"misfortunes" poems
In order to expose my heart and truly write,
I must release my status or my pride,
this is not about me,
it was never meant to be a way to gain recognition,
another way for me to perform on a stage, some sort of exhibition.
Yet I find myself hesitating to write my thoughts,
trying to impress people I don't even know,
It was only meant to be an outlet a therapy for me, never some sort of show,
but like everything I have ever done somehow Id rather waste my time trying to impress. My guilty conscience driving me to be truly under duress. Forced to hold back the leanings of my heart I merely release a fluffy worthless shallow piece. I will not be stifled, held down by my need to please, my ribs will not rupture under this pressure as I try to breathe. I must write with heart and soul or not at all.
So this is my open message to you pride, no matter how many times I fool myself into putting on your mask, I promise, your control over me will not last.
I will take you off just as quickly as I put you on because I want someone who reads these to truly see me. To see me with all of my scars misfortunes and faith, I will put my heart out, I will never aspire to be fake.
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 10:18 PM UTC
burn the light of fire
and wax the ears of injustice.
chide the moon
and bid ado to the reckless sun.
count the blessings of misfortunes
and wave verbs in the air--
breathing the hopeful breaths of married sandals
Label the pains of a billion rain drops and fawn the feathers
of a nightingale over the glory of failed
triumphs known as yesterday.
break the hands of a wristwatch and make a ******* of time--
for through the God in Satan was how Earth was won.
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 4:32 PM UTC
A shadow washed over the land,
filling the people with an uncommon dread.
Darkness began to fill their thoughts,
their fears came to light
What is this shadow?
What is this fear?
How do we overcome this dark abyss?
We fight, we refuse to roll over and die
We smile at our misfortunes
We laugh in the face of danger
We overcome the darkness and we choose to live in the light.
Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 1:21 AM UTC
Night is for the hours
Cowards,
Let a man of God speak or night
Will continue to burn flowers
It's been said napkins are the greatest currency
For it holds the food spittle of man
Like how ambulances sit waiting
To clean up after misfortunes
And make fortunes for the fortun-
Who Ate paragraphs of spider webs
And patted weaves like black men seating at the back of the limited luxurious Q46 bus nodding heads to the noise of Toyota cameras they couldn't afford in the land where they spend $300 million to part the seas for summer entertainment
While they only spent $40 on California cuteness and walked on water with 13 Jesus' and ate at the bottom of the sea with only three tokes from the plastic bag
Let a man of God speak or night
Will continue to burn flowers
For we graduated from 30 hot nights of mathematics
Only to find that the future will always be white and in the *******
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 7:44 PM UTC
I want you to paint me,
and leave your mark.
Use my skin as your canvas,
Make me your work of art.
I want you to draw on me,
make me your personal sketch.
Using implements as pencils,
With each mark that you etch.
I want you to colour me,
in your signature shade.
Rosey pink with crimson red,
Then bid it not to fade.
I want you to hurt me,
as only you can do.
Make me pay for your misfortunes,
Tell me i deserve it too.
I want you to punish me,
show me you’re not weak.
Dispose of your bad luck,
Make my pain your winning streak.
I don’t know how to love you,
if you don’t hurt me too.
I don’t know how to treat you.
I will end up hurting you!
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 1:11 PM UTC
I used to think that ****** was the same as *****
And therefore I was both broken and unclean.
I have learned that you can wash the blood off
And cast out the stains of yesterday’s misfortunes
That I may kneel before you and tell you
That I am still sacred in my own skin.
Jul 19, 2022
Jul 19, 2022 at 7:56 PM UTC
Have you ever dated a butterfly ?
A butterfly who wings been grounded by lies,sin, adultery and broken promises.
A grounded butterfly whose wings ripped apart from a monstrous ant.
The butterfly stayed realizing its wings will never grow but it loved that ant for pleasures that won't fill the soul but just entice the body.
One day that butterfly did try to fly again but no wings and it found itself by mere coincidence in the nest of a growing dragonfly.
