"manically" poems
No men.
But when the
conversation starts, they dominate.
Worm their way into every sentence, every silence.
Every caught breath, exhaled pause.
Names, nice-to-meet-yous, passed round with sandwiches and tea.
Hole-riddled autobiographies, wadded out with circumstance and need.
Explaining themselves, defending their actions. In turn. And I?
Have never felt so young.
To my left, and working clockwise: Affair-with-the-boss, Heart-condition, High-risk-of-genetic-defects,
In-the-middle-of-a-divorce-not-sure-why-she-slept-with-him, Grown-up-children-can’t-bear-to-go-through-that-again,
and back to me. (Boyfriend-has-two-kids-wants-no-more)
He noticed that I’m pregnant.
Was pregnant.
Was.
We chew our way through sandwiches. Different coloured fillings, no flavour- choked down with lukewarm tea.
We know it’s a test.
We have to talk, smile, eat, drink, laugh (not manically)
if we're to go home.
I can’t do it.
I want to cry. But I’ve been told off for that already (curled up on a trolley, examining bloodied fingers)
I drift, I think.
Jump out of my skin when she speaks to me.
"You must eat" she says.
"You must eat."
I search for myself in their eyes,
re-make myself from fragments and reflections I find there (Four parts child, one part b-tch)
"It’s OK" I tell her, "It’s OK.
On my way home I’ll get a Happy Meal.
I’m collecting the toys."
Jan 7, 2012
Jan 7, 2012 at 4:11 PM UTC
Near a town of history untold
Where everyone knows each name
Wooden behemoths - obliviously old
Each unique but each the same
It was meant to be a perfect day
Of tranquility through the trees
Instead, the sky is brood with grey
And the leafs flow as they please
Alone, in nature's splendor spilled
In a rainy wilderness, seldom seen
The birds and insects grow suddenly still
In a spread silence of the green
Like eyes embedded in your back
You sense the stare of something sour
The mood hurries to horrid black
As you quiver into a cower
In bending branches blended
Creeping in creases - camouflaged
Nature's imbalance to be amended
In the forest's full mirage
Witness a terror appearing
Frantically floating from afar
Emerged in echoes and vaguely veering
Black, bleak and bizarre
A malevolent, monstrous maw
Snarls of hunger, habit, and hate
A malodor of meat, reeking raw
A violently increasing heart rate
From frozen still to fearfully shaking
You are manically mesmerised
Your pupils promptly dilating
As you and the beast lock eyes
Your meaningless attempt to run
From a stride to a collapse
The beams above crown the sun
As the twigs around you snap
A soar of pain as you hit the ground
Chest cavity cracked open
As you faint, you hear the sound
Of a language never spoken.
Gutted and gargling gore
Eaten by nature's nightmare
Convulsing on a forest floor
Indifference chokes the air
It's just another perfect day
Of tranquility in the trees
The rain has stopped, the leafs still sway
With the cooling, comfortable breeze
Jan 31, 2018
Jan 31, 2018 at 3:46 PM UTC
Darkness of night catches me,
Traps me in his grasp,
I grapple,
Trying desperately to avoid sleeps' sticky web,
Evasive action,
Breathe against cold night air,
Filtered through the open window,
Window to my sleepy soul,
Trying to stay alert,
Under a burning weight of two tonne eyelids,
Flicker of a mosquito shadow flickering under night's lamp illumination,
Buzzing manically,
So insane,
Heavy eyes drift,
View of shadow incessant flicking,
Vacant thoughts as topics drift,
Last shiver, quiver, jolt........,
Sleep.
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Aug 7, 2013
Aug 7, 2013 at 6:38 PM UTC
My nail polish
peels
like wallpaper
on a dead house
and i suppose
thats
what i am
a dead house
decrepit and torn
broken
down and old
from 16 years
of broken mentality
***
Nympho-manically wanted
Lips, Hips, thighs.
