"louie" poems
I can see Cecily's ****** bars.
Sammy can see them as well.
After he speaks
I keep catching him peek.
She knows that he sees, I can tell.
Bailey has smoked too much **** again.
He's dribbling over my shoes.
He acted all jokey
And tried out smoke me.
It went without saying he'd lose.
Tom's on the floor by the table.
We don't know if he's alive,
Hugging Joe's feet,
Who is slumped on the seat.
I don't think they're due to survive.
Chris had a couple of pills.
Ethan a tab or a few.
Toria's tweaking,
Max is just peaking,
Matt's throwing up in the loo.
I'm on the sofa while writing,
Louie beside me in tears.
We may have our issues
With drugs and their misuse,
But **** it, it gives me ideas.
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 9:03 AM UTC
it is like the many nights
sleepless
intone of light
on the tiled floor
and surreptitiously
under the
influence
wringing out poems
while looking
at
8th and 7th street
fondling darkness
like virgins on
the absolute
a mutiny of
dead cigar butts on the
corner as "kuya Louie"
passes by with a wrench
half-drunk with "Emperador"
half-mad with ars poetica.
other sense of self
somewhere brash and brazen
awash with modern
sensibilities
as this night deepens
whiter like the color
of new bones
to fledgling movements,
just like any other night.
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 1:48 AM UTC
I smile all the time because I don't want to be sad,
I work towards my goals because one day I'll be glad,
I'm on a search so ill start with inside,
And I do fail ill be happy I tried,
Shout out to the movers, the getters, the doers,
Leave the old you behind today couldn't be newer,
I can see in your eyes i can feel through your heart,
Nothings to hard just be willing to start,
This life is a risk so please take your chance,
Might not be a party but still we should dance,
You can cuss at the rain or think of the flower,
You can be super use perspective as power,
Hopped in the rocket told Louie to the moon,
Finally got my chance results coming soon.
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 12:29 PM UTC
Remember when, you were a very little boy
and your mom would warm the towels up in the dryer
so when you jumped out of the bathtub shivering you would feel cozy warm?
Remember when, you were a very little girl
and your dad would hold you in his arms
and whirl around in circles until you both fell to the ground laughing?
Remember when, you were a little boy
and you scraped your knee when you fell out of the tree,
and your mom held you close until the tears stopped?
Remember when, you were so sick you stayed home from school,
and your mom made special soup just for you
and cuddled you up and read your favorite story 6 times, just because?
Remember when, your pet hamster, Louie, died,
and you insisted on having an official burial ceremony,
and mom and dad said nice things about Louie before the shoebox was covered up?
Remember when, you were a little girl,
and your grandma gave you your first china tea set
and she had tea and crumpets with you and Bear?
Remember when, you were very young,
and a hug or a kiss or a word would repair
the biggest hurts in the world?
I remember when..............................................................
Oct 29, 2010
Oct 29, 2010 at 11:52 AM UTC
I’ve got plenty of ghosts I promised her. I leave them wherever I go.
At the house on 711 Ellen St there is the ghost of a dog named Hessa and a dog named Mac. They don’t play together, but they pant heavy, waiting my return.
There is the ghost of a cat named Charles. He chases a raccoon out of a busted window that my mother fell through.
There is the ghost of my mother pacing the living room, contemplating suicide.
When ghosts die, they become useful fire, burning as long as necessary, and then blowing out forever.
There is the Ghost of Louie, helping me fix my car. There are the ghosts of our tall cans crushed to the curb. There is the ghost of their fullness. Little drops that are left sit in the rim of the mouth.
Every moment makes a ghost. Every time you move something from stillness, there is a ghost for it.
When I come to see you, I will leave behind the ghost of laughter, the ghost of my warmth growing colder. Miss it if you want to.
There is the ghost or your taste in my mouth. Certain foods bring it back to life. I let the Bud Light sit on my tongue. I almost tasted it. Something is missing.
There is the ghost of your smell. It tricks me into craning my neck, eyes searching for you. There is the ghost of your smile which haunts me when the ghost of your smell tricks me into thinking you’re there.
There is the ghost of my cool breath dying on your neck, then dying again. The fire it becomes extinguishes quickly.
Behind your couch there is the ghost of a cricket. He has stolen a harmonica and plays only the high notes. Tell his family that he misses them.