The dragon fly too was hurt and found itself wingless doing anything to forget it couldn't fly.
One day the butterfly and dragonfly came to be one together to ease the pain and to give the love the other deserves both too soon not ready but it's great, good and **** right horrible days.
But over time through mistakes and lies.
The dragonfly past vices caught up to it and little did the butterfly know it had baggage too it was fighting though wrong it tried to hide it but made things worse.
More time passed and struggles and misfortunes continued; it became apparent to the butterfly tired of being grounded it saw the dragonfly as species it cant intermix with.
They fought mentally against eachother only while hurting deep inside, the dragonfly too became more devoided and hidden but secretly it wanted to help bring the wings back to the butterfly. But after being dishonest the butterfly came to see it as a no good liar and cheat too.
A simple mistake it made and it hangs over something it never did but the die was cast, a created persona made from pain and hurt.
Truth is till this day that dragonfly only wishes to help and love that butterfly like it should be and dispel that hurt.
It wonders how can you get a butterfly that gave you chances and now won't take you back ?can you make a home, write a poem, or stay home alone wondering can you turn back time.....
It's still got a ways to go before its fully mature and experienced but it wishes to grow along side the butterfly as it too grows it's wings.
Can one day they build into what eachother needs with reckless abandon and learn to love one another the right way.
Just mere thoughts from a dragonfly.
Dec 1, 2019
Dec 1, 2019 at 4:19 AM UTC
Accidents and misfortunes crowding my life
choking out pleasures reserved for a lucky few.
Not realizing that they were there for me too, just to look for
passed by as I chose to look back, blinded to what could have been.
Running in circles skirting the truth
looking for lost moments, ticking into eternity.
My hope is in this new life that I’ve found
awakening the child I’d lost, now born again in you.
You’ve taught me to live, to look now for the simple and pure;
a glass of ***** Cana or a flock of cranes grazing on a hill.
Moving together in the rhythm of jazz
in the early morning sounds and light reflecting on you.
Your beautiful face, angelic in the morning light.
Aug 21, 2012
Aug 21, 2012 at 9:47 PM UTC
(Holding fire and water together)
I don't know why the rain keeps writing the
name of Nigeria on the ground in every corner.
I don't know why we are this broken and
tortured like the fragments of the dust.
I don't know why the Dapchi girls returned yesterday while their chikbok friends are
still in captive.
I don't know why every street in Nigeria is
known with an imprint of good leaders.
I don't know why we cry yet point accusation. fingers back to ourselves, who is fooling who?
I don't know why the sun cry here with a
closed lips.
I don't know why we keep writing love stories
while our brothers and sisters perish in shame!
I don't just know why but I think you should know.
Are you not the one that collected a cup of rice, clean notes and Abrahamic lie from them?
I won't speak ill of this land again, I won't!
I won't judge any one, no, I won't for the
sake of my unborn children.
No, I won't for the sake of what happened to Dele Giwa and Saro Wiwa.
We poets are abnormal psychologically.
We paints abstraction from the abstracts creating fears that might hurt those true patriots.
My muse fell out from me yesterday night,
When my television opened to a scene of genocide.
Men on pants, women on trousers painting out the tears made for people inhabiting hell.
Their laughters and smiles were printed to be archived among themselves.
I won't speak ill of this country, no, I won't!
Because of my unborn children,
I won't!
But I will tell just one tale for them to remember
Of how monkeys carted away with our monies!
Of how Snake swallowed our currency!
Of how good our leaders are, I think you know!
I have been holding these demons in me until last night they came out horribly in fierce protest to revisit this land again.
To tell of those girls ***** under the bridge,
To ask why boys like me are named after me,
To speak against shadows of death lurking here and there.
Nigeria is grey and black, red and violent,
Retrieving this oceans of mysteries from the hidden abyss of grave corruption is the passport tabled on the pyramid top to recreate a versatile muses of a lyrics calling for a right to write our rights.
