"idiosyncratic" poems
#
You are your own instrument in the
world orchestra
Join the chorus
Play a solo
Or
Simply stop
Rest
And listen to the beauty
happening all around you
The choice is yours
Be your own voice
Or follow another
But only follow another if
it resonates in your core
as your true calling
Above all else
follow your heart
Let your inner beauty shine
so that the world can
share in the special unique
characteristics and traits that glorify
your idiosyncratic nature
wholly encompassing
all that you are
Making you special
Making you YOU
Because the best version of you
is the authentic you
And it not only
brings inner peace
but is also
the greatest gift
you can give
the world
#
Mar 8, 2018
Mar 8, 2018 at 12:21 PM UTC
Penelope Cruz
Used to muse
On the use
Of oversized microwave ovens
In the covens
Of Barcelona.
Give them their due
They know how to imbue
Broomsticks with fresh belladonna!
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 4:34 PM UTC
My intuition is telling me,
There will be better days approaching...
I'm attempting to approach the approbation
Of my career that I is going to fulfil...
My thoughts get real rational,
My feelings get real vivid,
My chic get elevated,
Consistently...
My intuition is telling me,
There will be better days idiosyncratic...
My intuition is never incorrect,
My intuition is illumine not an illusion...
With my intuition I'm imperturbable
Consistently...
Not everyone has the same one...
Not everyone has the same one...
Not everyone has the same one...
Jan 17, 2017
Jan 17, 2017 at 6:32 PM UTC
Memorized by a vacant lot. At the edge of an abyss. Darkness is solitude. Solitude for a crowded my mind. There is no break for a mind. Constantly crunching away at what is reality. The concept of nothingness makes the mind clock overtime. Are we creatures of logical limitless. Or finite beings who cant grasp that nothing is infinite. We are here to observe. To learn. To yearn. In search of a purpose. In search of anything that keeps us from thinking we are worthless. We are creators. We are makers. We are breakers. We are fakers. We are individuals. We are imitators. I am you and you are me. One in the same. On an even plane.. on a round earth. We are haters. We are lovers. We are creatures of similarity. We are creatures of contrast. Idiosyncratic nuances that make us a so far apart but so alike. The performer with a mic. The crazy man on a soap box. The angry in jail. The stoners in a hotbox. The gated community members. And the thieves breaking pad locks. The rich and the poor. The nun and the ***** The killer and the doctor. The lover and the boxer. All so far apart yet always united with a common theme. One in the same. He is her and she is him. Cell by cell. Limb by limb. United until every atom that we were connected through is torn away into nothingness. Vacant lots at the edge of an abyss.
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 3:16 AM UTC
How Idiosyncratic yet so Brilliant
How Intricate yet so Wide
How Baneful yet so full of Bliss
How Insignificant yet so Meaningful
How Empty yet so Full
How Arduous yet so Compelling
Life, how it is the longest event, a living thing would ever experience, yet branded short
The world we live in is a juicy yet dry Ironic oxymoron
Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 9:17 AM UTC
building purist æsthetic
proselytizing solar-powered heliolatry
commemorating historic concert
sensing dark forces
fokken lekker antwoord
pumping sensory overload
featuring high-tech dee-jay
admiring gelato micro-truck
laxing laying lazing
"doing something nasty"
continuing quality content
entering another cathedral
journeying without borders
"exactly one year
since visiting vatican"
appreciating full-time gigasphere
awaiting pyongyang performance
depicting unlikely crowdsurfer
foreseeing exponential improvements
furthering esoteric agenda
sensing profound incompatibility
data-mining people's infidelities
anticipating futuristic caffeine
perfecting invisible propaganda
researching mind-control techniques
polishing psycho-social weaponry
sensing social embargo
flourishing frantic fanfare
admiring longitudinal monument
parodying marketing slogans
cycling through österreich
eyeing dystopian disneyland
streaming crosswords extended-play
herding glass kittens
deleting idiosyncratic fragment
loremipsum-ing laconic loudmouth
receiving ultramodern telegram
eigo-ga wakarimasu ka?
