"metallica" poems
I once had a Simple Plan
To bribe a lady for a Kiss
With a Nickleback in my hand
And an Eagle tattoo on my wrist.
I brought her to the Linkin Park
And gave her meatloaf and Bread
But it had Red Hot Chilli Peppers
So she ate the Pearl Jam instead.
My tongue was like a Rolling Stone
As I tell her my Nirvana of love
I made promises with my Pink Floyd finger
As she watched a Led Zepellin flew above.
Her Metallica heart didn’t waste time
And she rejected me within Thirty Seconds to Mars
I treated her like a Queen
But all I got were Iron Maiden scars.
It stung me like the Bee Gees
Or a Scorpion tail’s as fine
The Beatles are all crawling down my skin
When she broke this Heart of mine
Guns N Roses were the choices
That were left for me to Root
But a Cheap Trick with the latter
Ended my romantic Journey afoot.
May 17, 2013
May 17, 2013 at 8:38 AM UTC
Peter Pan had nothing on you
truely a Lost Boy,
Sad but charming
no direction
but only a destination
Off to Never-Neverland
don't like Metallica
but sure do like you.
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 11:08 PM UTC
it was that metallica in moscow
prompt that got me started,
obviously the real relationship ended
and the writing began;
but what can you do?
as a child i wanted to become a veterinarian,
but god, why a poet?
it’s usually those who wished otherwise
who become mozarts in the unwanted category
of being themselves... just so there’s some sort
of anaesthetic expressed by ease and fluidity,
and apathy, and automation;
writing doesn't have to be of a lofty/ aloof
ontological orientation... it just has to be basic,
and true... it has to have a quality
where truth translates itself as fiction...
and you begin lying to yourself on paper.
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 10:48 AM UTC
The local mall now has a Spenser’s Gifts;
I remember that place fondly as Al and I
make our way.
It’s where I sneaked a peek at Samantha Fox’s ****
for the first time,
saw my first **** ring,
wondering why anyone would want one.
I bought my first Metallica shirt at a Spencer’s;
spending twenty of my dad’s dollars.
Spencer’s and Record Wear House
were sanctuaries;
my escape from what my classmates
took for normal.
I took my son into that store
so that he could see the X-Men hats
and Deadpool shirts, the banana and pickle
pens caught his eye,
but I had to point out one more.
“What’s that one?” I asked.
Alex made a face, but in the end
he did what any 14 year old boy should,
he chuckled.
I took him in that store so that we both
could escape.
Earlier he walked the mall
a good fifteen feet ahead of us.
We stopped for ice cream.
He chose a soda and wouldn’t sit with us.
It took a second, but
I figured him out.
He was trying his teenaged self out;
testing his wings.
As we walked, he’d wave at classmates
and be either sturdily ignored or given a cursory nod.
It was obvious that he wanted so much more.
It pained us, my wife and I.
So, I took him into Spencer’s gifts
in an effort to remove some of his innocence and awkwardness.
It may not have been the wisest move,
but at least, for a moment,
both of us felt peace.
-JB CLaywell
©P&ZPublications; 2014
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 8:17 PM UTC
Okay,
It goes like this you see.
10pm, on a late thursday evening. I was sweating like a ****** in church. I grabbed my armbands and turned on the shower. It was cold as ice to the touch, but begun to warm up eventually. Thank god my wife remembered to turn the geezer on or else I was going to slap a ***** create waves of flesh on that ugly *** face of hers.
Anyway.
After stripping down to my birthday suit, I popped on some shampoo and spreaded that **** in my hair. Creating a burning sensation, tingly, like ants crawling in my head.
Suddenly I was smacked like an unwanted child by the smell of burnt toast in the air,
with the shampoo still sitting in my hair.
I turned around and right before me, something was coming out of the plug hole, like something out of a b-rated horror movie.
Looking like my wife's homemade cooking, **** was alive, and then it lunged at me.
