"novelist" poems
I’m no author, novelist or poet.
I’m just Me,
And don’t I know it.
I don’t need to be classified,
As long as I’m writing, I’m satisfied.
Typing out words, line by line,
I don’t care if they don’t rhyme.
I don’t care if my verses don’t scan:
I’m not always an Iambic Man.
I just say what I gotta say,
I’m not worried about any pay.
Words come to me without much bidding,
The world of its evils I hope to be ridding.
I love to spread lots and lots of Love,
Bringing peace to all like a messenger dove.
Things of beauty bring joy, John Keats rightly said,
To make us sleep easy when we go to bed.
So I’ll paint what I paint,
And sing what I sing,
Just letting those words
Do their magical thing.
Paul Butters
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 4:54 AM UTC
The eternal tango of the maestro manifests itself in nigh infinite ways.
With the flick of the artist's brush, the stroke of the novelist’s pen or the chicken scratch of the scholar’s nib, legacies are etched, history is written and the world is shaped.
The astronomer, the craftsman and the physician all have one thing in common: Mastery.
Such pinnacles of skill have decades of their lives consumed, nay devoured in the pursuit of perfection, of greatness. Like grains of sand slowly falling into a furnace are the seconds of our lives, trickling, melting into puddles. But as sand melts, it forms shapes; therein lies the potential. Moldable puddles, colourless, devoid of naught but a clear medium.
Sep 25, 2015
Sep 25, 2015 at 12:43 AM UTC
*Is there anything more wonderful
Then being part of the poet’s corner?
Lucky am I to be a poetry lover!
A romance novelist used poetry to ponder
A story that changes and transforms
One’s heart. Is there anything more wonderful?
Joining a poetry site, I blundered
My way to writing a poem, oh what torture!
But lucky am I to be a poetry lover.
Many offered their support, allowing me to discover
My path and slowly my writing became stronger.
Is there anything more wonderful?
So many inspired awe and wonder,
Giving me strength to claim my own corner,
Justifying my becoming a poetry lover.
To those who offered encouragement so tender
I offer my thanks and give honor.
Is there anything more wonderful
Than becoming a poetry lover?*
Kelly Rose
December 29, 2015
Dec 30, 2015
Dec 30, 2015 at 12:18 AM UTC
I'm running
from the mirrors
of my brain
I want to be a writer
I want to be a novelist
I want to be a writer
running
running
running
my brain is the roadrunner
it catches up to me
and strangles me in daydreams
til' I die
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 2:37 PM UTC
ang Pag-ibig daw ay maikukumpara sa napakaraming bagay
may mga pagkakataon kalakip ito sa iba't-ibang larangan
meron maikli,may katamtaman o napakahabang paglalakbay
iyon bang tipong pagdaraanan yung mga hindi inaasahan
Sabi nga ng isang Kilalang pinoy na makata
" O! Pag-ibig kapag pumasok sa puso ninuman,
hahamakin ang lahat masunod ka lamang.. "
kaya bakit ako papapipigil sa aking nadarama
Madalas nilang sabihin...
para ka lang nagwawalis
kaalinsabay ang malakas na hangin
walis ka nang walis,pero kalat di nalilinis!
Minsan tulad sa isang sugal
maihahambing daw ang Pag-ibig
hindi ka tataya kung wala kang pag-asang manalo.
kaya ba nauso yung - nagmahal nasaktan hindi umuwing bigo!
at heto pa ang kakaiba
medyo magandang salita
hango kasi sa di pangkaraniwang talata
pero angkop ito pangmasa...
Gaano man daw kadalas ang minsan
Bihira talaga lagi ang kasagotan
dahil ang Pag-ibig daw ay tila ba isang " half baked cookies "
ayon po iyan sa isang novelist,,parang yun sa kanta rin na-
" more than a kiss "
sa layo ng kinapuntahan,di ko mawari kung ako ba'y napag-iwanan!
sa lalim ng kahulugan,halos hindi ko agad natumbok aking napag-alaman!
Kaya Pala... Sabi Nila : Pag-ibig Ang Siyang Tugon!
mataas man o mababa ang Temperatura ng Pugon!
Jun 3, 2017
Jun 3, 2017 at 6:56 AM UTC
Today I met a novelist...
But how good of a man he is
To call himself an "atheist"?
A story he told, bout'
A man who valiantly fought
The enemy of one's own thought.
And as the novel unfolds,
I saw the Lord, our God
In every word, in every form
In every smile he paints the world.
And so maybe, the one who claims: "I'm an atheist"
Forever marks themselves a "God seeker"
Who's faith could someday own the world.
For their guarded piece of sorrow.
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 7:57 AM UTC
Everyone has a dream job.
As do I,
But mine is common,
And yet not.
Literature.
Novels.
Poems.
Writing; the scratch of
Pencil or pen on
Porcelain-white paper.
It calls to me,
My heart.
