"longsword" poems
speaking to you as if i'm speaking to the dead
don't believe in any woman besides you
think and say i'm a disaster, you're probably right
first words spoken since i turned 16
wonder if i stayed home i wouldn't end up
like a longsword made out of dents
i'm moving quiet through the rain and the night
creeping but i'm not shy, just not interested
these days, just that my mom is the only woman
who can change me
Mar 18, 2018
Mar 18, 2018 at 3:07 PM UTC
He rolls out of bed
He drops out of his rack
He puts on his armour
He zips on his flight suit
He buckles his spurs
He laces his boots
He grabs his longsword
He grabs his helmet
And walks out to the stable
And walks up to the flight deck
To his steed
To his plane
He saddles the beast
He pre-flights the beast
Mounts
Gets in
Rears up
Kicks in full burners
And gallops forward
And takes a cat shot
Lowering his lance
Arming his missles and guns
He looks for dragons to slay
He looks for dragons to slay
Nov 30, 2010
Nov 30, 2010 at 9:16 AM UTC
The second hand a rapier
The hour hand, a longsword
And the minutes are my claymore
Armored with the twelve as I push forward
The face is the shield
The gears inside by my command spin or yield
My arsenal is time itself, ticking as I walk
Slaying all of my fears with each sound of a tock
The seconds are my soldiers, loyal and true
The hours are my guardians, great, but few
The moments are precious, hold them dear
Time is the ultimate force, weild it to control eternity
Take control of your destiny
Reinforceing dreams considerably
There is a person and future for which I weild tick and tock
And I have the aid and power of an ever revolving clock
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 12:25 PM UTC
If all appears to be harmony and coexistence in this garden enclosure,
All that means is terrible truths have not yet suffered proper
exposure,
Might you wait a little bit and watch it completely lose its
composure?
Intruding into this once peaceful garden,
digging down in the soft tissue of the mud, is absolutely
the most maniacal bug. There he goes, he jumps he dashes, he sets devastating fires, but not the kind that leaves behind ashes.
Note that this heinous invader is white and black,
spots of red pepper this raider’s back.
Small with spiny legs ending in sharp claws,
his eager jaws ooze venom that chews and gnaws,
as he ravenously feeds on the garden’s flaws.
Faking harmlessness, you haven’t seen what lies beneath,
like a longsword hidden under its sheath.
This insect is a minion of discontent,
the harbinger of torment.
Every day he lurks there among the tangled grass,
sinking his teeth in unsuspecting plants,
to make them into his loyal sycophants,
He corrupts them farther and farther,
to the point where they even despise being watered,
because his new instruction gives them a thirst for
mutually-assured destruction.
Can you see the garden deteriorate fast, the green turns
brown and the fibers that hold everything together
cease to last?
Toxicity courses through the vegetation,
and now, plants with no evil inclination
are being swallowed up by fear, hate, and indignation.
This once beautiful botanical cultivation
has become a ******* abomination.
Every vine and leaf slowly becoming decayed and grisly.
Has excising the infestation become far too risky
because the plague has manifested and spread,
and the first wave of his victims are already dead?
Definitely people will wonder, even though he’s turned your garden over and under, how could such a little insect make you go completely insane? Well because there is no garden, he lives in my ******* brain.
Apr 8, 2017
Apr 8, 2017 at 2:36 PM UTC
Veins pumping blue
A gallon of gas
Fumes eating cells
Like a child chewing on ice
Turn me inside out
Wring out my memories
Into a little red bucket
I'm on your gameshow
Pick a card
Any card at all
I was someone for a moment
Drinking up
Falling down
Red blood on your favorite white
Nightgown
I threw away the pictures
Letters
Paintings
Rings
Charms
Drawings
I was young and I was foolish
To carve the arcs of your love
Into my skin
Putting our palms together
And nailing them through
I didn't cry for you
Because I am a counselor
I am not a king
So the longsword of Damocles
Does not call my name
I am happy to oblige
Go ahead and pack your things
Don't excpect me to watch you
Driving down the street
Because I've seen before
True love open her door
And drive away
With nothing to say
But sad songs
But poison
But winter
But dreams
Feb 7, 2012
Feb 7, 2012 at 8:56 AM UTC
4/11/2015
Today I woke up
after a long tribulation, got up
found my way down
and remembered how to
make myself coffee.
I couldn't help but feel
a longsword in my lungs
when I looked over the ridge
and started to see green colored oaks.
Apr 11, 2015
Apr 11, 2015 at 10:20 AM UTC
The powerful man
Pitchfork-armed, chasing the girl
Tine-first, ready to strike
She is today’s unfortunate rage object
Hapless, wrongless victim
Weaponless, shieldless casualty
He is blind privilege righteous
Incandescent from his
latest, baseless, graceless
gotcha!
Forehead veins pulse sickly blue-green
Gas giant magnitude pupils
Each aperture an onyx void
Irony in sympathetic nervous system arousal
If he can wound her
– really break her,
he will quiet that feeling
The one that creeps and gnaws
Whisper screaming
Especially at night
Impossible conscience
Poor Jiminy Cricket
Eyes sticky with tears
Best efforts in vain
How do we retain compassion?
Scaffold empathy?
Bolster sanity?
While absorbing the violence
Of the man who flattens his beer cans
with a hydraulic pancake car crusher
who cuts his delicate finger sandwiches
with a restored 1790s guillotine
who sets his table
with longsword steak knives
and matching pitchforks
a set, for special occasions
Vast energy required to remain soft
When distant and diamond hard
Is the path of no resistance
All this energy
Feels wasted
Why can’t we collect it?
Battery store it?
Pitchfork narcissist anode
Empath cathode
Could power a city
Energy crisis solved
Oct 4, 2024
Oct 4, 2024 at 9:29 PM UTC
"I AM NOT afraid, i was born to do this" please, jehanne la pucelle--
here, humming, the constant
burn whilst he--inkspinner--mollifies and
****** ****** skin
I AM NOT
afraid--the hum, epauliere lying
heavy, cumbersome--my shoulders are broad and
moth eaten, trembling, waste;
mom, my canines hurt; i have to
show my teeth.
there are gauntlets in my skin, mom, licks of
fever-heat beneath my heels.
I draw the Weary longsword.
"I AM the drum." see: i too spit blood, raise the banner; are we the drum, all
you and i? watch the masses close in.
conflagration inferno round and round;
the sting of flesh, the weight,
the ache in my gums; the
drum, which GOD beats out HIS message please, mom, it
hurts. please, jehanne, it hurts please beg me BE NOT AFRAID
Oct 16, 2024
Oct 16, 2024 at 11:04 PM UTC
You're hopeless.
Completely utterly lost.
This bizarre abyss of feelings is haunting,
Even your councillor has no idea what you're on about.
Despite this you charge head on,
Armour strong longsword drawn.
Then you shatter into pieces,
As anxiety strokes your face.
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 7:13 PM UTC