"nixon" poems
In The Prison Of Winter, No Rise, No Set
orbit nearly closed,
the radio announcer gleefully
chirruping, the twittering fool,
"only ** graves to X off till
spring"
the weight of the prior
the wait of the more
no matter how little
yet to come
too much insufferable
having suffered
multiple life sentences
you snit **** u don't know better,
ha, they don't even run
concurrently
there are no sunsets
in the girding grays
of harsher enough and words that fail me,
are the winners in the
winter of the ****
tests and hunts,
I have successfully
failed
of course I'm wrong you
petulant hobgoblin wringing
nyet from me you'll get no concession,
**** science,
there are no sunsets in the winter
and the sunrises,
short unsweetened,
light-less, less of less,
frigid glaring revealers
of dead trees
and deader
men
maybe in the Rockies,
perhaps the Alps,
wonderlands photoshopped,
pretty lies on the Internet BS posted
where I live,
wear the wear the weary
neath the sweat stink of layers of
unbundled choking hands,
winter's damage
assessed and assessment is
never overdue, payable in
immediacy
heating bills I can't pay,
a job that said no more of you,
unpretty please,
a woman who sorcerer-scarced herself
right freaking black magic quick,
trust me I have certified verified,
me and Nixon,
X's on the kitchen calendar,
there is daylight, there is mighty night,
almighty in long and colorless
and nothing in between,
but the smog stained slush of
smothered life
but definitely
no sunrises and no sunsets
watched all day from the
imprisoning kitchen window
which doubles
as a **** you
mirror
there are no, not any,
you know what,
cannot even say them,
the pipe dreams of better yet,
pipes that have beaten down
me and my
disassociated senses,
signed sealed and now delivered,
from the formerly known as
The Summer Man
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 9:39 AM UTC
Soulless,
We quenched our dreams with thirst;
bought the heavens,
Waving a country of radio love
As fee,
United under one Internet
Two Chocolate paper ******* announcements
And $6 New York Halal meat.
The mortal man always drinks his sea--
So ask your doctor about Nixon
And lift the verbs off your skirt
For Nemo
who replaced Icarus
And now twerks at synods
With strip club oven oil glued
To his left fin;
The same one God used to bet Satan over the soul of man.
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 7:20 PM UTC
unsuccessful potatoes & you found a tree in the ocean
i spent the afternoon digging, digging
my fingernails into my own fear of commitment
the fear of my own reputation
now the cat's in heat & richard nixon (the dog)
is teasing her with his trump card
she takes it
& squeezes it
very gently
then rips it open madly & snarls
& it oozes and drips out of her mouth
we all pick up a thousand pieces of a minute
i cremated my sister this morning & new spirits
arrived at my doorstep before noon
they sang to me of instinct,
whinnying about the antique zenith
up in cheyenne
"gimmie some secrets" she said
so i carved them
into my arm
into a minotaur's chest
into a giant looking glass
into a wooden boat
& i set sail for the sundial,
"there is no truth"
my eyes are wax & the ocean
means nasty filth
but everything is useless now
frogs carry high powered harmonicas
& walk into the spells of Poe
& into the hexagrams of Hamlet
i do not want to carry a pitchfork across
some godforsaken desert
i do not want to feel my own evaporation
while the real artists brood in the meantime
i want to waste away on a slushy evening
i will live in my armpit
& hate you
& never wear deodorant
"your mind is small--it is limited--why must you understand?"
Jan 10, 2012
Jan 10, 2012 at 9:11 PM UTC
Peculiar
Agreed?
How ******** clad lassies
Get the pass to show their ***
Long as nobody touches
Jiving gyrations
In counter-clockwise rotation
Seldom unescorted by damnation
By God, sense the relation
She's losing her patience
Can't afford to be a patient
So being patient...
That **** is ancient
Swanging ******* before eyes
Eyes that can't see
Eyes blind by the fuckery
***** get hickory
And the tic tickory of the clock
Stops
Drop drop
Shake that body for the coin
Make those men yearn to join
Their meat to your groin
Blind men throw out the presidents
Nixon Jackson Benjamin
Facts is
That these hoes stay cashing in
More than ****** busting traps
And toting gats to make stacks
Peculiar
Agreed?