Take a walk to memory lane pass your shadow, that of your father, mother & grandmas
You will see a Nigeria in another angle trying to free herself from the grip of corruption, then, revisit her tears and struggles you will know we are the cause of our own misfortunes.!
©John Chizoba Vincent
From_A_Pen_Refusing_Frustrations
Jun 30, 2018
Jun 30, 2018 at 5:00 PM UTC
I remember the night my mother
was stung by a scorpion. Ten hours
of steady rain had driven him
to crawl beneath a sack of rice.
Parting with his poison - flash
of diabolic tail in the dark room -
he risked the rain again.
The peasants came like swarms of flies
and buzzed the name of God a hundred times
to paralyse the Evil One.
With candles and with lanterns
throwing giant scorpion shadows
on the mud-baked walls
they searched for him: he was not found.
They clicked their tongues.
With every movement that the scorpion made his poison moved in Mother's blood, they said.
May he sit still, they said
May the sins of your previous birth
be burned away tonight, they said.
May your suffering decrease
the misfortunes of your next birth, they said.
May the sum of all evil
balanced in this unreal world
against the sum of good
become diminished by your pain.
May the poison purify your flesh
of desire, and your spirit of ambition,
they said, and they sat around
on the floor with my mother in the centre,
the peace of understanding on each face.
More candles, more lanterns, more neighbours,
more insects, and the endless rain.
My mother twisted through and through,
groaning on a mat.
My father, sceptic, rationalist,
trying every curse and blessing,
powder, mixture, herb and hybrid.
He even poured a little paraffin
upon the bitten toe and put a match to it.
I watched the flame feeding on my mother.
I watched the holy man perform his rites to tame the poison with an incantation.
After twenty hours
it lost its sting.
My mother only said
Thank God the scorpion picked on me
And spared my children.
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 7:29 AM UTC
Words blow
with the blast
Ink drops as oil to the flame
and burn the fire's light
Waved in the leaden air
the majesty of accuracy
scald the ears waxed with injustice
Literacy and liberty
are for all longing eyes
A witness to the silences—
to misfortunes ignored
to blessings need to be heard
to weak breath
trying to make sense of its existence-
the sonar in the deepest sea of truth
hears silences louder than speeches
Also, he believes in voices
voices stronger than power
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 7:55 AM UTC
We’re quick to blame those that break our hearts,
Railing against lovers for our misfortunes,
Consigning them to hell and so forth,
When in reality,
Our oft exhausted and defeated transgressors
Serve merely as the catalyst for the internal destruction that follows
For no one impacts your emotional wellbeing as much as you,
And you birth your demons, your pain,
After ‘us’ is no more,
There is just you and your head,
An entity far more dangerous than any borne of flesh and blood
Do not judge those that hurt you,
For they are as foolish and human as you,
And remember that though
Love may linger and torment,
It is a reminder of what your heart can do,
When it’s met its match
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 9:16 AM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected])
There are more and more misfortunes in the world
Known to you dear people in your diverse conditions,
But my life and experience has taught me unique lessons
Of kindred to befit me Elizabeth, a daughter of Zinjathropus
Hailing in the savannah desert, Turkana County of Kenya,
I have graduated in to a single lady without test of marriage,
As desert men look at me in their irritating impotence,
**** clothes wrapped around their slender waists passing on me
Like a dog passing on American dollars; cursed be desert men,
I thought my beauty of dark African complexions will give them a ****** tease
But to my chagrin; desert men have a fear of beautiful ladies
My conscience tells me that my beauty is an eye sore to them,
I thought my bulging hips will entice them as is a promise of fertility
Leave alone not to mention my concupiscent ****** warmth, uhmmm!