"Novelist, poet
Her works are
Great," is what
I want people to say, in
My name.
Not some silly
Amateur.
A professional.
Like Edgar Allen Poe or
Shakespeare.
Roses are Red,
Violets are Blue.
Oh, writing's in
My blood.
Not music or
Construction.
My hand curves
Around a writing
Utensil like
A lover's hand
Caressing their
Sweetheart's
*****
I could write
Forever and ever,
Like an eternal heartbeat,
But every heart's
Gotta end,
As does every song,
And so does this
Poem. Until then,
Does the beat stop.
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 9:13 PM UTC
Encased in talent like a uniform,
The rank of every poet is well known;
They can amaze us like a thunderstorm,
Or die so young, or live for years alone.
They can dash forward like hussars: but he
Must struggle out of his boyish gift and learn
How to be plain and awkward, how to be
One after whom none think it worth to turn.
For, to achieve his lightest wish, he must
Become the whole of boredom, subject to
****** complaints like love, among the Just
Be just, among the Filthy filthy too,
And in his own weak person, if he can,
Must suffer dully all the wrongs of Man.
3k
She's the purest of lights on the heavenly firmament
She's like the shining star, a beautiful golden ornament
She's the hope you feel in the air, our highest monument
She's like a poet, with a feather in her hand as an armament
She's the spirit of a new beginning, on a white shore obelisk
She's like the essence of our dreams, our private novelist
She's our mindowner, our thoughts monopolist
She writes from bottoms of our hearts
She writes from the tips of our wings
She writes straight from the skies
All hail the queen!
the queen,
of poetry.
Jul 18, 2015
Jul 18, 2015 at 2:44 PM UTC
The poet,he seemed more a runaway priest,
Was grounded by black lace.
A bigtime kiss blaze with a novelist.
Strutting her literary living,she was
The fireball blitz,extreme.
The scorekeeper some term Karma,
And others call Chance,
In solvent stock fashion,
Dealt deadly destiny.
The eye-opener fatal love
Crrawled into a crying song.
The guitar,a jailhouse flower,
Celebrated the greatt flair for folly
For writers,where the grass is greener.
Aug 23, 2013
Aug 23, 2013 at 11:18 PM UTC
We will start with every Jew of every sect.
then every Muslim of every sect.
then every Christian of every sect.
then every Buddist of every sect.
Then every Vedic Hindu of every sect.
then every Animist of every sect.
then every New Ager of every sect.
then every person who lives "religiously".
then every person who "believes in and worships" any "god" or "goddess".
then every person of either *** or any of the five skin colours.
then the redheads.
then the disabled.
then the "gays" male or female.
then the "Politicians" of any belief.
then every member or supporter of any Oligarchy anywhere.
then every Capitalist and supporters of every sect.
then every Socialist and supporters of every sect.
then every Liberal and supporters of every sect.
then every Monarchist and supporters of every sect.
then every "aristocrat" and their supporters.
then every Militarist and supporters of every sect.
then every Fascist and supporters of every sect.
then every "Freedom" lover of whatever belief.
then every Revolutionary and supporters of whatever cause.
then every Criminal of whatever crime.
every Hippy.
every Ecofreak.
every alcoholic user.
every tobacco smoker.
every Cannabis smoker.
every priest of every "religion"
every Khat chewer.
every ***** of any junk.
every celebrity especially public ones.
every historian.
every novelist.
every poet.
every lecturer.
every expert.
every "adviser".
every spokesperson.
every print or electronic journalist especially.
every Television chat show host.
every one else.
Its the only way to get neither War nor Peace
on this war ravaged planet,
but simple existence without any corruption or criminality.
and then who will be left?.
NO ONE!!
Except me and my twin flame
and oh boy will we have a great time of it.
Alone but all one.
just us and the Isness of the Universe.
wandering this beautiful playground gifted to us by the Isness of the Universe.
The Isness of the Universe to walk with and talk with.
Fruit hanging from trees .
Cold clear waters to drink.
Nuts to crunch.
oh and Amber our huge sheppie--
connosseur of Pork Crackling
and doggy nonsense and wisdom.
www.thefournobletruthsrevised.co.uk
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 1:26 AM UTC
A wizard of words,
he created from nowhere,
a wonderful space;
the novelist made
his characters play out his wishes,
through every little action, he penned
felt euphoric beyond words.
When one among them
clearly his blue eyed girl
on whom he showered a lot,
his thoughts, writer's craft
and much much more,
to make her
well shaped, a cynosure,
unexpectedly
turned cheeky and crossed limits,
the novelist got terribly annoyed.
*In the dead of night,
during a rendezvous with her paramour
the character had a
horrifying end.
She fell prey
to an assassination plot,
hatched by the patriarchal novelist*
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 11:19 PM UTC
Some things are sadly poetic
Like the cougar whose boyfriend
Won’t come back outside and she’s alone
At the only table in the cold
smoking a pall mall,
Having a beer.