guzzling duck-fat fries
encouraging panic selling
(juxtaposing past incarnations)
getting black-and-white privilege
renewing boutique account
relishing cinema poutine
re-entering hibernation mode
opening old windows
continuing zoo motif
absquatulating excessive excesses
nullifying originality claims
proliferating protean persona
disappearing sidewalk alphabet
shrugging opprobrious moments
enjoying vertical alignment
re-entering cyberpunk paradise
approaching island sun
soaring beyond monoliths
trivializing extraneous argy-bargy
decreasing character limits
dumping generic accounts
uglifying commit message
escaping into idiosyncracy
moonshining great lake
exuding idiosyncratic propaganda
living nineties' dreams
making occidental cuisine
envisioning idiocratic president
expropriating your time
ascending homely helix
singing fat lady
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 12:12 PM UTC
**Unprecedented poetry,
newfangled conception in
idiosyncratic transparency
perceived by the hierarchy
to be the garb of peons,
thine command accepts nothing
less than the likes of sonnets
penned deliberately archaic
in Old English tradition,
figurative language
of the huddled masses
is strictly forbidden,
contradicted,
ostracized,
anesthetized
and possible grounds
for poetic eradication**
Jun 12, 2015
Jun 12, 2015 at 8:06 AM UTC
Come misty-mouthed girl,
To a not so wonderful world.
Make me forget.
The investment of the other within me
has come to fill me with regret.
O take me back to before I could see all their flaws,
Before the familiarity of friendship clouded our view.
Back to when I could have believed in this so called 'love',
And could have believed in you.
Now a thick, dense obsession rises day to day
from within locked cupboards.
But not the naive, self-named kind of days once past;
The kind that clings to your personality
Like your sugar stained teeth the morning after cider;
A repulsive grit.
But I am looking for you.
Not an emissary of my misery,
But an idiosyncratic icon of
My ignorant days before I knew of
Poems, plays or 'Liberation'.
Just come and be my salvation.
My misty-mouthed girl.
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 6:57 AM UTC
Alice and I were fudged fruiting inside Falstaffian freakish fleur–de–lys:
She inside a quack–aztec–tattooed tank,
Me inside a pendulous magenta harness with polydactyl–perverted plumes bespattered into it.
In the ****** **** of that kaput flophouse
We creosoted our conks all the cockatrices of the gorge–de–pigeon,
Inside crotches, Jacuzzis and homocentric Action Men.
Alice, with the pornographic bend sinisters in the teeth of her poltergeistish fajita crocodile,
Smacked of the plug–ugly poofter of a south–south–west by south sackful sandbank.
I cemented the jaundiced dangler of an ostrich to my prick.
With that and my uncut fiddlestick of knobs
I was the idiosyncratic and wholehogging sadomasochistic slapper!
We banged the bush streaming proboscis in tentacle
Through smorgasbords of hermaphrodites and high muck–a–mucks
While Ravi Shankar’s idioglossias and cockchafers juddered our titbits.
Our Moonies were classically cracked flabelliform by the time we disinterred them.
Alice managed to fornicate incognito white elephant on behalf of myself
And we were passionately on the back of the dingdong, naked as our Moonies.
We kept one’s pecker up wrapped up in the shadowgraph
Athwart ever-strangling girdles of formaldehyde, ozone, fomenter and widow’s weeds,
Athwart polytetrafluoroethylene–pricked precipices and then down to the butts
Where we both came to a sticky end on our jockstraps and leered at the ballet dancers
That we then penetrated rhythmically by elongating tumescent our gang banging tentacles.
Through comfortable French knickers I burped, “Thank you for ****** me everywhere, Alice”.
In the soporific honeypotspunk, aped on the ooze,
I could smell that her **** had made her ******* type soap flakes break the sound barrier,
Splashing out a ***** whale seed skirting her jowls.
“You’re fragrant, flypaper”, she rapped.
The Government gabble that little green men who hammer out the sexagenarians weren’t on board.
Inside spleen of the spliffs, inside spleen of my gangrenous Pollyanna, I will over one’s dead body evacuate.
I will over one’s dead body evacuate.
Mar 22, 2010
Mar 22, 2010 at 4:09 PM UTC
All I want is to be naked
I wish to be vulnerable
I'm encased in a web of emotive calamity
Trapped in cold stone and empty waves
Locked in materialism,
Social apathy suffocates me
I need air...
From the womb of modernity,
Claustrophobia is born
I gasp
I need to feel free...
I need to be held...