I tell you, if it was not for those Tom Cruise movies lecturing me in the art of total *** kicking, I would be a dead naked man with armbands in a tub, being eaten by the unholy guacamole.
You gotta believe me,
when I tell this story,
This was not all in my head,
You can't just write off what I have said.
I know it must sound insane,
But a mexican's lunch crawled out of the drain,
I beat it's *** like a drum,
like Lars Ulrich at a metallica concert ,
and sent the **** back down the hole it crawled out of.
The devil wanted to bring me down to the deep end,
It is a good thing I bought my arm bands.
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 7:05 PM UTC
I stand here on a street corner,
daisy dukes and fish nets,
my favorite Metallica crop top
floating up on moonlit skin.
Monster truck inching close,
breath pacing through the city streets,
I walk to the edge of his dark lair
to bite any hesitation.
With curt words and close heads
I smell the whiskey in his breathe.
Pulling into the alley's grip,
I let him lead and grit my teeth.
"Shhhh, I won't get busted again."
the whiskey whispers against my ear,
"Don't make a peep."
Then I'm not sure if it's man or whiskey
who turns me around in callused hands.
He spits first,
entering with a grunt,
and my hands slide down the window with each ******
5 minutes.
I horn honks in the distance, long and mad,
as whiskey man unloads on my back,
along with his long, satisfied growl.
That's it, with a reluctant 20 bucks,
and I'm back biting the wind.
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 9:20 PM UTC
there is nothing poetic
about the way you smash your drums in
like you smash memories
there is nothing poetic about the way you recite words
that mean everything to you
but do not live by
there is nothing poetic about how you look to the left
because the right way is never your way
there is nothing poetic deep under your ‘skin’
there is nothing poetic about finding a better place to ‘fit in’
there is nothing poetic about the way you percieve the world or what kind of music you listen to or the way you dress or the way you feel when you are alone and looking at the stars
there is nothing poetic about the smell of camp fire or peter pan or metallica
because we’re off to neverland
only, you’re off to nowhere
there is nothing poetic about you
there is nothing poetic about you
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 9:20 AM UTC
How could he know this new dawn's light
Would change his life forever?
Set sail to sea but pulled off course
By the light of golden treasure
Was he the one causing pain
With his careless dreaming?
Been afraid, always afraid
Of the things he's feeling
He could just be gone
He would just sail on!
He would just sail on
How can I be lost?
If I've got nowhere to go?
Searched the seas of gold
How come it's got so cold?
How can I be lost?
In remembrance I relive
And how can I blame you
When it's me I can't forgive?
These days drift on inside a fog
It's thick and suffocating
This seeking life, outside it's hell
Inside intoxicating
He's run aground like his life
Water much too shallow
Slipping fast, down with the ship
Fading in the shadows
Now a castaway
Blame all gone away!
Blame gone away
How can I be lost
If I've got nowhere to go?
Search for seas of gold
How come it's got so cold?
How can I be lost?
In remembrance I relive
And how can I blame you
When it's me I can't forgive?
Forgive me
Forgive me not
Forgive me
Forgive me not
Forgive me
Forgive me not
Forgive me
Forgive me, why can't I forgive me?!
Set sail to sea but pulled off course
By the light of golden treasure
How could he know this new dawn's light
Would change his life forever?
How can I be lost
If I've got nowhere to go?
Search for seas of gold
How come it's got so cold?
How can I be lost?
In remembrance I relive
So how can I blame you
When it's me I can't forgive?
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 11:10 PM UTC
A picture of us
sits next to your bathroom sink.
I saw it as I rummaged
through cabinets
looking for toothpaste:
I was sunburned, wearing braces,
and you held a wooden spoon
with the same smile,
crooked nose,
and bushy eyebrows
in the kitchen.
You would come home early,
I would chop
onion and garlic,
garlic and onion,
to Metallica blaring
on your stereo.
We can stir the ***
until our hands blister,
but something added
cannot be removed.