There are the ghosts of apples that I skinned when I learned to make pies in high-school. I have made many apple pie ghosts since then. I will bring one to you. It will be a slow ghost. The steam rising from the middle is its spirit returning home.
Home is your chest. Breathe the ghost of my pie, the ghost of my cologne, the ghost of my eyes wet with poetry I have just read.
There is the ghost of poetry as it mixes with my breath and exits my chest. Let it die and die again. Let it haunt your heart, your belly, the back of your neck like a gentle hand.
I make graveyards. I make ghosts. I leave them behind wherever I go. I miss some of them. There is the ghost of my irregular heartbeat, when I feel the ghosts that I miss pass by. I breath slowly trying to feel them, but too soon they are gone.
Ghosts don’t stay long. I can stay long. Make ghosts in the meantime.
When I come to see you, I will leave you with ghosts.
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 3:12 PM UTC
Bradley, gone too soon.
His absence, a gaping void
Poor ol Louie Dog
~JNc
9~'15
Oct 1, 2015
Oct 1, 2015 at 1:44 AM UTC
Autism prays for...
Chuck E. Cheese
Maya and Miguel
Huey, Dewey, and Louie
Mom and Dad
Pizza rolls
Subway sandwiches
Grannie
Greeney phantom
dogs,
the Brady Bunch
His greatness
His provision
and comedy cartoons
to watch all day.
Amen
May 31, 2014
May 31, 2014 at 8:18 PM UTC
This is a story of a peculiar fellow
Known to get rowdy but often mellow
He graduated, top of his class!
Harvard law, was the school he passed
Didn’t work hard, kind of a slacker
But, he had the look, whiter than a *******
Quickly started his own practice, as the story goes
With plenty of clients, that nobody knows
He began, quit good-hearted
Champion of the poor! As he started
But, that all changed so quick
The poor can’t pay; it finally clicked
So he went for clients, whose pockets were much louder
And often times, noses filled with white powder
He now worked less, and golfed a lot more
Representing the banks that originally off he swore
But, this is just as much of a story, of dear old poor Louie
Who never had fortune, misunderstood and gloomy
When one day, he caught a big break
The bank had made a terrible mistake
Their negligence, was due to pay millions
Especially to Louie, along with other civilians
So Louie hired the best attorney in town
A peculiar fellow, he made no sound
So the trial went on, and the judge presided
At the end of the day, the jury still was divided
Because the lawyer, got an offer he couldn’t resist
The banks gave him more money, so the trial he dismissed
Dear old poor Louie, again was left with nothing
No turkey for thanksgiving, not even the stuffing
He turned to the lawyer and let out a great yell
“You haven’t helped me the slightest” he tells
But, the world’s not always fair people often get cheated
Defeated and mistreated, depleted than deleted
The lawyers might help, but not much
Blinded by money, they often loose touch
So the lawyer turned and responded to dear old poor Louie
“What are you going to do? Sue me?”
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 3:24 PM UTC
Pool's Prince Charming
by Michael R. Burch
this is my tribute poem, written on the behalf of his fellow pool sharks, for the legendary Saint Louie Louie Roberts
Louie, Louie, Prince of Pool,
making all the ladies drool ...
Take the “nuts”? I'd be a fool!
Louie, Louie, Prince of Pool.
Louie, Louie, pretty as Elvis,
owner of (ahem) a similar pelvis ...
Compared to you, the books will shelve us.
Louie, Louie, pretty as Elvis.
Louie, Louie, fearless gambler,
ladies' man and constant rambler,
but such a sweet, loquacious ambler!
Louie, Louie, fearless gambler.
Louie, Louie, angelic, chthonic,
pool's charming hero, but tragic, Byronic,
winning the Open drinking gin and tonic?
Louie, Louie, angelic, chthonic.