Desert men have dared not to see and appreciate my **** bossom,
They often pass on me driving their donkeys and emaciated carmels,
I thought my ***** sharp pointed ******* assign of virginity
Will call them to me into a treat of love, affiliative love,
But sadly enough; these dudes are erotically blind,
They they nonchalantly pass on my **** *****
Wielding a begging bowl in their ***** long hands
Running like drunkard chimpanzees going to Oxfam stores to beg for food,
Cursed be Oxfam an imperialist agent, it has crashed flat
The testicles of our desert brothers into ****** insensitivity,
Oxfam has made African desert men to beg like Hebrew lepers
Other than standing up on their feet to feed their women,
Normally as men would do from the sweat of their brow,
I thought my education will attract them to me,
To love me with those romantic University kisses,
But desert men have crude cultures and slavish religion
They rebuke girl child education as if it is a devil,
Oh my dear God of the forsaken desert ladies
Of the forsaken African daughters,
Take me out of this ****** desert
Take me out of the city desert of Lodwar,
Take me to the equator line and give me a husband,
My eggs are pretty ready to conceive and sire children
Sons and daughters for your own glory O almighty God,
Take me out of this ****** desert,
Where no man treats a modern woman,
Take me out of here and give me a fresh man of my dream.
Because I have known from today;
It is accurse to be a woman in Africa
It is a curse to be a beautiful lady in African deserts
It is a curse to be a woman graduate in the African desert
It is a curse to have ***** ******* in the African desert,
O! Help me God.
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 9:58 AM UTC
No other thing in this uncertain world
Tastes sweeter and surer
Than your name on my lips
A grace, undeserved
Bestowed upon me
For all the times you've held me
And I do not know what I did
In this life, or another
To be blessed by the heavens
Unsure if I was chosen somehow
Or by some stroke of luck
Came out from misfortunes
Given the sweetest grace
I am still somehow in doubt
If I am worthy
But deemed so by your touch
Igniting everything in me
And I am alive, living finally
Maybe it is true
That mercy changes you
Because now I have been renewed
And if this is a mistake
Against the world and all of nature
Then it is one I am willing to make
You have been named after fate
But in my mind
I call you sweeter things
You say that you cannot see it
And maybe so, maybe it is me
Because lately I have been realizing
I am the one who is lucky
Sep 2, 2022
Sep 2, 2022 at 1:54 PM UTC
Watch me as I fall from here
I do not wish to speak of such misfortunes
unfortunately other options have quickly began shortening
their obvious attempt for what can be logical decision
such incision with a knife also a master of the fiddle
fear me not the sky is lightened
now the dark began to set
How I wish it were to echo,
as the moon was put to bed
Yet my life has become ill gotten,
a thorn of crown upon my head,
yet my troubles seem so meager
then those of mice unlike us men
Gently weep into the silence
go forth brother hear your cry
may the sightly wind be with you
guide it deep into the sky
cause of thunder and then lighting
limit those who fear the sound
hear them weeping at the door step
as if the cat had made a sound
Jul 1, 2013
Jul 1, 2013 at 4:06 AM UTC
Arrow upon arrow the stricken heart endured,
Strife and doom its woeful dream ensured.
Vile phantoms of creed with deception en route
Intended to thwart, unveil their wicked fruit.
Satan had withered our spirit's joy and flame,
And gathered an earthly militia; among those to blame.
A maze he encrypted, the heir's light yet unseen,
All prospects stolen, great efforts wiped clean.
Creative their mind twilight art they presented,
The Sphere's evil hosts all reflected and resented.
Lost was all hearing, faith and sight,
Misplaced sense of wonder and good sense in flight.
"I worship nothing!" His heir once preferred,
Such was the spirit in high degrees deterred.
"Paragons of justice, will I ever get to see
The day my misfortunes cease to be?
They shadow, entrap and starve my soul
Of love and joy and all control!
So tired I am, and tired I shall stay
If purpose here is merely to convey
No purpose at all, except for one:
To enslave the soul, casting punishment for fun.
My simple wish, then, is simply to impart
An end to this misery and to my sanctioned heart."
His despairing heir put in motion so
An idea most frightening, its telling shall forego...
Immerse in their demise, allow for stricken grief,
Then foresee the King's love and His graciousness in fleet.