But what if thats
gone
and my wallpaper is
peeling like ripe fruit
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 11:04 AM UTC
One of those meant to be free
They say if you follow her when she wonders you’ll find her talking to trees
She’s one of those mysterious souls, always lost inside herself
Contemplating matters of existence, dreaming of metaphysical wealth
A place of paradise, where all is free of pain
A space that flourishes with the manically insane
A collection of minds feeding off debauchery
A gathering of souls to rebel the hypocrisy
Armed with a mind full of soldiers, ready to win this war of expression
She knows it’s up to her to lead free the life she’s destined
Oct 7, 2011
Oct 7, 2011 at 1:52 AM UTC
Colors fade together
Lines blur
Madly, truly, deeply, for an instant
Moved to hate, in an instant
I wish so despairingly
That I could Love You
But know that I never will
I wish so desperately
that I could Love Someone,
Anyone
Yet I know I never can
Bones elongate, stretch to impossible lengths
Soul trapped inside
Manically rattling its prison walls
Begging to live
To be set free to hug the steaming pavement until
Skin slithers away like worms;
Mindless, fearful
Begging to love you, whoever you are
Mar 30, 2011
Mar 30, 2011 at 8:55 AM UTC
Shiny bricks and skeins of yellow grass
Barely perceptible colours
Hung with liquid haze
Dog **** and thunder
Heavy close and thick
Miasma
Clings to sweat
Running with drizzle
Clings to damp
Drowning the pores of the skin
Making collars clinging sticky
Rubbing and abrasive
In view of the towering flats
The greyly awaiting wait
Standing at the bus stop
Speaking quiet weather talk
In the distantly English way
So safely meaningless
This polite evasion
Ignores their damp dilemma
Soon, as they sit inside the bus
These bodies shall steam
Like cattle in a byre
Kids hang around the shops
Emptying and kicking cans
The younger ones
Run and shout manically
Their elders spit
And swear casually
All hoods and shadows
Asking adults to buy them lager
Because they can't get served at the "offie"
Rain changes nothing here
A bedroom guitar plays
Weakly electric
And the Turneresque sky
Swallows the sound whole and flat
Sophisticated trash
Crying into a cloudy breast
Shaded darkly round
Full and swollen
Grey and sodden
The distant rumbling
Tumbling closer to home
By Phil Roberts
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 10:54 AM UTC
Another haunt is arriving, feverishly fast tonight.
Somehow I managed to delay the feeling, briefly,
as it usually takes the manageable Subway and begins to fester around high noon, but today I skipped lunch,
and the feeling didn't go underground for her mode of transport.
"Maybe I hit the lotto?", I secretly questioned,
and the haunt would forget her requiem, passing over me
like those lucky "Kennedy Husbands" during the sixties' draft.
But I was getting divorced while all the other couples
were on a faster track heading in the opposite direction.
Tonight the haunt is traveling 248 mph,
on the Fùxīng ** bullet train from Beijing to Shanghai, en route to Vietnam.
The conductor yelled, "All Aboard."
and as if that period denoted a punctual mark,
everyone manically crammed into the narrow vehicle.
The first influx of lovely passengers to board were,
Missus Anxiety, Sir Prior Transgressions and Dr. Heartache.
Unlike Dr. Feelgood,
They had been waiting in line from the previous night,
like those idiots for last week’s black Friday sale.
Mr. and Mrs. Payments Past Due cut in front of
Bills Esquire and Judge Job Insecurity,
for the Belmont Superfecta win, I guessed the right horses, just didn’t box my bet.
Congressman Careless and Deputy ******* nearly trampled Senator Surrender on the way through the turnstiles,
while Mayor Moan was flagged by security for groaning
and pulled aside for a pat down and wheelchair inspection.
The Mayor was found to have ******* residue on his sleeve, but legitimate prescriptions for his aches and pains,
so TSA
wheeled him through the crack rocks
Analog veins pump analog blood to my analog heart;
traveling for the journey and not its hasty destination.
