2023
Mar 20, 2023 at 9:12 AM UTC
He thumb is green
He grows a lot.
Wether it's in age or flowers
Or weeding pots.
His dog is about as as gray as he
And they shuffle around outside
Shuffling.
He keeps his time well to himself.
No use for material wealth.
Keeps up his ride
Each Saturday at noon
Goes to church every Sunday with his wife
How cute.
Picks out the litter outside my porch
With his quiet little stroll and cane
While I smoke and watch.
We had a conversation about music once
About Simon and Garfunkel, Skeeter Davis, and the Beatles.
He has some ink on his arms from youth
Back when he was fighting wars too.
Military vet
I know cause his wife likes to brag.
He's always asking how my day was met.
And I asking to help
To carry his bags back to his house.
No thanks, I'm fine.
You're so kind to ask.
You don't hear those kind of words from my generation class.
I saw his kids visit only once.
Like gran Torino, he just tolerates the bunch.
Get off my lawn!
With a shotgun in hand.
He'd be so badass had he done that, man.
Always first with his helping hands
Trying to spruce up the surrounding land.
Maybe I would too if he
Showed me how to plant some seed.
My garden is imaginary
But real flowers grow on his side of the street.
The elderly gent in 608
Is someone I look for on a daily rate.
I wrote of him because he's entitled to
Being heard of and remembered too.
But don't tell him you heard it from the chick who lives in 702.
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 4:31 PM UTC
Fight and struggle, thoughts of milling.
What kind of points will you be killing?
The points that are the sharpest
I will not let you transform this mind into something that is softer!
There's no end game, you lack in confidence, just make another offer
Offers, games, how plastic and lavish?
Your thoughts are simple, hopeful, and savage.
Leave me with my madness
I rather be this, instead of average
Your just mad because I'm a maverick
A stand alone rock
Your side of the brain will never handle my thoughts
Ok Garfunkel, you island
How brave a stone is on your beach,
but my words don't need to be a preach I strangle your mind with time, sand An hourglass will show your faults
Think about what you say before you begin to talk
Strangling me will only put this place at a halt!
You and I coexist, let's unify in this struggle
We can continue fighting, but it will all end in rubble,destruction & burning debris
Can we agree to disagree in these words that we speak
Can we foresee a brighter future
That is within reach
If not our habitat will forever be meek
Silence in violence, a place where two have suffered defeat
Two have defeat?
Can't you see, you are the one to change
Long term thought, intelligent meet
Can't you see, you have become strange
It is proof that I am victorious, your ignorance
It's crazy how you have shown my brilliance
Nov 21, 2016
Nov 21, 2016 at 11:19 PM UTC
Your eyes like Kether, the beginning of all things
solemnly I swear to share my soul with your sight
sometimes the light looks so elegant in the white of your bright
ness, I weep in the wallowing waters of your world
the weight seems oh so Empty when you wash up on shore
I never bore in your presence, it is your mere essence
that I crave, in which it makes me behave in wild
wonders of wasted memories of yesterday, won't you
welcome me into the fantasies of your dreams?
Whenever there is darkness in my night I feel your
heart as my light to keep my days bright
your touch as sweet as the sound of silence that
Simon and Garfunkel slowly sing, sadness is never
my sword when you are around, my shield
never sorrow, I only wear the crown of your
cherished kiss. I'll never miss anything
more than the stone of your scent
I cannot recollect a time when all was simple
but in your hair is where I care to hide
when all my troubles seem too high to bare.
I will never scare those furies in the forests
of failure, but flourish in fables of your
fixed phantasms, your tragic caves and comedic
ark that seem to ring through rites of spring
You are my everything, my hope for a level
above gods and men, if only we could
live on vibrations of purity and aether
we'll travel through dimensions vast and humble
when some golden future welcomes the mumbles
of our soft sounding hellos and hurrahs.
Can I say? What more is there on earth than
emptiness where we can play and forget
what we used to be. This reality is no more
fantasy than the dreams we see each other
in, where we can swim and never drown,
where our gold rests not in crowns but in hearts
of blood beat waterfalls, flowing faster with
every fabric of our forgotten foundation.
The moment we met was tragedy because I could
never once again feel that happy.
Let's draw lines forever and never, oh never fall...
Our wings white with feathers of a new dawn dripping
with dew we could taste the elegance of a new life...
you need not be my wife, because all marriage leads
to strife, what we need are barriers, so everyday
we can break through and I can touch you
only to be pulled away and struggle to fight another
day and see your face, embrace the pain of
fading away, soft and slow, like a heartbeat that never existed...
May 15, 2012
May 15, 2012 at 1:06 PM UTC
I am the kind of girl to grow up listening to The Beatles and Simon and Garfunkel in the car.
I am the kind of girl that went on vacation to her grandparents' house every summer.
I am the kind of girl that reads books in her spare time.
I am the kind of girl that will turn the other cheek when life gets rough, and accept the path she's taken.
I am the kind of girl who, when younger, used to have tea parties with her teddy bears on the bedroom floor.
I am the kind of girl who cries when she laughs too hard.
I am the kind of girl who can make a stranger feel like family.
I am the kind of girl that will escape to her own world when left alone in her room.
I am the kind of girl that talks in her sleep.
I am the kind of girl who records her dreams in a journal, to relive them in life.
I am the kind of girl who watches the scenery on a road trip, instead of using technology to pass the time.
I am the kind of girl that would wait for the first star of night to come out, so she could make a wish.
I am the kind of girl who hugs her pillow while she sleeps.
I am the kind of girl that lives her life with meaning, greeting each day, instead of wishing it would end sooner.
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 7:57 PM UTC