There was the summer
we built model rockets,
the summer you took me to meet
our family in Greece,
and all those summers
we ate Krispy Kreme and fished.
I didn’t become an astronaut,
I didn’t learn Greek,
I threw up over the side of the boat,
but because you came home early
so many days in a row – just for me –
that was my favorite summer.
Today, over the
chop-chop-sizzle
in a broken-in kitchen
we fill a stained cookbook
with dog-ears,
small adjustments.
The same ingredients
never taste the same way twice.
We reclaim a day
out of years lost.
Then that photo
by your sink.
It was a small
Father’s Day gift,
survivor of four moves
and twelve years
of self-discovery,
still reminding you – and me –
of summers spent
breaking in kitchens
and recipes
we’ve been making for years.
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 12:12 AM UTC
Hey! Hey, Tom! Wake up man! Did you see what happened to him?His arm is a bruised as a baboons behind.Could it have been the tuna?What the hell was he thinking?And listening to Metallica, my God he was setting heimself up for this.What's with the Godzilla tattoo?
Feb 22, 2010
Feb 22, 2010 at 3:24 PM UTC
we worried for Your s.a.n.i.t.y.
when Michael Bublé and Metallica
wore matching sailor suits. we warned You.
failed interventions toed the line
between crafted clichés and comprehensible,
misguided attempts to paste bits and pieces
of the Pyramids back together.
You know they were stolen, right?
the pharaohs were ****** — drunk on
the melodies of doorbells and
bits and pieces of clichés crafted at a Metallica concert.
brave the mosh pit.
You may catch a glimpse of
sarcophagi gleaming in torchlight.
don't lift the lid, for the love of
g.o.d.!
those sailor suits have been preserved for centuries.
"Do Not Disturb."
the doorbell
won't work now,
not now that Michael Bublé's bubble burst.
can You blame us for screaming into
microphones? maybe the bits and pieces of clichés You swept
into neat little piles after footfalls die down
torch-lit corridors will
shake the Pyramids.
at the very least, ring a doorbell.
"d.o. n.o.t. d.i.s.t.u.r.b."
Jun 24, 2012
Jun 24, 2012 at 6:34 PM UTC
I've decided if I can't be the fairy tale person
I want to be
I might as well be carefree
Dancing with my arms in the air
Run my fingers through my hair
Jamming to Metallica with the music up
The lyrics never giving up
My speakers shaking as it drowns my pain
Hey who said sadness had to be lame?
Might as well make it as good as I can
Midnight pouting, I'm not a fan
I rather dance
Twirl and prance
Rock out on the syllables they sing
Dance with the vibes it brings
Give myself away
To the hearty party sway
Ahhh what a day
Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 12:17 AM UTC
How To Dress For My Funeral
black or white, hot n'pink,
lavender always a fav,
at a fun funeral rave,
lacy or plain, your choice,
tho clean would be nice,
won't matter to me very much,
the color of your underwear.
but do not fail to recall, the dead,
their vision keen, can see all!
funeral gravity rules to be strictly observed,
snickering and giggling to commence in the
back row, when holy pomposity gets uttered,
let it wend its way forward from the aft,
until y'all better be
laughing your ***** off
anyone who chooses to speak,
must commence with words,
"Did ya hear the one about"
or be haunted by my spectral shadow
tickling both feet at midnight, or,
worse yet, reciting this awful poem
in their head, like Henry the Eighth,
I am, I am
perhaps a hora dance might be nice,
a mamba line, butts, holy rolling n'shaking,
past rows of rock n' rolling tombstones, guitar-playing
some Metallica,
while the rabbi intones somberly,
Let's get this party started, gad ******
if my untimely hour should arrive in July,
I humbly request that flip flops be the ped-modality,
if January should be my season
of absence treasoned, use some reason,
please stay home, and let the paid professionals
suffer in fine phony, professional, seasonal frigidity
at the post partum party, should that occur,
I humbly repast request, barbecue be the cuisine,
in the hopes you all recall to place
a generous helping, repeat, generous helping,
inside my sauce- proof pine wood casket,
with extra napkins for the long trip ahead
now these are all post hypnotic, post breathing,
helpful suggestions, not requirements,
but honor or disparage, cry or vent,
curse or bless my perma-absence,
don't matter to me, as long as somebody
reads this manifesto at the festivities, first and last.