My analog heart will eventually be shelved,
as it still salutes the Subway on its journey to my soul,
but like dusting off an old Coen Brothers flick,
my analog heart is still entertaining its vintage tick.
Nov 27, 2017
Nov 27, 2017 at 9:23 PM UTC
A babbling brook of blood
Veers violently and viciously.
Slipping silently through sunsets,
The trials and tears of the terrified
Add adversity to the adamant tide.
Hunters hound the hunted,
Sacrificing several subtle souls,
And manically murdering men.
Forever on the freshet flows,
With darkened death as deluge.
Feb 4, 2013
Feb 4, 2013 at 11:30 AM UTC
Some women will scribble your name in schoolbooks
but never spit it out loud.
Some women float away like dandelions.
Some women bubble so much they spill
over the side of your cup of coffee.
Some women will leave a minty taste
under your tongue.
Some women say they hate you but they don’t.
Some women are constructed out of paper.
Some women copy others to make themselves feel good.
Some women are as a juicy as a pineapple
everybody wants the very next drop.
Some women will call you and say wrong number sorry.
Some women win without as much as a line of sweat
on their skulls.
Some women carry names inside their jean pockets.
Some women want diamonds.
Some women loathe other women but never explain why.
Some women will tear you open like it’s Christmas.
Some women live as if on the edge of a cliff.
Some women want thin.
Some women like big.
Some women won’t care if you don’t party hard.
Some women dance so well you will fall
underneath the flashing disco lights.
Some women have you as their favourite headache.
Some women teach better than any professor.
Some women hate the size of their *******
Some women swipe husbands and keep a tally
below the floorboards where no-one has to know.
Some women have been singed
you could set them alight.
Some women won’t do what you want them to.
Some women count stars until they lose count.
Some women click their heels and make a wish or ten.
Some women can see their futures glistening
in the corners of their eyes.
Some women **** men with their lipstick.
Some women know with just one look.
Some women squeal as though
a toaster has been tossed in the bathtub.
Some women want three words three syllables
to swirl manically through their veins.
Some women would prefer it if you split the bill.
Some women choose click-flicks over ***
Some women cheat when playing Monopoly.
Some women are left-handed and until
they write the wedding invitations you won’t even know.
Some women are fake outside but real inside.
Some women judge books by their covers.
Some women bleed red if they’re feeling blue.
Some women prefer Pepsi over Coke.
Some women drive wildly because they can.
Some women turn bad when they get drunk
they won’t remember but you’ll never forget.
Some women dread the moment
anyone sees them with no clothes on.
Some women are like morphine.
Some women will watch you crawl away and laugh
the sound smacking your eardrum again and again.
Some women will treat you like their next cigarette.
Some women will offer you their Vimto hearts
beg you to keep them beating.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 11:14 AM UTC
Why be a writer when you can be a poet?
Why tell someone you love them when you can show it?
You can write all you want and you can say all you want, but it doesn't matter if you can't have a love affair with your piece.
So let's make love and not war and not desecrate the name of peace in the name of war.
The only wars that ought the be waged are those against those who oppress.
Sadly those who oppress control the press.
This world is in distress.I am a convoluted manically depressed hyperactive mess.
I may be a nobody but my words will have an impact.
An impact on those who made a pact to protect us,
They will cower in fear at the boy with blood on his paper and ink in his heart.
AND HOW DARE THEY SAY THAT MY POETRY SHOULD NOT BE CONSIDERED ART!
I say we kickstart the next beatnik generation...
And give these kids, some true... motivation.
Jan 21, 2015
Jan 21, 2015 at 3:35 PM UTC
I covet the hideous cult of fame. Spending my days in despondent cafés manically scribbling passionate love letters to recognition.
I'm not in love I'm insane.