He gathered around, with love He replaced
Satan and his minions conspiring in space;
The King broke off the heir's chains with great might,
He enlightened our spirit, who had not known the light.
The heir's desperate cries reached The King's vibrations,
He released the heir and nullified all limitations.
Profound divine wisdom our heir now espies;
Seeing The King's glory and the through destroyer's lies.
Great wisdom and revelation now fill this mended heart,
But it's a tale best left for another form of art...
Nov 20, 2016
Nov 20, 2016 at 11:35 PM UTC
The Art of Subconscious Illusion is an elusive tendency towards the averse,
or rather,
the act of lying to oneself
Oft times you’ll find yourself wondering how...
…how you lost her…how you lost love…
how you lost yourself
Your mind a jumble of
spiral static,
coils of confusion, twisting malevolently,
failing and falling,
flawed and faulty,
feeble and fading,
you slowly begin to yearn for a second chance,
wish that you had performed more charmingly in the blistering tragedy of feelings lost...
but there are few second chances in the misfortunes of life.
the damage is done, and now you must live with the consequences
of a dying will to persist in this journey,
the ups
the downs
the laughter
the pain
after endless days of convincing yourself you’re not to blame you finally see it for what it is...
You made the choice
you made your bed, and now you must lie in it…
and as you slowly make your way towards the reclining slope of the soft satin covers you’ll begin to see….
it was not a bed your actions relayed....
....it was a coffin
Jun 22, 2017
Jun 22, 2017 at 8:51 PM UTC
This is the song of the handsome people
bleached white bones
dark red flesh
with wrinkles deep and old
as the desert.
Their arrows having disembarked
have faded into the
molten clay of the
mean-spirited earth.
Their heritage having been
habitually crushed with cause
for hatred has been
enveloped in peace and pride
and is cloaked in
dry hides.
Feathered in cold trails of tears
to match trails of aging
they have covered up their
misfortunes with song
and smoke.
Their rainbow carried by the wind
to some far-off pasture
rides on the backs of deer
and dead bison
to be consumed in smoke
and black flame.
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 3:21 PM UTC
I sneak a peek through the bullet hole in my *****
kitchen's window,
steel bars prevent escape.
I gaze upon piles of worthless junk thoughtlessly
discarded on the asphalt lot below,
where children run and play.
Momma drinks to another day's sorrows, from a
fingerprinted glass,
surrounded by the colored bottles from yesterday's
celebration.
I quietly walk to the living room
where a suffering Jesus weeps silently upon the
silver-flowered wallpapered wall,
I swear sometimess he speaks to me in a whisper,
telling me,
"Don't despair."
Arguing voices cursing the misfortunes of a drug deal
gone bad.
Break! The silence outside my living room's door.
Dungeon gray....
Heavy as steel.....
Countless locks.....
A piercing scream echoes,
goes ignored,
then fades....
I sit alone upon our dusty brown couch,
as Momma rambles on senselessly in the other room,
an alcholics tune.
I stare once again to the suffering Jesus hanging hopelessly
upon the wall,
as the night draws near and the light as dim as my
dreams?
I whisper a tearful prayer for hope,
within this ghetto's
gloom.....
Jul 22, 2012
Jul 22, 2012 at 11:23 AM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected])
With audacious openness
Let me accept substantial lot of men folk
When it comes to efforts in love,
Most are misfortunate.
Every time they dare to built
Affiliative bonding for love
With beauties beheld
By their limited eyes
The invincible whirling spell
Of fortune’s fool
Beguile them forlornly
Down the social abyss of time,
I and my type not an exception to the club
Of the guys who swallowed misfortune
Like the dog of Theodore erotokorostos
Does to a piece of bone
In poetic obscurantism
Of the corruptible simple souls
Obtaining their pathetic lot from ***** and wine,
In the first trial I chanced on a neurotic peasant,
In the second trial I chanced on turn to be henpecked,
On the third trial I chanced on a beautiful paranoid,
My fourth trial chanced me a deadly stooge,
My fifth trial gave me the worst blow
As I forlornly chanced on the time’s public commoner,
My sixth trial makes me chicken
Had it not been poetic audacity
That makes me brave to chew in public
The lot of my misfortune as I recall
The bitter sweetness of chancing on
A beautiful epileptic kleptomaniac,
My tired trial in the waned efforts
Chanced me a lesbian with insignificant bisexuality,
O! I now tire off from misfortunes of love
With a last black chance on a neurotic money-maniac,
And this is the silent lot of men
In their usual efforts to fulfill their dreams of love.