Jun 3, 2013
Jun 3, 2013 at 11:44 PM UTC
I used to live with these two friends—
A long-haired Navajo guy that was into Satan & Death Metal,
and an average white guy into Star Wars & Metallica.
This one night
we were going to see Danzig in concert.
Before we went to the show
we had to get a money order and mail it to our landlord
for rent.
The three of us went inside the Circle K,
got the money order, cigarettes, and some water.
On the way out,
back to the car,
there was an old, crusty, homeless Native guy
his neck draped in rosaries,
like Mr. T is in gold.
As we walked by, he said,
“Can you guys spare some change?”
“Sure,” my Navajo friend said, digging his pocket for change.
He was just about to drop a handful of coins
into the bum’s hand
when the old guy said,
“Oh thank you. God bless you …”
A smile came over my Navajo friend’s face
as he put the change back into his pocket.
“Nope. You shouldn’t have said that. You just HAD to bring God into it, didnt you?”
“Ohhh **** you,” the old guy yelled.
“Why don’t you ask God for some money then?"
We all laughed getting in the car.
The old *** kept talking.
“Just get outta here. Something bad is gonna happen to you boys. Go, get away from me. Something bad is gonna happen to you …”
My Navajo friend didn't miss a beat,
“Yeah? Well, if you don’t shut the **** up, something bad is gonna happen to YOU ************
The old man looked down to his rosaries and began to pray.
We drove across the street to the post office
to mail the money order for the rent.
The boys stayed in the car while I got out to mail it.
The post office was already closed
and all they had were those stubby little pencils.
It had to be signed in ink.
I went back outside
“You guys have a pen?”
“Nope.”
****
“Just ask somebody. And hurry up, we're gonna be late!”
Just then I saw a plump, middle-aged woman getting out of a minivan.
I approached her.
“Excuse me? Ma’am? Do you happen to have a pen I could use? I have to send off a money order for rent and I just realized I don’t have one …?
The lady sighed heavily, sounding annoyed, she turned back around
and began walking back to her minivan.
“I’m sorry to put you out, I just HAVE TO send this out…”
Getting into her van, she turned around and screamed at me,
“I don’t have any money for you to take from me. I WILL NOT BE ACCOSTED!”
She started the minivan and made a quick getaway.
“What the hell happened?”
“That crazy broad thought I was trying to rob her.”
We all laughed our ***** off at her choice of words:
ACCOSTED.
As we drove off, I remembered the old man’s words
“something bad is gonna happen.”
It coulda been worse.
So we said **** it and mailed it the next day.
The late fee was $15.00.
Dec 13, 2011
Dec 13, 2011 at 12:12 PM UTC
The difference between ‘this’ and ‘that’
existentially plastered and preparing for nothing
The Hadit and Nuit
Bored and lonely on a carpet and picking acne
The being in and for
The words of infinite relation and perspective
Horus and Nut
On Saussure’s lap dogged, tired, and deceptive
Gilgamesh and Inkidu
"And nothing else matters" Metallica claim
Yin and Yang?
All are the same
and different at the same time
built in illusion
'the paradox conclusion'
God written in Mathematics
And forgotten in words
The Nature of the universe is SO immature
Always sitting and waiting for life to begin
Looking for answers to moral and logical sins
A Non gendered third person pronoun, shin
Cough! and Cough! and sputter and Die!
Burnt by the spent life
Why?