I need to be exposed...
This musty cell of modern depravity,
Vanity,
Pride,
Self-seeking,
Commercialism,
Disregard,
Apathy,
Greed,
Hate...
It chokes me with the foul stench of death
The scent that tells me darkness falls
I can see no virtue in this prison
A veil is pulled upon me,
And I'm engulfed in merciless dissociation
I need to drink crisp waters
From the fountain of harmony
I need to be caressed
In the warm ***** of compassion
I need to soar
On the vigorous gales of freedom
I need to be...naked
Strip me of possession,
Unravel my desires,
Hold me in your arms,
And let us be naked together!
Cast off allure of material treasure,
Come embrace your human pleasure!
Somewhere outside this dark room
Over the stone walls that encompass us,
There is a light that sings to me
I can break the walls and burn the bridge,
Cast aside the past of ego
And lead us to a world of dreams
Would you follow me?
Would you break the shackles of your possession?
Cast aside the love of things,
Replace it with the things of love?
Have we drifted so far apart as a people
That we have no room to breathe?
I think not.
This prison of emotive distress,
This cage of idiosyncratic routine,
This lockdown hysteria of need,
It's merely a base from which to start
The distance between us all
Only leaves room for us to grow
I can see the walls break down,
The old facades are wearing thin,
And I'm peeling away the trappings
Of things I thought I knew
But knew I never truly wanted
With them, walls will break
With them falls the cage
And through the coming of the things I see so clear
Like love and peace and harmony
Nakedness and connectivity
(No need for greed,
No need for possession)
I can see the walls tear down
And with their fall I know it's coming:
The day where all are free to fly.
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 2:32 PM UTC
Idiosyncratic
she was so
Idiosyncratic
so idiosyncratic
*she couldn't help but realize
how idiosyncratic
everyone around her was*
a bored misanthrope who couldn't stop thinking
the girl made from manic pixie dream dust
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 1:57 PM UTC
Twenty-five trips around the sun and feeling as if life has just begun
Solar consciousness experienced within botanical biochemical synergy; quite an exothermic symphony
External Prajna helping the light body activate; seeing sacred geometry in a pineapple and longevity in an apple
Metaphysical abilities blossoming like the flowers in May; interconnected connectivity emanating from the colorful array
Idiosyncratic and unpredictable mind; sublime thoughts in a polka dotted realm, infused with light sitting under an ancient elm.
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 9:37 PM UTC
Fingernails dug out of steering wheel
in the out door, not enough gin to ****
50 pushups. 50 more. Change my body
Maybe you won't ignore
Ambien, the lull of the ceiling fan,
the crowds of protestors disband --
the blanket warm, cosmos tease and can,
malaise, malaise, I'm trying to be active
and sane, sane for the next promise ring holder
and wine cooler queen, here comes the switch:
ether.
The night brings me back to you
by way of illusion --
you've got lingerie
I've got needs
You've got teeth
I've got shoulder blades
so it begins,
white knuckle, culling songs, strain on scalp --
I sing along, ancient melody, satin dirge --
precursor to your soliloquy and black venom urge
to scatter this bandaged man--
pieces in your hand,
collected and left on 100 dressers
for ill-informed future connivers
conspire
but I'm only tired of trying not
to look like a liar
so I blend into your blood
satisfied smirk from
transparent you
but what is the future
--a present hope
but what is the past
--a present memory
so we abolish each other now
betting on tangible mirages
in this delicious, miraculous night
the stars align
the planets collide
not an inch of you goes unkissed
not an inch of me goes without an itch
blackness and breath swirl and spit
me into a confetti end time without prophet or priest
only a skinny seed, and then the switch:
wake with a present hope of getting over
my present memory.
Oct 11, 2012
Oct 11, 2012 at 5:37 PM UTC
I arrived--
though I needn't a formal invite,
for you and I, we are two old friends.
Companions walking along
a similar trail.
The leaves distort and distress the
yellow and gleaming light of the
victorious Sun, who has once again
conquered Night and all
her iniquities.
Scents and colors fill the air,
pinks and reds and greens mix and match
and blend together, forming
a rich atmosphere of synesthetic remarkableness.
Each atom and molecule
of the wind
shivers and shakes atop their
invisible chariots,
perhaps the true location of Atlas
and those great, big hunks of
shoulders;
"Man, what a man."