NOTE: If you like my tribute you are welcome to share it, but please credit me as the author, which you can do by copying the title and subheading. I used poetic license about what Louie Roberts was or wasn't drinking at the 1981 U. S. Open Nine-Ball Championship. Was Louie drinking hard liquor as he came charging back through the losers' bracket to win the whole shebang? Or was he just pretending to drink for gamesmanship or some other reason? I honestly don't know. As for the word “chthonic,” it’s pronounced “thonic” and means “subterranean” or “of the underworld.” And the pool world at its worst can be very dark indeed, as Louie’s tragic demise suggests. But everyone who knew Louie seemed to like him, if not love him dearly, and many sharks have spoken of Louie in glowing terms, as a bringer of light to that underworld. Keywords/Tags: pool, shark, billiards, nine ball, Saint Louie Roberts, gambler, hustler
Apr 1, 2020
Apr 1, 2020 at 4:48 AM UTC
A couple wuz beading up
for a chi chi day
She drunkenly laughed
**** stained her dress
A olive skin woman
in golden glitter pasties
Offered neon *** shots
near 10 in the morning
A chubby girl dressed
in a black fishnet body suit
selling face paintings
while her supple *******
Jiggled in your face
A black man occupied
A most different plain
Sat behind two chess boards
wasn't gettin paid
Two SAP cars parked
At Royal Sonesta curb
idling to taxi exec sappers
back to the friendly skies
****** whippin glitter girl
Shakin her money maker
Lookin hard at her wares
What the hell she sellin?
Across the street
miked up bible thumper
Doin his groove thing
Raged against the ***** show
Ca ching ca ching ca ching
I ducked a bity bee
Flying at my face
I'm walkin Bourbon
Full of mighty grace
Hard Rock Guys
selling cannabis lollis
crowded corners bumpin
Ain't no trollies
boom box blastin
back beat samples
Who Dat Jazz?
muskrat rambles
Three card monte
Obstructive beggers
Kids banging on
5 gallon drums
Gimme a dime mister
Louie Armstrong Park
Congo Square
Where it at?
Gotta get there
***** Glitter still barking
Mardi ****** Gras tees
Snapchat Me Your *****
Ducked another bee
Kid put his two pails
In mid of the rue
Gotta pay the toll
Whatcha gunna do?
Music:
Mardi Gras Music
From NOLA Notes
2/18/17
Feb 27, 2017
Feb 27, 2017 at 1:58 PM UTC
Ella Fitz’s rendition of Dream a Little Dream for the umpteenth time.
Louie comes in tune with that righteous horn.
I drink more as I sing along, off key.
There could be an entire SECTION of books written about us.
How we fell into that great whirlwind.
How we learned to hate the world when we didn’t have each other.
How we re-kindled, for that brief, brief time.
How I thought maybe we could love again.
We had hours that turned to days that turned to months.
We were the perfect piece of short fiction
An art form so gloriously undervalued,
(by both the audience and the creators)
Until we found ourselves in the Middle
(the worst feeling in the world.
Because like purgatory or super glue:
you're stuck.)
We said goodbye.
And I found I had residual emptiness.
I became residual emptiness.
I loved again, but it wasn’t anything
Like the masterpiece we had.
I knew because
Every day with him felt real.
Every day with you
Was a dream.
Something rooted in intangibility
Something I was astonished to find
happening to me.
It happened again-
We found ourselves in the same place
At the same time.
And after just a few weeks,
You gave me the greatest gift:
The indignity of silence.
And you gave me it
For the most ignoble reason—
You’re afraid.
Honey bun,
We’re all afraid.
It made me think
That maybe the story of you and I
can only have a happy ending
in a place where it’s not so scary.
So me, Louie and Ella all ask you,
That
In your dreams
Whatever they be
Dream a little dream of me.
[Because that's the only place you'll find me now.]
Oct 28, 2012
Oct 28, 2012 at 4:21 PM UTC
We got him just a few weeks old
With energy to burn
But he was very brave and bold
For lessons he would learn
Named him Louie from the start
And every day was new
He ran and each day played his part
His love was deep and true.
We played and learned to chase the birds
As much as he would try
He never understood my words
That dogs can never fly
He was quick and he was smart
He understood commands
He had such a loving heart
Your love he would demand
Then one day out of the blue
Louie was not well
He was tired and troubled too
Anyone could tell
With my partner Louie went
Two hundred miles away
And I was checking, text were sent
On Louie every day.