We are but the glorious observers of such things
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 1:18 PM UTC
Growing up I always had
Some very special friends
Where we shared in everything
Even our love for Heavy Death Metal Bands
But every time one of us
Pick up an instrument
Whether banging, blowing, or strumming
We never made a lick of sense
That is until we found the jewel
That we all could play
Which turned around our tender lives
And tenderized us all that day
Now we travel the country side
With our own road crew
In a Heavy Death Metal Band
Where we all play Kazoo's
The very first Kazoo's we purchased
Came from the Five & Dime
But were able to throw down for the better stuff
Once our careers all started to climb
Now when we step out into the lights
Taking center stage
It's worth the pain in our vibrating lips
To see adoration on a groupies face
And playing lead Kazoo
Isn't as easy as it looks
You've got to hold your lips just right
To come up with those major hooks
We used to open up for other Metal Bands
Like AC/DC and Metallica
Pretty soon though our style passed them by
Leaving those sissies in top 40 dust
Because next to us they played soft rock
And when your "Axe" is a killer Kazoo
The others stand around dumb founded
With no clue of what to do
Don't get me wrong this rock and roll road
Isn't always paved in gold
Day in and day out in a Kazoo Death Metal Band
Can take away your very soul...
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 8:31 AM UTC
Listed bookmarks of old, and baited non-benifit of the doubters.
A kind rewinded word of advice heard, pattern of choices and actions made a bested resounding thunderous sound,
near then , how come the doubters tested and warned to the trap not come, where graced benefit of the doubt be a stated consideration on that very **** day?
To the impact indicators blinking a sudden turn of the coat or is it the tail wagged the dog in the fog of a psychological electronic war that must be raging in the minds of the internet cheerful happy people as not it has in the walk and mind of mine, for i laid bare so as to share the scare i knew to find , and thus almost lost it all , wit correction, but you cast a guilt-ed hazy trash to one more that willing to best you and test you for the proven faith and trust he already gave, oh wait, or was that simply entertainment for the view of you ? so, um, sit down, you could have listened to me and gave benefit of the doubt, or did you forget what all this is truly all about? saving those whom have and are being manipulated into utter turmoil and death by these blood sport games in these windows... remember there "friend"? or is it ol craig and his lists are totally as bad off as little ol me, for shurly you see, that even she is free to some degree and will as i have walked all through , forgiven, yet my dear friend, do you think such grace for me? considering,most forget why the hell we have been doing all this and i walked you all through such ******** things... oh, sorry, i am sure you were getting around to that human trafficking thing, right? well, at least there are good people doing that as we speak, and for them we are grateful, are you?
Oh and no i am not mad nor upset, just disappointed, i always tell you what is coming and to choose. and still i harm you not even if it harm me.
The Unforgiven I,II and III - Metallica - (LYRICS)
h ttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i-HiAEXQP38
Motörhead - Ace of Spades (slow Acoustic version)
h ttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tc-PVTj9UCk
AC DC - Who Made Who lyrics
h ttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GuFq3ynnBo8
AC DC Ride On
h ttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ugwlIQ8K4Vs
Oct 14, 2015
Oct 14, 2015 at 1:22 AM UTC
She tears up the pages,
Just as her eyes tear as well.
Everything she's done,
It means nothing.
But that's alright.
All the tears, all the anger,
It won't do anything.
So again and again,
She'll stand again.
Wipe away the tears,
And put on a Sasha-Fierce smile.
She'll grin and laugh all at the right times,
Tell us all those puns,
Making sure we are always laughing and smiling, and most inportantly,
Okay.
Even as she crumbles like a cookie,
Sweet and loveable.
But I swear to you,
There's too much to her,
No matter how many times we try to understand her,
She'll always slip away right when we think we got her.
Alone but in the most crowded room there is.
Metallica will play,
Children of Bodom swims around her mind,
Everything about her is its own music.
So distinct,
So catchy,
I don't think I'll ever be able to get it out of my head anytime soon.
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 5:28 PM UTC
my nights of metallica and constant wondering,
are probably my favorite.
life picks you up by the shoulders,
shakes you round a bit,
and finally asks,
what am i anyways?