Suffering from self-diagnosed misunderstood artist syndrome. My heart cries silent. I am a shadow in the distance. Warped, distorted and dark I scream alone; never to be touched.
I am a poser, a fame ****** and a hero worshiper. My vitriol view on the world hinders me. Constantly on the verge of crying in public. Staring at train tracks, they invite me away. Looking more comfortable then a bed.
I try to live in the now but the future petrifies me. I can't escape my own mind.
Y culture, My culture, Counter culture, **** culture, Love culture, Hate culture, Phonies.
I can’t see past the haze of disappointment I have designed myself. I smoke **** because it relaxes me, makes me feel like what I assume normality feels like. I drink because it makes me feel like how I assume those happy people feel. I take heroine because it makes me feel euphoric and takes me close enough to death that I want to live another day.
A brutal fear beats my anaemic mind. A peculiar fear grips my inner-self and I can’t bear to open my eyes and see that I had survived the night. I become saddened by the thought that I might also survive the day, living to see what I will be tomorrow.
Happy in the madness. Longing for that sick feeling. In love with the sadness. Searching in the dark recesses of the mind for inspiration. I can’t see past my fate, it’s too dark. I sit and source inspiration through the emotions and physical fits of ************ Self-abuse. Clawing for red gold in the catacombs that meander through my pale arms.
Beat myself out of sight beat me out of sight beat me beat me till I float. Beat me beat me till I float.
I am a poser, a fame ****** and a hero worshiper. My vitriol view on the world hinders me. Constantly on the verge of crying in public. Staring at train tracks, they invite me away. Looking more comfortable than a bed.
Relapse is fine by me. I want this. I want this. I want this. I want this. Not a tortured artist just tortured. Not a tortured soul just a cracked shell. In the name of art but in the corner of sickness.
Beat myself out of sight beat me out of sight beat me beat me till I float. Beat me beat me till I float.
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 10:57 AM UTC
Salty tears
Slither like snakes in summer
Meandering moments of madness mused
Ratchet heart and rabid tongue retorts
Flimflam fluke fisticuffs fought
A mirrored mirage manically manifest
A parade of psychosis fevered pitch
Easy the embryo erased eternal
Gods grace given gone
Sanguine souls stand sequestered
A pitiful penitent they plead
A song of Solomon heralds
Cherubs on chariots
Carrying chalices crafted of gold
Seeks repentance refrained from sin
All souls suffer life myriad interpretations
And all
Must answer
In
The
End
Aug 2, 2016
Aug 2, 2016 at 10:21 AM UTC
A corner of a room is a misguided place to cower in.
Bad move!
Especially after you have just had chicken chow mein styled into your hair.
You sit.
Transfixed.
You watch.
Catatonic.
Prawn ***** glisten like diamonds in the snow as they slide effortlessly down the peeling wallpaper.
Baby screams.
Baby screams relentlessly.
The stench of cheap beer perfumes the stagnant air.
You think to yourself
"Is this it?"
Then you remember
You remember ….
What the hell was her name?
It’s on the tip of your tongue ….
BANG !!!
Tina Smitherson
*Once!
Just once ….*
The one and only time he raised his hand.
She was gone.
Didn’t even look back.
And her so quiet and all ….
Oh ….how we tormented her.
Oh …. how we teased her.
**BOO !!!
BOO !!!
BOO !!!**
Away she ran like a frightened little mouse.
No friends.
No life.
Nothing.
A bona fide geek.
And yet ….
And yet … only once.
How was that possible?
Night turns to day.
You look around the room.
*Chaos.
Filth.
Emptiness.*
Taunt at you manically …. in triplicate.
Baby sleeps peacefully in her makeshift cot.
Bruises red and angry.
*Maybe today ….
Maybe ….*
Then you reach down into your darkest resolve and open the cupboard beneath the sink.
Bin bags.
Detergent.
Dish cloths.
Dustpan and brush.