How a ***** sell and smoke ****
High off they own supply
Baby mamas multiply
Covered all the **** by a lie
Making these young girls cry
And the innocent have to die
For this boy to strive
When you mad at the *** clap
Fat *** on a mans lap
Slow wine then fast
Slow grinding for cash
But no harm is caused
No obstruction of laws
But men be a "Boss"
& a woman... A loss
Oct 19, 2013
Oct 19, 2013 at 1:47 AM UTC
A dying man does nothing easy,“Lock and load. Let's do it”,said G.W. Green
Right before Jack Pursley sent 3-5 grams of sodium thiopental coursing through his veins
in Texas. Sticking with the states motto it was probably 5. As lethal drugs flowed into his arms, he used an obscenity to describe life, gasped once and made no further movement.
Imagine his brief confidence in the face of this adversity, before the heart’s blood
Settled in the ventricles.
Some have called such confidence a monstrosity titled, “Hubris”--
Alexander of Macedonia thought it necessary, to cross the turbulent river against fear
-ful odds. For destiny demanded imitation of his exemplar Achilles
Quickly eroded was this by the pleas of Parmenio, who reasons it would be,“failure at the outset.”
Imagine Alexander reciting the words of G.W. Green, instead of heeding to this squelching caution
How quickly we’d throw this decisions bones in the pile, with ******
In Stalingrad & Nixon in Vietnam
All to be shoved in to, a mass grave of faulted zealots.
Covered with soil, bitter compost not to be forgotten
Rosemary sprouts next to a burning
bush in Iraq.
Dec 25, 2012
Dec 25, 2012 at 5:36 AM UTC
I have a new big brother
He's dressed in tory blue
He's not just my big brother
I think he's your bro too!
He sits up in his tower
Pulling strings across the land
But when a string of his should break
It's not his *** that gets canned
I found out my incumbent
Goes to Africa every year
In fact I'm told he stays there
For as long as he stays here
I don't really believe it
But you know it must be true
My Big Brother called to tell me
I'm surprised that he got through
Six months away is what we're told
Glen Pearson spent away
But tales like this sound more like they
Were told by Stockwell Day
So late at night, my phone did ring
To tell me how to vote
They told me how the Liberals
Were up the creek without a boat
I know that I'm supposed to go
To the church across the street
That's where the poll is and I know
It's where our local voters meet
But when my bro called down to me
And said, "You don't go there"
This time you vote in Ingersoll
There is no line up there
My big brother said we were wrong
His party would not stoop
To do phone calls to folks like us
That was a bunch of ****
Why would he lie, he is the King
I've read his license plate
He's my brother, one I'm told
That holds on to my fate
His party gave out tax rewards
To companies for jobs
They took all of the money
And they closed the shop down....slobs
It's funny how one person can
Phone ridings, not one missed
But I can't get their calls to stop
And I'm on the no call list
Robo calling is what it is
A heinous crime at best
Nixon used it in the States
Although he never did confess
Comparing my Big Brother now
To Tricky Dicky Nixon
Well, I've got to say
Those PC's sure know just the way to fix one.
To hang one man out for this task
It surely can't be true
I wonder if he'll change his mind
And his suit of Tory Blue
I ask around and all I hear
is I voted NDP
So, how in hell, explain to me
they'e a majority
I know that my Big Brother
Would not do such a thing
Excuse me for a moment
But my phone's about to ring!
Jun 30, 2012
Jun 30, 2012 at 6:59 PM UTC
When did news parody
stop being funny?
Was it somewhere between
Alan Jackson’s 9/11 cash-in
and Donald Trump’s hair?
Was it BoJo stranded on a zipline over London,
or Cameron’s alleged porcine relations
(bizarrely black-mirroring fiction)?
When did the news
start doing Chris Morris’ job for him?
When did they start
pre-satirising the headlines?
“No evidence mermaids exist,” says US Government.
Swimming pool evacuated after prosthetic leg is mistaken for **********
Robots follow Marco Rubio to South Carolina.
I swear, I didn’t
make any of those up.
The actors on Saturday Night Live
are more statesmanlike
than the Presidential Primary Candidates they’re lampooning.
How the hell do they breed these
creatures? These gurning,
overgrown foetuses with their
conveniently dead ****** sisters to get
all wet-eyed and tumescent over,
their boomingly hollow controversy and
their total, catastrophic
crashes of personality.
These loathsome
organic constructs who would seem
more relatable and trustworthy if
their image consultants made them wear
Nixon masks for every
public appearance.
When did it all become
this strange, sick spoof
of itself?
Is there no one left in Britain who can make a sandwich?
Man dressed as penguin receives more votes than the Liberal Democrats.