I had to practice with the band
So early I had been
I sat there on the bench at hand
And wondered about him
And as I sat I saw a streak
A feather in the air
It flew and seemed to hunt and seek
Searching for me there
It swirled around and down the wall
The corner it did turn
And then like it had heard my call
It echoed my concern
The wisp was Louie I was sure
Sent to give me hope
It was a message to endure
Helping me to cope
It came at me so hard and fast
And flew beneath my seat
I hoped that it would stay at last
And make my day complete
The feather now I could not see
I smiled so deep inside
Louie had come back to me
Bliss I could not hide
But as I felt some comfort there
I saw the feather leave
It waved goodbye without a care
And I began to grieve
The next day when I got the call
The sun breaking the dawn
I knew before the words could fall
That Louie now was gone
And now I know the wisp to be
The feather that would fly
Was Louie coming back to me
To say his last goodbye
A foolish poem I guess you think
It’s silly til the end
If so, you’ve not felt your heart sink
On losing man’s best friend
Apr 11, 2022
Apr 11, 2022 at 1:12 PM UTC
Let me tell you about Drew Barrymore:
First of all, she got an early start on self-awareness,
To wit: her breakout role as Gertie in
Steven Spielberg's E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial,
And quickly became one of Hollywood's
Most recognized child actresses,
Going on to establish her self to this freaking day.
From wit: Yeah, sure, she got an early start,
She literally grew up inside her movies.
And if we had ever had a
Shirley Temple of our own generation,
Drew is it.
Simply put:
Drew is sweetness personified.
N'est-ce pas?
But Habitat Hollywood needed more,
Must dwell on the Barrymore name,
Pounding that angle,
Sledging the dynastic anvil,
Forging consensus:
It’s in her genes.
It’s that sangue royale,
It’s in her blood.
All those Fairbanks & Randolphs,
Harrisons & Blyths,
Palazzoli & Giofredi . . . ***
That’s where you get your looks,
You little guinea ****
That olive oil & garlic,
Enhancing that gilded
Barrymore Blood!
It must have been an
Early pink thrill for you, Drew,
Seeing all those
Doors spread wide open--
Widespread like a ****** legs--
Career barrier walls,
Inhibitions crumbling.
What a pleasant realization!
“I am a member of a
Multi-Generation
Theatrical Dynasty.”
And going even further back than
John, Ethel & Lionel, Babaloo.
We’re talking the British Stage here,
We’re talking Legitimate Theater,
As in: Tread those boards, GB Shaw!
Which brings me to my point:
Drew’s had a long time to get over
That Diva
(Louie Prima) Donna thing.
She knows who she is.
She’s comfortable out here,
Way out here in the
So-called real world.
Out a monk’s her environment at-large.
Query: heredity or environment?
Always.
To wit: It was always
Her habitat doing the molding--
From Wit: *******
It’s in her ****** DNA.
In her freaking genes:
Which is precisely
Where I’d like to be right now,
My cherished,
My sweet Drew:
In your freaking jeans.
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 7:28 PM UTC
i don't want to flatten you out
put you on a frame in the hall of fame
where people would go just to gawk and stare at you
that would be so cruel of me, because you-
you
are so much more complex than that
you are the foundation of a house
something everyone takes for granted because they cant see it
how many times have you slipped out unnoticed
by those looking for the shiniest, brightest stars in the world
if you look for those
you miss the planets
you miss the way that you sleep with a shirt over your head to "block out the light" so you can sleep better
you miss the ridiculous, pleasurable conversations
"did you know that Louie Armstrong would cut off the callouses on his lips with a pocket knife?"
"we should write a comic strip about a starch that smokes **** and call it "The Baked Potato."'
let's keep away from the photographers, the paparazzi, the artists, the writers
you hate attention anyway
said you would rather "sleep on the roof for a week" than give a presentation in public
i have discovered you
but i won't ever tell
the books will not mention you
there will be no statues of us
but the ones we build with sugar cubes on the privacy of our own kitchen table
where messes like us can be swept away and kept in no other place than our memories
and the storage on my phone
i will memorize the lines on your torso and back
but children will never study you in geography, they will never be asked the year you were born or at what latitude and longitude your chest muscles meet your abdominals
a search on Google will pull nothing about you
you remain undiscovered
to all
but me.
Oct 31, 2015
Oct 31, 2015 at 2:43 PM UTC
Uds. son muy tontos.
Les gusta cuando les doy los baños.
Les encantan mis padres porque por el desayuno,
Se lo doy cada día.
Les miro cuando juegan.
Louie, te gusta eschuchar
A música en mi hombro.
¿Lo escuchas, Louie?
Herbie Hancock y Louie Armstrong
Son tus favoritos.
Dec 25, 2009
Dec 25, 2009 at 8:20 PM UTC
Carrie Lee could care less about coffee.