Take it because you know you like it--
we are social creatures,
creatures of logic
of habit
creatures of horribly idiosyncratic and idle instinct,
rulers of fleshy bodies
which we hardly understand.
The Sun grimaces as it
retreats back to the negative air,
once again,
not to poke its radiant face out until
the next morning.
The Moon came shimmering out,
smiling furtively and compactly,
looking down like
my oldest confidante.
After all,
who else but our fair
Luna atop the stars
is the keeper of all our deepest
and most primal
secrets?
In the cover of her noxy cloak
we sin and hide,
pushing every secret under and between
the cracks in her space,
patching up time and
keeping dark and brooding Atlas
good company.
"You're one of the few great guys."
Oh, my fat and failing Atlas,
lover for the Night and
of my night,
you are a temporary stop on
my trail,
a brief twilight in my
life's journey.
The Sun creeps its
spindly, golden fingers under
the cloak of the Moon,
Night: the stitchings and
sewings of the sins of mortal men.
Playfully, the light stretches out,
first dancing along the stage of the horizon,
then inching closer,
desperate for living contact,
for the greatest warmth of
over 2 billion hearts
all beating at once--
perfectly,
in time.
Our world is a note on
this Cosmic sheet music;
you are barely a splotch on the sheet.
Our existence is the single beat
out of infinite others,
without a beginning but
possibly and end.
I know that
there will be twists in my path,
bending and curving to avoid the
stars' wrath and the Suns'
might,
but,
might it be
that our two trails
are simply
not meant to meet?
Jun 16, 2012
Jun 16, 2012 at 3:55 AM UTC
I inhale you deeply
You wake me up
And make me sleepy
My hands all over you
But it's okay cause
Yours are on me too
Arms and legs tangled
Look at us, together
Broken and mangled
As I first taste you
I decide to sample
Each piece, so new
You are wonderful
Idiosyncratic
My kind of wonderwall
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 5:21 PM UTC
I'm not a great man,
But,
I've been here and there, and I've learned a lot.
Like how not to get shot,
And where to buy ***
I've bent every misdemeanor law,
Some would call me a libertarian,
I say democracy is a farce,
Keep your vote, and leave me out of it.
Most of what I know is useless idiosyncratic observation.
For instance,
I know how many days it takes to hide 73 pipes, and other miscellaneous paraphernalia.
My father was raised in the depression,
He refused to let us throw anything out,
And we had a chest of drawers, full of old junk.
Watches without bands, and any piece of scrap paper,
That had free space on it. Last years receipt, dry cleaning tickets, etcetera...
And,
Subsequently,
It rubbed off on me,
And I hate throwing anything out.
I don't buy new stuff, until the old stuff goes bust.
I had a 10 pound Toshiba satellite, for 8 years,
Until the plug jack came loose, and I fried the sucker.
So when my doctor told me I had to quit smoking...
Everything,
I had forty plus years of accumulated paraphernalia.
I gave a pipe, to friends who were interested,
But it wasn't enough.
I hear you saying it now,
"You irresponsible old lunatic!"
And you're right, but I look at it a little different.
You might call it promoting lawlessness,
I say a law that is obsolete should be repealed.
Walk down the street, you'll see the dime bags,
and blunt wrappers everywhere.
No need to promote something that will happen anyway.
Teens will smoke, so I hid a bunch near high schools.
Up at Rutgers, I hid one in ten different buildings,
A few outside of the police station, and the courthouse,
And one in the bushes of my snobby neighbor.
Any place I could think of, I hid a pipe.
Rebellion be ****** I did it because I felt good,
Like a simple **********
A stolen cherry, in the supermarket.
Sowhatsthepoint?
Crime isn't cool kiddies,
But, as long as you steer clear of felonious activity,
They won't send you to real **** ****** jail.
Even your grandma, probably jaywalks from time to time.
Oh if you stumble on one of my pipe hiding spots,
Don't touch it until your old enough.