Piers Morgan given jail time for illegally hacking ‘phones and gloating about it.
Okay.
I made the last one up.
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 6:07 AM UTC
In an apartment on 53rd street
A fire is burning
Out of a keyhole &
Into a cigarette.
Smoke comes in walls
& is heavier than rocks
& it takes an artist
To hate oneself.
Moon-faced Serbians sipped
Drain-O from sandals
While red-lipped nomads
Gazed & sharpened their blades.
A fat lady walks in &
Before she can say
“Burger & fries”
There are spears in her ears.
The body is dragged to the
River by sheepish failures, but
The boxer knew what was afoot &
Had removed all the water from the river.
But no-one cared because a riot had
Started in the streets
“Flay the feminazis,” they chanted
“Pour molten oil on the devout,” they screamed.
& all the flat-eyed artists
& all the drag-queen mobsters
Danced around the fire like evolution
& an ape got in the middle of it.
His fingertips calloused
His elbows like spears
His eyes w/ more blood
Than white.
Richard Nixon or
A Richard Nixon costume
Entered stage right w/
Boxing gloves & cocktails.
They would throw children
Across the fire
& artists on the other side would be
Waiting w/ nets & knives.
But then tear gas came
& they cried & their
Tears were like the eyes that
Glinted at them.
Out of a keyhole &
Into a cigarette.
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 2:13 AM UTC
Oh Henry
What a star you are!
You always loved to be at the center of attention
Your accomplishments in diplomacy are well known
You brokered the peace treaty between Israel and Egypt
You effected detente with the Soviet Union
You opened up the way for Nixon in China
You negated the Communist threat in Chile
You said it yourself
"Power is the ultimate aphrodisiac.”
You have admitted that mistakes were
"Quite possibly made"
By administrations in which you served.
You have questioned whether, 30 years after the event,
"Courts are the Appropriate means by which determination is made".
And Cambodia Henry?
You were complicit
In the illegal carpet bombing of neutral Cambodia
Which sowed the seeds for the murderous Pol *** regime
Pinochet was indicted for human rights violations
Diplomacy is a ***** business
You did what you thought needed to be done
You remain cold and secretive
Do you have any remorse or regret?
The old Russian proverb is wrong Henry
Time does not heal all wounds
There is blood on your hands
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 11:06 PM UTC
In 1972,
Nixon shook hands with Mao
and the world turned its back on Taiwan.
In 1972,
Ceylon changed its name to Sri Lanka,
Okinawa returned to Japan,
and Jane Fonda became Hanoi Jane.
In 1972,
twin Olympics were held,
hungry tigers on wooden skis dashing
down the white slopes of Sapporo,
while the streets of Munich ran red
with the blood of slain Israelis.
In 1972,
Elvis was still the king,
Elton wasn’t quite the queen
and Prince was still a quiet teen.
On September 21, 1972,
Philippine president Ferdinand Marcos
placed my grandmother’s homeland under martial law.
I was born that day
while my grandmother wept.
Jan 5, 2021
Jan 5, 2021 at 9:17 PM UTC
Into the Seasons of my mind I wander.
The gentle laughter that teased my tender ears,
Of my grandmother and her friends meeting,
Like ladies used to do.
The aroma of fresh baked cookies, cakes and pies,
Wafting in the cool Autumn breeze.
Back when women baked and were proud of it,
Back when there was Time...
Time to gather and just be glad to be together.
No harmful gossip, just the joy of friends
Willing to help each other through trials
That Life throws.
The strength of velvet bonds
Tied together for the common good of all.
Leading by examples, not needing to pontificate
On the deportment young ladies should show.
And me, proud to be included.
My Grandma's Shadow, adding my
Youth and exuberance to the occasion.
Learning about Life on that vine covered porch.
My apron was sized for my small frame,
I wore a dress, like the ladies present always did.
My hair coiffed, just because
I wanted to make my Grandma proud.
Oh yes, those were the days.
Before emails and internet,
When we spoke to each other and
Learned how important communication truly is.
Days, when it was good for girls to look like girls
And be proud of approaching womanhood.
Not subservient, but a partnership
That made men proud.
Yes, those were the Days!
Unforced laughter,
Able to face the world without fear,
Because we knew "Good" would win.
I'm grown now, I don't always wear a dress.
I live in a "Man's" world, contrary to my early years.
But I still smell the baking cookies, pies and cakes.
I still sit on my front porch .