“I wonder what Tina Smitherson is doing at this precise moment in time?”
Jan 23, 2011
Jan 23, 2011 at 11:18 PM UTC
Slept all night.
Brain wide awake.
Body woke.
Shaking.
Wrapped in sweat so cold.
Dreamed
As if non stop during darkened hours.
Meeting in the graveyard.
Cemetery of shame.
Necropolis of long dead regret.
Pursued by gang without escape.
Feral kids exuded terror.
Petrified as long dead tree.
Heart created in stone.
Eons of ancient history.
Step taken furtively.
Begging to be set free.
Let go.
Space invaded by fear dressed in denim.
Misgivings unforgiving.
Scared near to dying.
Heart beating manically.
Scarred by memories of neglect.
Painted hatred on a memory stick of sorrow.
Maybe brighter in the morrow!
Cruelty in dreams.
Unbearable.
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 2:59 PM UTC
fifty years later
you girls wear their old dresses
over sky
blue leggings
lace
and fabric that smells
of lost time
you found them
in stores
with high ceilings
and a sloppily simulated
rustic vibe
you love your
waists tastefully
cinched
and collar bones
concealed
you twirl before
the full length
mirrors and
wish oh how
you wish
you could
have been born
then instead of now
everything
was so much classier!
the women
were a different
kind of beautiful
women
who smoked
in their bathtubs
cardboard hairdos
unraveling
women
elbow deep in
baking
soda and dishsoap
soft secretive
smiles overtaking
their
faces
as they rattled
through the
medicine
cabinet
for a snack
(twice a day)
pregnant again
for
the fourth
time
yet
thin as a rail
somehow
ghosts
in their own
skin
silent but
deadly
crying manically
because of
the smoke
in their eyes
choking gently
on the powder
all over their tight
lovely complexions
dinner ready
at six
sharp as a rusty nail
fantasizing
about what it would be like
to fall in love
with another woman
scuffing their knees
and showing the raw
skin off to all
the young men
with sunlight left over
from childhood still
swimming in their
eyes
or walking home
in the rain
without an umbrella
and having that be ok
slapping their
own faces
at such trecherous
thoughts
obsessing
over how
their mothers did
it with
so much **** grace...
but yes
girls
their clothes
were simply
divine
Feb 2, 2010
Feb 2, 2010 at 11:33 AM UTC
Off course,
Of course
The sea's salty
spray
stings my eyes
Trembling pointer finger
I wipe away what I can only imagine
is a drop
packed full of
fish ****
Often,
the fan shakes
Or is it me who isn't still?
Often,
I'll grab for warm skin
I'll dig
desperately
through layers of
Filth and disappointment
Often,
I'll grab for you
More filth and disappointment
Outside,
the sound waves find their way into my lonely quarters
Filling the endless cracks of whistling wind
Filling the endless cracks of my cold respite
The glow of your face
Eyes
piercing through the darkness
with valor unseen
by heroes
brave
and timeless
I've never worshipped hands
so leathery
Wounded by
stale
talk
that sank into your heart
like an anchor carelessly dropped
into the sea's cruel
blue
swell
I would say sorry
a thousand times over
if it stripped your heart
of the ghosts that hide and cackle
amongst your vast,
haunted corridors
I'm still---
the shallow shards of your breath
poke at my bullet proof hip
My brain drips manically with the endless horror
of your
ghastly, **** luck
It creeps into my porous skin
embedding itself into my DNA
God,
I've never felt so helpless
I've felt your fingers
like the apple out of my reach
I'll catch you
before you hit the ground
like all the heroes before you
With a marble floor slate
that was empty
and pure
With the white sheen of better handshakes
and conversations
with more peaks
than valleys
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 4:23 PM UTC
The feminine voice finds many ways to my ear
It conceals its muffled words in droplets of water
Brushes against me while in tow of unknowing winds
Shrieking whispers invade my solitude
Masters of disguises invisible to young eyes.