Her arms lay crossed as she gazed out the window at the busy street.
Carrie gave a sigh, '"So why did you choose to see me?"
Jeremy cleared his throat and fiddled his fingers in discomfort.
"I missed you, Carrie. You were too busy to chat when I was in Germany."
She glanced his way and blinked a few times.
"Did you also miss Tracy, Lisa, Katie...?"
He quickly grasped the tone of her voice and squirmed in his seat.
Carrie's throat clenched once the words left her mouth, she predicted he'd get up and leave.
"I told you, Louie set me up to run into them like that. You know I would never hurt you."
"One fish, two fish,red fish, blue fish one deceive, two deceive."
He was puzzled , gasping for air over his failed attempt to convince her of his intentions.
"Tracy barely spoke to me at school, Lisa made fun of me daily, and Katie-"
Carrie's voice was stern and sharp and she gracefully stood from her seat and cut him off.
"Can you say you only care about me, honestly?"
Jeremy stood up and held Carrie's arms to reassure that she wouldn't leave.
"Carrie, please: listen to me."
She whipped her body away from his grasp. Eyes stinging from the memories she tried to forget for all those months.
He chased after her, wiping away her tears that flow free.
In disappointment she mumbles, "I'm sorry Jeremy, I guess your son just has to grow up not knowing his father."
"Carrie..."
People were staring as she gracefully stormed her way out of the cafe. It was just like their breakup in high school all over again.
"It's Carrie now. Katie tomorrow. Stay strong girl, leave him be."
His hand clenched the space in his chest he could feel expanding as his eyes started to hail.
Despite the tears blinding his vision, he followed her once again. "Of all the people in the world my heart had to choose, it choose you, Carrie."
His persistence made her feet stop, heart clench and mind reel.
Tears streaming down his face to his neck and his rosary.
She spoke "If I had a choice, it would choose you too. Maybe another life."
And at that moment, amidst the busy streets of Canterbury
was the soft whisper of two lonely hearts,
pledging to one another in loyalty,
"I love you".
May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 10:50 PM UTC
Our "sergeant" gave a low whistle
that stopped us in our tracks.
He motioned two kids forward
to prepare for the "attack".
The "enemy" was hiding.
Behind Uncle Louie's rusted Ford.
We checked our "guns" and "ammo"
and we trusted in the Lord.
We couldn't call artillery.
We couldn't drop ******
If we really killed my cousins
they'd be Hell to pay from Mom.
We launched a pincer movement
with our guns set to pretend.
Imaginary air grenades
made quick work of my friends.
They had little cause to argue
as we shot them in the back.
They swooned upon the concrete.
All were "dead" from our attack.
Just then our Mother's called us in
for a feast of sausage bread.
Amazing how the dinner bell
so quickly raised the "dead".
All of us are older now
and some have gone to war.
Some Mother's sons I played with
aren't with us anymore.
If only Moms could ring a bell
and call us in to eat
And raise those honored dead to life
like back there on my street.
Aug 31, 2012
Aug 31, 2012 at 9:27 PM UTC
The Dance for the Insane
hosted annually,
was canceled due to the reign
of King Louie from pod B.
He conspired with Mother Nature,
who used to be my third grade teacher.
She called in a Hurricane,
which ripped off the window panes.
The two made quite a pair.
He wore only purple and gold,
and she kept twigs in her hair.
Some blame it on the asbestos and mold.
Such a shame that we will not have a dance,
for how I do love to frolic and prance.
Yes, insanity caught me in its snare.
Ask me why I’m here, if you dare.
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 12:22 PM UTC
It’s Hard Not To Be Optimistic: An Updated Sonnet to Science
by Michael R. Burch
“DNA has cured deadly diseases and allowed
labs to create animals with fantastic new
features.” ― U.S. News & World Report
It’s hard not to be optimistic
when things are so wondrously futuristic:
when DNA, our new Louie Pasteur,
can effect an autonomous, miraculous cure,
while labs churn out fluorescent monkeys
who, with infinite typewriters, might soon outdo USN&WR’s flunkeys.
It’s hard not to be optimistic
when the world is so delightfully pluralistic:
when Schrödinger’s cat is both dead and alive,
and Hawking says time can run backwards. We thrive,
befuddled drones, on someone else’s regurgitated nectar,
while our cheers drown out poet-alarmists who might Hector
the Achilles heel of pure science (common sense)
and reporters who tap out supersillyous nonsense.