My heart remembers my childhood
Though I must adjust to this fast moving Life,
I will always carry in my Soul,
As I long for the days of Poise and Ivy.
Deb Nixon
Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 3:18 PM UTC
Dead people are no doubt bored, so I'm sure these folks would be happy for free food and conversation. Of course, this is just a partial list, subject to addition and deletion. Feel free to add your own in comments.
Buddha, but a light lunch.
Jesus, but kosher of course.
****** come on, who wouldn't.
James Joyce, just to mock him.
George Washington, to try to catch him in a lie.
Hemingway, but just for drinks.
Reagan, to deliver some Depends.
Bakunin, for mutual aid.
William Butler, my ancestor who survived The Wheatfield at Gettysburg.
Audrey Hepburn, but a date, not lunch.
Ingmar Bergman, just to cheer me up.
Ervin Schrödinger, about that cat.
Shakespeare, because I've always wanted to meet an extra-terrestrial.
Ezra Pound, to tell him he was right about usury.
God, to let her know how disappointed I am.
Richard Nixon, so I could drive a stake through his heart.
Julia Child, just to hear her voice again.
Lenin, because he was a self-starter.
Mozart, because he would be fun.
Emma Goldman, to dance.
James Dean, as we look so much alike.
Janis Joplin, because I might get lucky.
Come on, I'm sure you can add to the list. Don't be shy, try.
mce
Apr 11, 2015
Apr 11, 2015 at 7:27 PM UTC
Rubber faces. Foreheads sweat, stream clown makeup when cheeks meet. Sweet blood: corn syrup, water, starch. Lick then smell. Vampires pick jolly rancher debris from teeth. Blue fangs. A skeleton in the closet undresses a nun. Open door open window sit three cats. Watch the sun set. Crows murdered around oak trees. Darkness. Lights, music, karaoke, Elvis sings Franki Valli. Richard Nixon gropes a slutty nurse. Left hand, right breast. Alcohol permeates air. Skin, sweat. Touch. Marilyn Monroe hoards candy corn souped with beer broth in her stomach. Passes out. Steve Irwin wears a sting ray through his chest, ***** tail through his shirt, surrounded in blood. First place in the costume contest. Alter egos. Fred Flintstone feels snubbed. So does a saran wrapped girl. Nipples hidden with black fabric circles. Black balloons. Orange ones. Red balloons. Popped. Silent girl in white stands in the corner. Caresses a small bottle of cyanide in her fingers. Thumb, middle, pointer, pointed at Marilyn. She knows she will not wake up. They’ll call it suicide. Elvis finishes his song in a falsetto,
Oh, what a night.
Oct 5, 2010
Oct 5, 2010 at 10:46 AM UTC
Tax man been comin’ round my door
What the hell from me he wanting for?
Old man saying there been riots in the streets
That this just the price to pay for civil society
Young man laughs at the foolish game
The Hebrews cried out, "Give us a King!"
there can be no rule by reason, only trust in God
but the people cry out for the human bond
With a warning, the TRUTH spoke out a roar
He will enslave your sons and send them off to war
he will take the best of your best, and keep your stock as his own
only trust in Me, and the order will form
a higher dimension that no mortal can conceive
Believe my people, please believe
forget the untruth of the safety lie
The world is chaos, and you will surely die
No man can save you from this eternal fate
so why not live free in your given days?
There is a plan within our shared channel
Let's trust in that and see the thought forms dismantled
some call it the system
Authority, man
Taking from you, all that they can
Giving back, what isn't theirs to give
We can work together and surely live
Free of the tax man, his burden is forced
deny him the money
that unquenchable thirst
Necessary evil, some will say
Look at coercion, monster I'll slay
They preach peace while practicing War
Nixon targeted Peaceniks to settle a score
don't be fooled by the rebranding attempts
the new boss is the old boss
time and time again
Our fathers are tired, so let's give them a rest
Usher in the New World
give it our best
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 6:09 PM UTC
Mr. President,
why do you lie?
Mr. President,
why do you lie?
Mr. President,
why do you lie?
Mr. President,
why do you lie?
President Nixon,
cheated his way,
into the office,
almost got away.
Got himself impeached,
thought he could lie.
Went down in history,
as a bad guy.
President Nixon,
why did you lie?
President Nixon,
why did you lie?
President Nixon,
why did you lie?
President Nixon,
why did you lie?
President Clinton,
**********
on Lewinsky's dress,
and sealed his fate.