I can never fall asleep as gently as I once could
Drifting into the safe havens has become a rough journey
Dreams have become a great escape rather than a warm embrace
Through battle they have my eyes hostage
By their command they unwillingly disallow rest.
As butterflies caught in a storm, my eyes flutter manically in their cage
In closed lids they pry and scratch in search of escape.
Never ceasing to stop looking they trap me in this limbo
Almost treacherously aiding the sexless voiced general
In his raiding my humanity for feelings to satisfy his troops hunger.
But they are disappointed more often than not
Self ruining feelings are all this soulless ghost army craves
A delicacy they tasted in me and fed on in greed
I am sorry, dear enemy, your momentary pleasure is over
This storage is running low from frequent raids of provoked panic and emotion.
This war has been long, and no longer appears a battle
More a dance well practiced, predictable every night
You have eaten all of what you desired, but fear not I have something left
Without catch nor trickery I give to you a message of kindness and savior-
It reads Your hunger will bring starvation
So let me sleep, or continue your attacks to your downfall.
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 3:27 PM UTC
You ask me why we never talk anymore
It's like you've erased from your memory
The fact
That we never did
Maybe you don't remember
The days that you told me
That I was worthless
Maybe you've forgotten
That December afternoon
When you manically drove full speed
Into the car ahead of us
And cried of disappointment
When you found your family
Still breathing
Or perhaps you can't recall
The Friday night
When I told you that I wanted to take my life
And you went to the kitchen
To hand me a knife
Maybe you think
That your newfound success
Makes you a better parent
Maybe you've convinced yourself
That envelopes of money
And elaborate gifts
Will heal open wounds
And fade tattooed scars
Maybe in your mind
You've rewritten the past
But I'm stuck on a page
That I simply cannot turn
Oct 30, 2015
Oct 30, 2015 at 1:54 PM UTC
They're sorry to announce she's dead
peacefully passed over in bed
with family and dearest friends
a blessing for her in the end
They always use such clichéd weasel words
to avoid offence or create pretence
kindly perpetuate lying-in-state
wash the slate and cleanse cool reference
Seems strange I don't see her going gently
I saw her manically playing the Shrew
she cast two gentle husbands aside
ever the screaming cheating bride
but on stage and screen ever the radiant queen
We're told to celebrate A-list lives
but I contemplate my own losses
those parts of my life that passed away
watching old films is my afterlife.
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 6:38 AM UTC
It's one step forward,
18 in the past,
I take things hard,
I hope that won't last,
If I had more courage,
cared less about people,
Maybe I'd love myself,
Not give into evil,
Eyes tick frantically,
Fingers always twitch,
My mind flails manically,
I count my intellect rich,
It's all a wall,
This stone facade,
Bringing on the fall,
Of one once thought god,
It wasn't the woman,
It wasn't his wealth,
It was what he hadn't thought,
It was only himself,
Midas chose to step down,
Too little too late,
The king now a clown,
A victim of fate,
Or was he this hour,
the **** of the joke,
His situation dour,
His life up in smoke,
Freedom was his,
To reclaim her anew,
and realizing this,
Like an eagle,
He flew.