Aug 24, 2012
Aug 24, 2012 at 9:18 AM UTC
you enter my dreams with such audacious curiousity;
examined the void with intellect- deprived precision,
inspected every crevice painted in colour.
you left the blue for last because you say
the amphetamine matches my eyes.
you sample every syllable ever borne from my mouth,
denude the metaphors to their unchaste nakedness,
reach inside for unfleshly meaning.
you say all my filthy secrets implode into
ugly saliva bubbles on the brim of my tongue
and that is why you bite it off.
you make the drain spin out water. you make reverse hurricanes.
you euthanise my suffering mind with vulgarity and sliver-veined chalks.
i like it when the moon is yellow and not white.
spread me across your bones, you make me cold
**** in flesh. you wear me on your head as you would a stubborn fever.
you lick the lily, burn away its petals and
then you use the ashes in your next drag.
there are ghosts in your hair, they want idiosyncratic judgments.
they want anatomised angels and amputated wings.
they want ribs, signals, vessels and chlorine and aileron segments.
and electric ***
i am thinking of lexemes and lycoris, the vulnerability of artlessness,
prosthetic fingers and cigarettes, the umbrella under metal rain.
i only remember realities when they are expired.
the ribbon between cognition and the ventriloquist.
the psychology in undesired sentences.
this is the only immortality you and i may share; amongst ourselves
like teenagers filching answers before algebra, like dealers exchanging
eight-balls, pipes and profanity, like animals in chemical heat.
this vanilla immortality that we no longer need.
i'm watching the end of the world
from underneath your clothes.
Nov 1, 2010
Nov 1, 2010 at 6:42 AM UTC
Wayward man, opposite clouds,
There and back again, far from crowds,
Disarray, astray through grey- where he shrouds.
Vague, vigilant, vastly enigmatic,
To see from such a point of view is idiosyncratic,
Astral miles, took off from land,
Charting depths of the unmanned,
Once on shore-- 'what's beyond the sand?'
Others lost wills to explore, a journey unbland;
Demand to expand, for space is your command.
Oct 24, 2012
Oct 24, 2012 at 12:08 AM UTC
~For Pradip~
*who reminded me:
We are all God’s Trial & Errors*
tender is the tendency,
so finitely human,
infinitely foolish,
to overlook the
obvious,
let us not delve into our
particular peculiar idiosyncratic knots
in our hair and personalities,
all natural,
inherited or ill begotten
in voyages to far away,
like our childhood
***Thus,
we are all mistakes of a sort***
with natural fault lines,
accumulated dings, scapes, bruises,
furrowed crinkles that took us
years to perfect
We are flawed like diamonds,
valued by these natural flaws
by graders with loups who uncover
our flaunts, our clear air bubbles,
the more flaws the better,
because these attributes make us
most interesting!
you may be blonde,
you may be exotic
perhaps a lovely shade of
iridescence,
but lucky you whose scars speak
out and others wonder why,
they are so interesting
let us design a large animal,
seemingly ungainly, yet keystone to
their environment, so others may
profit thereby,
yet insanely quick on lumbering feet,
no hands, fingers, but a long snakey thinge
that multiple functions for
breathing, drinking, feeding grabbing, smelling and
trumpeting their presence
to foolish beings in their neighborhood
let’s us not debate
whose design is
an efficacy par excellence
so we be
ungainly, too tall, too
this or that,
even too flawless,
a specialized curse of sorts,
we are the product of
a sophisticated design laboratory
that makes many models,
each variegated, always different
so get down on your knees *********
and praise the design engineers
who created you to be
full of
& by elephantine trials and elephantine errors,
thereby making
us each,
a special pronoun,
an I
blessed
by definition:
though not in any dictionary:
unique,
flawless!
**
**^you are the most
flawless poem
you have ever written
and will ever ever
write***
Dec 7, 2024
Dec 7, 2024 at 3:59 PM UTC
You seem to know me very well
You've learned to adapt the system of my character
But you don't know me well enough,
neither I am with you.
You seem to have cope with my many moods
You seem to know how to handle my irrational being.
You seem to have accepted my eccentric personality.
But you don't know me well enough,
neither am I with you.
I am the cause of my being this
I am the reason of my unhappiness
Not the circumstances nor the situation
Not even you.
Not yourself, not your actions.
Just me.
Forgiveness is not acceptable.
For there is nothing to forgive
Not on your part, but on mine.
I am unexpected...
Somebody hard to cope up with
Incomprehensible.
Nobody can easily understand...
Even I,
myself.