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 9:43 AM UTC
See him wasted on the sidewalk, in his jacket and his jeans
Wearin' yesterday's misfortunes like a smile
Once he had a future, full of money love and dreams
Which he spent like they was goin' outta style
And he keeps right on a'changin', for the better or the worse
Searchin' for a shrine he's never found
Never knowin' if believin', is a blessin' or a curse
Or if the goin' up was worth, the comin' down
He's a poet, an' he's a picker, he's a prophet, an' he's a pusher
He's a pilgrim and a preacher, and a problem when he's ******
He's a walkin' contradiction, partly truth and partly fiction
Takin' ev'ry wrong direction on his lonely way back home
He has tasted good and evil, in your bedrooms and your bars
And he's traded in tomorrow for today
Runnin' from his devils Lord, and reachin' for the stars
And losin' all he loved, along the way
But if this world keeps right on turnin', for the better or the worse
And all he ever gets is older and around
From the rockin' of the cradle, to the rollin' of the hearse
The goin' up was worth, the comin' down
He's a poet, an' he's a picker, he's a prophet, an' he's a pusher
He's a pilgrim and a preacher, and a problem when he's ******
He's a walkin' contradiction, partly truth and partly fiction
Takin' ev'ry wrong direction on his lonely way back home
There's a lot of wrong directions, on that lonely way back home
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 7:45 PM UTC
only dead boys hold insects like they're something
special
only a dead boy would let a mantis in his heart and
preying was always a better descriptor
because hymns burned in my throat and
i scratched a cross into my palm but i was never lucky enough to scar
but
oh, dead boy
bug lover
enduring a thousand lashes to save the soul of a beetle -
i'll help you peel off all your scabs to make sure they scar
thick tissue skin memory sometimes you think scars are the closest you'll get
to a wedding ring
you're a suicide king i think a kingdom of hearts was never the safest place for you i
don't think you understand the way your subjects' hearts are strung because
entomology entomos everything you love is cut to bits
and on the fourteenth of february you told me
the only purpose of a flower
was to hold
a spider
inside
and i guess that was why you painted all your walls with roses i
hope your garden smells as sweet
covered in your misfortunes
only a dead boy would let
a praying mantis so close
to his neck
oh, you freak. disgusting.
i ate the last one that let me this close.
you told me {if i die
leave my body
in the forest
by
an anthill}
maybe you don't realize we were doomed from the start or maybe you're just naïve but
honey you're a dead boy and
corpses don't fall in love.
[you're so genuine it hurts and i think
i could teach you how to be a fake -
nobody likes an honest man
i could teach you how to hate the world but you said
{the only one
i hate here
is me}]
freakish child.
all you see in every rorschach is mantes and
decapitations and
wedding rings you are an aberration,
suicide king entomologist your throne room
was full of termites.
with hallowed cheeks and hollowed churches,
i will assure that you scar
dead boy, if you die
i will put maggots
in your chest
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 2:44 PM UTC
From time to time in the years to come,
I hope you will be treated unfairly,
so that you will come to know the value of justice.
I hope that you will suffer betrayal
because that will teach you the importance of loyalty.
Sorry to say, but I hope you will be lonely from time to time
so that you don’t take friends for granted.
I wish you bad luck, again, from time to time so that you will be conscious of the role of chance in life and understand that your success is not completely deserved and that the failure of others is not completely deserved either.