NOTE: I am a fan of both real science and science fiction, and I like to think I can tell the difference, at least between the two extremes. I feel confident that Schrödinger didn’t think the cat in his famous experiment was both dead and alive. Rather, he was pointing out that we can’t know until we open the box, scratchings and smell aside. While traveling backwards in time is great for science fiction, it seems extremely doubtful as a practical application. And as for DNA curing deadly diseases ... well, it must have created them, so perhaps don’t give it too much credit!
Submitted to U.S. News & World Report
Dear Editor,
While I’m usually a fan of your magazine, as a writer I must take to task the Frankensteinian logic of the excerpt I cited, and I challenge you to publish my “letter” as proof that poets do have a function in the third millennium, even if it is only to suggest that paid writers should not create such outlandish, freakish horrors of the English language.
Somewhat irked, but still a fan,
Michael R. Burch
Keywords/Tags: science, fiction, quantum, physics, Hawking, Schrodinger, cat, DNA, infinite, monkeys, typewriters, Shakespeare, lab, animals, new, features
May 8, 2020
May 8, 2020 at 4:11 PM UTC
The secret life of
mack the knife
his teeth shined a pearly white
they glistened like fallen snow
his smile would melt the ladies hearts
and leave them feeling aglow
but when he chose to leave his bite
the smile turned to a snear
Louie called said I'll see you at the club
yeah Mack meet in the rear
he was a banker by the daylight
a vicious killer in the night
he always thought that he would
find time to make things right
he left his victims on the sidewalk
or a tugboat by the shore
their throats cut from ear to ear
the coppers going door to door
but not a single soul was talking
nobody saw anything
but they could tell by the looks
they'd be dead if they chose to sing
Louie wanted Souky Taudry whacked
he was messin with Jenny Diver
she's my girl and I ain't taking that
I'll set you up to be his driver
he wore a disguise of a chauffer
fancy coat pants and a cap
but when he took a wrong turn
Souky knew he was in for bad crap
they found him in the alley
his life oozing out on the street
his throat cut by Mack the Knife
another job had been complete
back at the bank the next morning
he was all smiles and slapping backs
nobody knew his secret life
or if they were the next one he whacks
Gomer Lepoet...
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 7:17 PM UTC
Story Teller
I've been a dancer I've been a singer
many years ago I was a church bell ringer
I'll tell you stories and I'll tell you lies
my favorite story is the one I see in your eyes
I was a cowboy I've been a prince
had my hair colored in many different tints
played on the stage sang in the halls
but sometimes I feel trapped inside these walls
I was a soldier I've been in war
never knew what the hell I was fighting for
they said it was freedom they say it's right
then why in the hell can't I sleep at night
the times are going they're going fast
not sure how much longer I can last
drinking the ***** taking the drugs
feel my body crawling with tiny little bugs
I hear the sounds of the trumpets call
is that you Louie on my stomach I crawl
trying to get to you to save your life
what's that you say I'm not your wife
my head is spinning my senses weak
guess I have gone a little past my peak
just one more story just one more tune
let me tell you about Camp Lejeune
let me sit for a while on this stool
get you ****** hands off of me you fool
where is my rifle where is my knife
there go those bells again the end of life
play this song for me will you Les and Chet
make your guitars sing on every fret
I think I can see the glowing light
so Mrs. Calabash guess it's goodnight
Gomer LePoet....
Aug 13, 2013
Aug 13, 2013 at 8:29 AM UTC
To: The Afterlife
1479 Foxhenge Circle
Once upon a day there was an ally cat
This cat spelled with a K called him-self Rat-a-tat
This was a special kat I had loved him well.
How I miss you Louie Lou
I am forever Grateful
and forever missing you.
Love,
Master Lucas
Jan 2, 2012
Jan 2, 2012 at 12:03 PM UTC
When I sought out vengeance
I first dug two graves
One for my dear old friend
The other was for me
Rest In Peace Anthony
Rest In Peace Louie
Here lies a liar
Here lies a misanthrope
Your grave was just like you
Shallow
My coffin buried like me
Hollow
His dagger pierced my back
In treachery
Mine went through his heart
In vengeance
May we both be judged by divinity equally
To get what we deserve
I however believe we already got it
Here on earth
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 3:04 AM UTC