(January 17, 2001)
Oct 19, 2013
Oct 19, 2013 at 10:30 AM UTC
Writing
about writing
is pathetic,
so instead
I’ll write about that time
in March when we went
hiking along ridgetops and
firetrails, and the sun
baked the rocks hard and impassive
to our boots. The orange-and-white tracks
folded back upon
themselves and seemed
so illogical that we thought
somehow we were going
in circles
(round the Sun we missed
that one it felt like we
weren’t moving)
For lunch you had squished
peanut butter and
sardine sandwiches because
you’re odd and idiosyncratic
like that, and I had apples
and muesli bars because I’m
too lazy to make lunch
at 6 in the morning.
We ate on a huge rock
overlooking trees and *Lucy
in the Sky with Diamonds* was
playing on the radio.
It felt as if we were two
enclosed in a small
self-erected hazecloud
where birds and lizards
and just breeze mingles
surprisingly well with John Lennon’s
recollections.
I remember the sun-scored rocks
had stored up warmth
from years of Marchdays like
today, they stayed warm slightly
longer than the air did.
We tasted each other’s
post-lunch mouths (you were
sardine and kind of gross)
and pretended like
our hands were ants,
scuttling aimlessly
(we had an aim)
I liked to think my fingers
were all elegant and smooth
as the moon.
I love you and I want
to make you happy here,
I love you and I want you
to make me happy here,
i should sleep – you should sleep –
we should sleep together.
I still remember that Marchday
when we went hiking and I’ve
written about it
dozens of times before in different
modes with other characters
but
to be honest I
don’t want to write about
anything else.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 12:38 AM UTC
**Class,
repeat
after me:
I am not
my past,
my mistakes
or my shame
or my sorrow
or my loneliness
or my preferences:**
that's
noise,
crap,
icky
mind
junk.
Let
go!
Put
it
*d
o
w
n*
I
am
all my
glorious
truths, and
idiosyncratic
secrets & stories,
their potential
and beauty.
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 11:49 AM UTC
my friends call me funny
my true friends call me ******** and stupid
intelligent
charismatic
unbiased
energetic
I will be everything but perfect and still working on accepting that
this poem is about me with words it is shown
please take a moment and put away your phones
this poems about i and i alone
compassionate
zany
persevering
idiosyncratic
narwhal loving kind of person
I will always be me and nothing more
i'm a lot of things like i've said just before
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 10:28 PM UTC
7 hours of torrential rain
driving slowly while insane
420 minutes of Country Music
which you know I hate
interspersed with idiosyncratic ads
that make a mockery of others fate
84 cigarettes flow out of the ashtray
one lit by the other as the miles
faded away. The glaring orange tip
as it burnt down to ash and died
is the only reason I lit another
thinking of you and my hope
to keep you alive
for just one more mile.
Please be ok...
Less than 1/3 of a day ago
I picked up my phone only to hear
several tears, and a small hiccup
and heard a heart trying to be brave
and I literally dropped my life
to get into my car, which is now
my home because I breathe the same breath
as the life that is now mine to save
All I said was
I'm coming, now behave
So after 7 hours of listening to
how His and/or Her heart did someone wrong
because I can't change the station
because the radio is broken and, well
I actually do like a heartbreaking song
I'm almost there but thinking of you
my heart lurched and my whole body ******
and the Cops where there, and I'm caught
I would have been there sooner but apparently
it takes longer to write a simple ticket
when they want to be long winded
about the horrors of speeding.
I want to scream at them
***Look at my bleeding eyes
Have you seen my ashtray?
Can't you hear the garbage spewing
from my radio? Don't you think
all that adds up to I need to be on my way?***
So after 7 hours of torrential rain
overflowing ashtrays and a $540 fine
I'm next to you, in your bed
as we lay under linen sheets and whisper
to each other, about how heartbreaking
Love can be and I'm relived to be here
even as you repeat you are fine
Sleep deprivation and a small stipend
to the Law and Order that protects us
is a small dividend to pay.
And the Country Music still ringing in my ears?
is pure torture but everything
is a small price to pay
when summoned by a friend
in need
All the horrors above
are suffered gladly
You call me, I heed
You cry, I bleed
Your champion in rusty armor?
Indeed!
Jan 23, 2012
Jan 23, 2012 at 4:36 AM UTC