'til you just realize once again,
you'll never know the real answer
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 12:12 AM UTC
Waking thoughts
Lyrics to a song
Shuffle through the playlist
Find the perfect one.
Too many can describe
My mental alibi
So I just take a little time
For the lyrics to fill my mind.
Growing up there was no blue sky rhyme
Metallica, pink Floyd and the cure
Were the ones to describe my youthful shrine.
Older plays
Took some blues away
How is it that I wasn't born
In the Woodstock age?
The doors, temptations, Jim Croce
Carol king
God! It's so godly when they sing.
Then I had to hit that puberty
Like a brick to the face
Picking out my own musical taste.
Adema, korn, Dresden dolls, tool.
Stone sour, shinedown, nine inch nails
Stone temple pilots and more as well.
Give me lyrics that could scream
All the screaming out of me.
Little did I know that in my scene
I thought my music was defining me.
I'm not music. Just flesh and bone
Maybe I should expand my treble tone.
Throw some chicks in there, you know?
No one should have a song on repeat
And have that be the song you hear when we meet.
So I searched for some musical relief
I enjoy a good scream sometimes
But that's not all I breathe.
Some motion city, say anything,
Yeah I like akon, lady sovereign,
A perfect circle and deftones
Classical Mozart and Beethoven makes me feel right at home.
Silver mt Zion, some Phillip glass,
Michael nyman, now I've achieved some class.
Pink when I feel like pop or brass
Punch guys in the **** cause I'm a chick
Hell yes!
No not really. The **** part, I mean.
But I actually really do like pink.
Jon Bon jovi or Otis redding
When I want to think of this guy that I'm loving.
I might have lost track of the lyrics I was originally thinking
But with my selection I'm derailing
With musical tasting.
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 9:54 AM UTC
I don't care if it's Rock,
I don't care if it's Pop,
Soul, Jazz, or Techno
Are all the same to me.
I'll play an opera,
Or listen to Metallica.
Classical and Country are fine,
Or even a Reggae rhyme,
And Screamo is sublime.
It doesn't matter to me,
As long as it's
Loud.
Sep 10, 2014
Sep 10, 2014 at 4:30 PM UTC
it started with the alarm
which I forgot to turn off
because everyday
it's how it usually starts
but not today
I sacrificed some hard earned
hours, for a day, just for me
but forgot the alarm
sigh
So I arise
Turned on my phone
read some poetry
appreciated
every.
single.
response.
to me and my ramblings
Facebooked each piece
of my heart that poked me
while being grateful
they tickle with a finger
and not attack me
at my backbone
with a serrated knife
thats not nice
Cooked an early dinner
for my family
Because usually dinner time
clashes unusually with drinking time
and quite frankly
today, I just want them to eat heartily
and leave me be...
but one tiptoed through my sadness
because, he seems to be able
to climb any barbed wire fence,
negotiate the most hormonal minefield
see inside my ***** laundry basket
and kiss the hurts I feel
So I'm sitting here wallowing
in just another day
and I hear music from inside
I put my book down and sway
99 Luft Balloons
(in German, not English)
He hates that song with a passion
but he knows I love it.
Lucky Number...
Kate Bush
Fischer Z
Then my most favourite song!
*See chameleon
Lying there in the sun
All things to everyone*
Run run away
and my heart bursts apart!
It's not just another day
he's trying to make it special
with things to make me smile
bringing music into my life
no, it's not just another day,
it's my birthday
Raising my glass
to Iron Maiden
and Flogging Molly
Metallica and
and Jethro Tull
(the band, not the man)
I'm singing like no ones
listening
I'm dancing like no ones
looking
and I don't care!
It's my birthday
all are welcome
to feel my pleasure
and share!