Dec 25, 2012
Dec 25, 2012 at 2:06 AM UTC
Dusk sets on the quiet desert
Eerie shadows hide behind saguaro soldiers
And sanguine striped snakes
Sneak back into the earth
Rowdy coyotes meet among the rocks
To cry at the moon
Who never cries back
The wind roams so freely through the desert
Stopping where she likes
To dance with the wildflowers
Or tickle the sun soaking geckos
She laughs as she passes by
And the sands chase after her
Begging to ever be so light as to
Keep company with the clouds
The mountain wraps his unfaltering arms
Snugly around the valley
A regal jacket of deep greens and browns
Laid across his towering shoulders
He lets his gaze follow the hustle and bustle
Of life in the desert as suns set and rise
From the place he has always been
Greeting each javelina and jack rabbit
As they settle into his solid embrace
The wind moves manically
Passing through the creosote bushes
With just enough time for a polite greeting
Before she rushed off to tease the birds
She touches every piece of her beloved desert
But she can never settle or linger too long
For fear of losing herself all together
The mountain feels his weight
Pressing so firmly against the earth
He faces anyone who challenges him
And he only rumbles with laughter
When they strike
But he begins to wonder what lies beyond
Where the liquidy sun shimmers in the air
He cannot abandon his post
For fear of crumbling into pieces of himself
The mountain cradles the wind
Slowing her down long enough
To warmly welcome her home
The wind tells the mountain
Stories of the desert
Apr 14, 2019
Apr 14, 2019 at 1:59 AM UTC
A hummingbird’s fragile heart can beat up to 1260 beats per minute.
That’s a whopping 21 beats per second,
Which is rather fitting,
Because my pumping ***** manically pounds against my chest at a constant rate.
It only comprehends one anxious speed: fast.
What is also fitting,
Is that hummingbirds are capable of flying in all different sporadic directions,
And I am never meant to be in one place.
We are not meant to have a standard sightseeing radius of one cul-de-sac,
But rather drift and soar to various dimensions and realities.
Without this freedom, we both simply cease to exist as an entity.
And so, when we find ourselves trapped-
Which is the one primitive and instinctual fear birds and humans alike have in common-
Desperation and panic cannot begin to describe
The depth of the dark cave of unfitting enclosure
In which our brightly vibes of body and mind find ourselves in.
We ****** and thrash ourselves in a suicidal manner against the bars,
We refuse food and drink in silent protest and rebellion,
And then beg and plead with our captors to be let free at last,
Wondering why, the hummingbird and I, deserve to suffer.
What did we do?
Claustrophobia is a serious issue. And it does not have to be in the form of a cage.
And it chokes.
Hummingbirds are delicate creatures.
If you squeeze too tightly, their eyes will bulge out of their skull,
And their heart will race to extreme measures,
Until they are crushed and are no more,
Leaving the captor’s hands wet and sopping
With blood and guts and feathers.
Please do not crush me.
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 9:52 PM UTC
I must protect
The children
The field ends
Where the cliff begins
I must protect them
From
The phony
Sense of security
Where
In the ****
Are your parents!
It’s evident
This isn’t a place
To play
Worry not
I will
Stay
Standing
Life Guard
An Angel
Life Guardian Angel
Full of faults
And faith
Who’ll never earn his wings
I bring peace
To the underlings
Even if
Heaven sits
Above my reach
So it’s
My job
To teach
Beseeched
By the leech
As these
Phonies speak
My ears failed
To understand
Their fairy tales
“Santa Clause is NOT REAL!!!”
Is the only clause
That’s real
And it brings the gift
Of truth
Death’s unknown to us all
A fall
From this cliff
Is not a promise
Of bliss
Darkness, most likely
After a painful
Crash
Smash
And pass over
Into the ash
So live long
The song will end
And never replay
You’ll reap
What lays at the end
So sow
Until the final blow
Let your lows
Lift you
Higher than the skies
Spend
Not a moment in life
Down
Because there’s enough
Down
To go around
Once you’re
Beneath the ground
The sound
Of infinite silence
Will ring loud
So enjoy the sweetness
Before the
Bitter taste
Ensues
Life
Is meaningless
I mean
Life’s meaning is less
Than what’s expected
The meaning of death
Is too mean
To fathom
Manically depressed
About death
We’ve repressed
The memories
Of what is was it use to be
Like
Before life
So we lie
About the future
Listen
To no one!
But yourself
The harsh truth
Can uplift
But until you reach a wise age
I’ll protect you
From the cliffs...
Oct 30, 2010
Oct 30, 2010 at 4:25 PM UTC