Thought they could hide it,
but a close friend spews,
all of the details,
about the two.
President Clinton,
why did you lie?
President Clinton,
why did you lie?
President Clinton,
why did you lie?
President Clinton,
why did you lie?
Obama says,
we'll be out soon.
Three years later,
he looks like a buffoon.
Sitting, scorched in desserts,
in Iraq and Iran.
Lying to become president,
what a great plan!
President Obama,
why did you lie?
President Obama,
why did you lie?
President Obama,
why did you lie?
President Obama,
why did you lie?
No one will get away,
with lying today.
Because when the government lies,
everybody dies.
Dec 5, 2011
Dec 5, 2011 at 5:54 PM UTC
BANG CRASH BANG CRASH
HuuuuBANGmmmmm. WhCRASHir.
I hold my fist in the air against
a specimen that would commit genocide against me,
a semi-sapien in that humanity is devoid.
CRASH the people we call monsters.
BANG the sound of nuclear omnicide.
whiirrrr. If we all die, it'll be a great
CRASH to ignore. FUCK'em;
I'll toss my plastic in the heap
if it means we melt off the planet
or drown in our own eventuality.
If it BANGs it's head voluntarily
why's it white like a straight jacket [?],
why's isn't it a criminal like Nixon,
like no bird and two Bushes. CRASH
CRASH
BANG CRASH BANG CRASH
Hum. Whir.
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 3:46 AM UTC
Cómo conocieron las uvas
la propaganda del racimo?
Y sabes lo que es más difícil
entre granar y desgranar?
Es malo vivir sin infierno:
no podemos reconstruirlo?
Y colocar al triste Nixon
con el traste sobre el brasero?
Quemándolo a fuego pausado
con ****** norteamericano?
1.2k
I opened my eyes to a crystal day.
Frost lay heavy on the ground.
I look at my darkened Christmas Tree.
There is silence all around.
No one else astir at all.
This is time for God and I.
So, in this quiet of time alone,
I wished this year good-bye.
I thanked God for His blessings.
So many, they were hard to count.
His Grace for mistakes I made,
Strength when troubles seem to mount.
I shed tears of happiness
With reflections of family and friends.
For the good times and laughter,
The times to make amends.
My tears continued flowing.
For my loved ones gone away.
Their memories bright as diamonds
For in my heart, they will always stay.
Yes, this year was one of trials.
But through tests, we are made strong.
With no promises of tomorrow,
I won't wait to right my wrongs.
I thank God for His Mercy,
His time He gives me, I'll use for good.
And never take for granted,
All the times I knew I could.
For now, I shed the pain of the past.
For the future, I'll grasp it tight.
Knowing God is in full control,
This next year will be brilliantly bright.
I share with you my prayers.
My loved ones, far and near.
We'll make our mark in 2011
God's blessings for this coming year!
Deb Nixon
Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 2:56 PM UTC
he howled about the best minds of his generation
being lost, but I am not sure they were ever found
though I once lapped up his words like a cat with the sweet cream
or a ravenous dog licking the bottom of his bowl
after a cold wet fast--yep, a dog, like that
and who ever called us the dogs of war?
canines don’t know **** about war: the waiting,
the planning, the measuring, the murdering
they only know fear and what it tastes like to win
what it sounds like to lose, but they didn’t choose
they didn’t have a moral dilemma when fur and teeth and flesh
became a hot blur a la ****** cur, we,
with our “best minds” he thought were festering
were duped only by ourselves, by our desire to believe
the simple sweet lies rather than the shredding shedding truth
who could we blame? Walter Cronkite? Norman Mailer?
John Wayne, Nixon or Peter Pan?
yes, he howled; his howling wasn’t that
of the wolf at the moon, revealing an eternal hunger for a full belly
but a desperate audible gasp for one honest line, one
affluent aphorism before he slipped into the abyss
I won’t give it to him, because I was one of the dogs of war
not pretending to be wolf like he, not lamenting the loss
of great minds, whatever the **** those are
I was washing the blood from my paws and snout
trying to forget it came from some mother’s son
trying to silence the screaming of the other pups
when they fell prey to my razor sharp teeth
given to me by the state, honed to perfection
not by a washing of my brain, but a heart that lusted for the ****
long before I saluted my first flag, long before I swelled
with drunken pride at the bugler’s song, or marched
in cadence with the deadly drums,
he howled, but I didn’t hear an imploring sound
when they lowered me into the godforsaken ground
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 11:36 AM UTC
Prompt: Persona narrates what witnesses to a tragic accident do after the accident is over.