Jan 28th 2014
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 3:19 AM UTC
PARTY ON SAYS ME ON YOUTUBE
you see as we party all day long
in every club that you see
like the private bin and the hungry horse
just blind beggars and firehouse just for me
you see, we lift up our glasses and
toast to the world our successes yeah mate yeah
partying is our middle name
i am pretty much well-controlled, dudes
yeah, we danced to jimmy barnes, oh he is so cool
and i dance to metallica as well
i got out my head banging air guitar to twisted sister’s
we’re not going to take it, anymore, oh cool, man
ya see i am a bit of an old biddy ya see
i am caught up in the fun of the 70s and 80s, oh yeah
i want lift life back so much ya see
to **** the old hag in me
as i sit at the mall with my coke, yeah i party great
i don’t want to be shy, oh no i am a family person, oh yeah mate ****** yeah
i am a regular guy dude, i am a regular guy
i deserve to have a happy party, dude, i don’t wanna be sad
i want to write cause it makes me feel great and opens up my brain
and rid all the problems from within, to ………
PARTY PARTY PARTY PARTY
i don’t want old mates meeting me when i am 79, unless their heart wants to, not their beer bottle or urge for cash
that sounds like i will be drifted backward through life unless he respects my choices
i know i like to party dude, and i can’t change who i am
ya see i am a person, yeah mate yeah, part of the YOUTUBE generation
and i think it’s fine, but we must keep the kids not tying themselves on youtube, risky business dudes
i am looking out for the kids, rather than spoil their ****** fun
someone could do them harm, oh yeah DUDES
just look at me, i am having so much on youtube, and poetry slams and plays and i want to help the HOMELESS
yeah, man i am having a ball
LET’S PARTY DUDES
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Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 1:52 AM UTC
“What is the most intimate thing
you've ever done?” she asked, as she
produced a small kit and withdrew
a syringe, holding it between
her long fingernails. She turned
up the volume of the music
to intensify the moment.
“You think *** is intimacy?”
*** is a body function! I'm
talking about sharing myself
and becoming a part of you,
with the very essence of me
racing through your veins. Are you scared?”
Metallica screamed in background.
What is the most intimate thing
I've ever done, I asked myself.
If it isn't *** what is it?
Give flowers, candy, jewelry,
pen a song, write romantic verse?
Achelous's daughter enticed.
'Course I was thinking like a male.
A woman would think of sharing,
beautiful sunsets, long cruises,
romantic dinners, holding hands...
She prepared my entertainment,
like a sacral ritual, and
I imagined Japanese flutes.
Sharing isn't intimacy.
I could've shared by dropping my trou,
but it was doubtful, it would been
appreciated, but no less
than her sharing was to me then.
"It's making someone feel special."
Having said that I slammed the door.
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 1:33 PM UTC
Lay beside me
tell me what they've done.
Speak the words I wanna hear
to make my demons run.
The door is locked now
but its open if you're true.
If you can understand the me,
then I can understand the you.
Lay beside me
under wicked sky.
The black of Day,
dark of night,
we share this paralyze.
The door cracks open
but there's no sun shining thru.
Black heart scarring darker still,
but there's no sun shining thru.
No, there's no sun shining thru.
No, there's no sun shining. . .
What I've felt, what I've known,
turn the pages, turn to stone.
Behind the door
should I open it for you?
What I've felt, what I've known,
sick and tired I stand alone.
Could you be there, 'cause
I'm the one who waits for you,
or are you unforgiven, too?
Lay beside me,
this won't hurt, I swear.
She loves me not,
she loves me still,
but she'll never love again.
She lay beside me,
but she'll be there when I'm gone.
Yes, she'll be there when I'm gone
Dead sure she'll be there. . . .
Lay beside me,
tell me what I've done.
The door is closed,
so are your eyes.
But now I see the sun.
Yes, now I see the sun.
Yes, now I see it. . .
What I've felt, what I've known,
turn the pages, turn to stone.
Behind the door,
should I open it for you?
Oh, what I've felt...
Oh, what I've known....
I take this key
and I bury it in you,
because you're unforgiven, too.
Aug 21, 2015
Aug 21, 2015 at 6:53 AM UTC