And when you lose, as you will from time to time, I hope every now and then, your opponent will gloat over your failure. It is a way for you to understand the importance of sportsmanship.
I hope you’ll be ignored so you know the importance
of listening to others, and I hope you will have just
enough pain to learn compassion.
Whether I wish these things or not, they’re going to happen. And whether you benefit from them or not will depend upon your ability to see the message in your misfortunes.
Supreme Court Chief Justice John Roberts
speaking at his son’s middle-school graduation, June 3:
Jul 11, 2017
Jul 11, 2017 at 10:38 AM UTC
A toadstool is swelling
inside my limbic system.
Spores sweat amongst tissue cavities,
dining out on grey matter,
until they force me
to stay in bed through the day.
What a thing it would be.
Depression as a fungus.
A mildewed mind as damp sets in,
the trumpet player
with athletes foot,
casting out the air-borne blues.
Misfortunes follow one another
along straits of fate,
as if sadness were a colony itself.
I want to take a pill
to **** the mushroom
that plumes over my head.
You can only diagnose
through words and symbols,
only treat once you set down your pen
and hold the hand
of a patient lover,
of the savant drinking at the bar.
For now I will let air in
through the open window,
watch the dreamcatcher sway
and hang like a tarantula
over the stars and crescents,
spilling out over my bed.
When I close my eyes
I hear the ocean in distant traffic,
sounding as waves when rolling by the door.
I will drown in seawater
and hallucinate a scene
of happiness.
Of a place for a poet's retreat.
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 9:01 AM UTC
Its annoyance
Anointed
In pessimistic clairvoyance
Its the avoidance
Of the simplistic
And stoical
Components
Its motion
Less
Ness
In oceans
Of lip service
Its ***** potions
For the passionate
Its fake ****
And face lifts
Its abortions
In portions
Of subordinates
As gifts
In gifs
Of gorgeous
Ordinance
Distorted
In tortured
Tapping
Of the dead
Its all the fame
In shoving
The pain
Of loving
In the oven
Of stubborn
Mothers
Blubbering
Under the covers
With other men
Its the omens
Of the oh mans
In roman
Misnomers
Of fortunate
Misfortunes
Torn
From time
Its the mine mine mines
Confined
To their own kind
Pre signed
In old blood
Its consignment killers
Its the drugs
Its timeless thrillers
Its the shrugs
Its the thunder
Plundering
Structures
Rattling out
From under the bed
Its all the thoughts
In our heads
Blaring
The booms
Of the tamed
Its the assumed
The restrained
Its this tomb
Of shame
In doing
The same
Old **** again
And again
Its been
Better
Then again
I grin
When
Cold
Its when i should fold
That i embolden
Its all the No's
Its blankets nose
Its the cut blow
And lack of flow
Its fists and elbows
As opposed
To safety locks
Its ******* flu shots
Its everything
That ****** me off
Its the the stupid robots
And the silly riot cops
Fencing in the famished flocks
Its the *****
And the *****
In plastic boxes
Giving rocks
Off
Without us
Its the gold pots
And stacked stocks
Locked
From us
Its the Rocks
Inside my socks
As they knock
The blocks
Of billy bobs
Bobbling
On the dash
Its the harsh
And its the rash
Its inside the last
Bastion
Of dummassez
passing
Through the
Blast radius.
Alas
Its the mass graves
And the paved pools
Of anyone who knew
Anyone who stood
Its all us fools
As cool kids
Knowing
No show biz
In soul ****
Its in knowing this
And ********
And barking
At the moon
Soon
To swoon
None
I am peaking soon
In looming threat
Of lost concepts
Slipping away
Under the sun
Electing to quit
While im ahead
Way back when
It was fun
Way back when
It mattered
Its a gun
Shooting blather
Blathering
As a bladder
Would
Misanthropic
And misunderstood
A changed topic
Knock on wood
Bye is good
Goodbye
Told you
Its implied
In rite
So
Good
night
Until
next
time
Jan 28, 2013
Jan 28, 2013 at 2:59 AM UTC