Two days ago, Melody Nixon drowned after her car spun off the I90 Bridge and plunged into the water, trapping her inside her car like a prison.
She was hit by a drunken college student, who wrongly
assumed he was well enough to drive without any problem.
On that night, Melody’s death was witnessed by two others. The first was Susan Baker, a successful business woman who spent more time in her office making plans and making deals to remember she was a mother.
The second witness was Walter Price, a malignant *** who lived under the I90 Bridge during the summer. He had just felt the smooth familiar burn of his whiskey as it slid down his throat when he saw the two cars collide.
After the accident, Mrs. Baker took a week off work and flew her family to Disney World, her sudden epiphany warning her to spend more time with her children.
Walter Price took one last sip of his whiskey and smashed the bottle against the side of the bridge swearing it as his last drink; a hope for a different life.
Melody’s father; however, could not seem to shake away the anger and the hurt
from losing his daughter in such a tragic way. This was why the night of the funeral, he picked up a bottle of Captain Morgan and took his first swig of alcohol, starting his inevitable downfall, a routine pattern of crawling inside the bottle when reality became too much to bear.
May 15, 2011
May 15, 2011 at 8:06 PM UTC
I listen for the caramel sound
of your sweet voice
sitting on
a weathered old bench
at Vista 3 in Erna Nixon park
the wind sighs where
so many have waited
I listen for the still small voice
a mosquito whines in my ear
and the lanky shadows of
late afternoon backpacking
through the swampy wetlands
listen too….
flowers bloom, long trumpets
from our ears
I catch a glimpse of the One
with lotus petaled lips and orange
robes
disappearing just beyond the
vermilion horizon
I run to catch up with You
O elusive One
always one step ahead of me
listen to the pitter patter of
my heart
http://www.sairapture.com/karunanta-ranga.html
Nov 20, 2015
Nov 20, 2015 at 11:38 PM UTC
I said I would zig
And right then I zagged
I tip toes into the vault
Found the cold box
Numbered 5545
And slid it out
The treasure trove
Of what you never wanted me to see
Oh but I'm coy
Confounding
Slippery and seruptitous
Admonished and allay
Of any blame
Cause you left the key
On my ring
And the doormen know my name
Who needs a Nixon mask
When you can walk right in
With fling flongs and a parrot hat
I came for what's in the back
And when the sword was unsheathed
The container cracked open
The glow of your hidden life
Shone upon
What is now my bug bitten face
But the the glow of horror
A man can stand only so long
And the chest
And it's keepsakes
Crashed onto the tile dropped
But just before I faint
I loose my liquid lunch
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 2:01 AM UTC
You say the rate i'm going
I'll be laying in an early grave
But to bed and left to rest
with no accomplishments to my name
You say i better learn from my mistakes
It's now or never to behave
My mind is breaking
My insecurities are looming
Bringing me down way lower then i already am
A ****** ****** loser
Generation Why
A ******* child of Nixon's drunks
Born without talents or interests passed down upon
INternet and social networking the hell with it
The needle tears a hole
And the hole never heals
Because its always always scratched
Never given time to let the wound scab
And now their are scars on my arms
Like tracks on the farm
My mother she once said you better learn it right
Or the bad habits you'll take to your grave
I went away to rehab
and now i'm still not right
Aug 11, 2011
Aug 11, 2011 at 2:38 PM UTC
Pinnacle moments pass us by quickly and sharply.
Cynical thoughts control the fear marking out goals in Sharpie.
Mental games of why do I deserve such pain, even partly,
and coinciding emotions of loss amongst those not even as lovely, I finally feel this pain heartily.
One bad decision, one bad night, one terrible choice is the only ignition that was needed to begin the arson.
My apology was weak and imitated the sincerity of a disgruntled garçon, still in disbelief that my train of thought was easily that of a *****
Love is a fickle sport we play and the secret formula is still out of my reach.
I will metamorphize into the one who is cracking the glass towards the anticipatory breach.
A lesson you subconsciously teach and I see that not all past stains can be cleaned with even the most powerful bleach.
I now know how I hurt you with my actions and eternal contract breach, like Richard Nixon I deserve the death penalty charge of being impeached, making you now just out of reach.
All I can say is sorry for all I have done, I love you, but I guess it's just a figure of speech.
Dec 22, 2016
Dec 22, 2016 at 7:02 AM UTC