Some things are refreshingly poetic
like leaving the office for a bit with the boss
and going somewhere
where there are domes made of pure gold
and priests who pour milk on them from
helicopters.
Some things are interestingly poetic;
like the poet, turned novelist, turned artist,
who does landscaping to cover the spread.
Some things are courageously and nostalgically
And hurtfully poetic,
Like not seeing your family for nine years
Because the money’s good where you're at,
And plane tickets and passports are outrageous.
Some things should not be
poetic, but they are, because they are truthful
And that is verse;
like the waitress who was *****
when she cashed her check at a grocery store
after the night shift
and she wasn’t the only one in her car
when she got back.
Some things are poetry because they come
Into this world quietly
And bleeding internally,
and yet they survive
Even though their lungs are full of fluid,
And they can barely breathe.
Some things are poetry because they happened
And nothing can change that.
And because
Poetry is
unchangeable, immovable, and
grotesque, beautiful, uncomfortable, calming,
disfiguring, life-giving, ****** up,
Possibly ****** possibly a nectar
That God
or whoever the ****
allowed to be put on paper,
Possibly a way to talk about pain,
Possibly roided up with someone else’s words,
Possibly a way to talk about
the pure dream of a girl’s body
Without being a ***** *****
Poetry is love in the worst
and most unimaginable ways.
Mar 13, 2012
Mar 13, 2012 at 8:39 PM UTC
Poetry, the reason we are all here.
Writing words that we hope someone reads and hears
Hears in the sounds of the words, them coming alive
Vocally there is a potency to written words
Say them out loud, hear them, feel them form in your mouth
Soulfully continue this aged tradition of story telling
Poetry, is known globally, it transcends diplomacy,
it reaches souls, hearts and minds.
Like a minority,poetry is seen as weak and bleak,
but then life is not a bed of roses, there are thorns.
Reproachfully it is scorned, 'poet? Try writing a novel'
Wrongfully seen as the poor man to a novelist, poetry
at its best conveys, more in a few verses than a thousand
pages of a novel. Lonesome is the poet, that sees truth.
There is merit in poetry, the continuation of odes told by
the fireside, Viking, Persian, Celt, all historic bardic civilisations.
Purity in poetry leads down a path least travelled these days
but tales of yore still prevail, and Beowulf still roars.
Canterbury tales still elicit smiles, cries and woe.
Shakespeare, Dante, Poe, Neruda, Thomas, Petrarch all Poets with soul.
So, you tell me, and all of us poets are we the novelists poor relation?
Or, just reclaiming our station in life as the purest storytellers?
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 10:39 AM UTC
It is to be remembered that for all our diversity,
the white lily blooms; even in adversity.
All blood is the same and different throughout,
all water is the same in storm and in drought.
The sand settles over a puddle of rain,
and rain over concrete will do the same.
A novelist is a creator in all written word;
A musician is an artist in all music heard.
Jul 6, 2018
Jul 6, 2018 at 7:00 AM UTC
i'm currently laying in my bed with tears in my eyes for the first time in as long as i can remember. this feeling is far too familiar, and i didn't miss it at all. it feels like one of those old friends you didn't mind not seeing anymore, you just sort of accepted their absence. although this isn't a friend; it never has been nor will it ever be. it's a foe, and alter ego, and as wretched as it is to say, it's truly my former self. i've heard countless times the phrase "the hardest thing to endure is watch the one you love, love someone else", but there is a bit of deceit behind it. in my personal opinion, the hardest thing to endure isn't having the one you love, love someone else, but just simply knowing they don't love you back. any person could possess their heart, while at the same time, they posses yours. it's a dreadful feeling, really. it's consuming, and with the consumption comes emptiness. the emptiness is what sits in the pit of your stomach. it's a contradiction, i guess you could say. lately i've become nothing but a contradiction. in the words of an anonymous novelist, a "fatal contradiction", which frightens be down below the contradictory emptiness in the pit of my stomach, goes through my blue veins, creeps into my fingertips, which act as puppets by making their way up to their controller, beginning to claw at their puppeteer to make the thoughts stop.
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 10:43 PM UTC
A novelist of aces
Behind the cover of abstract designs
It gets deeper than what is behind eyes
Enclosed is a map only the two of us could understand
Certain minds are condemned by the world
But the keys your fingers stretch to reach steal the breath from my airways
The grammar is skewed but it’s all the same
Boiling beneath your skin
What’s been refused to pass your lips
Weak tongues won’t form the letters written on our souls
You and I,
We’re just ignorant to the nonfiction cloaked between these lines
Like Beethoven’s last quartet,
Muss es sein? Es muss sein! Es muss sein!
(C) Tiffanie Doro
Sep 25, 2013
Sep 25, 2013 at 11:54 PM UTC
She deserves recognition
For her work as a technician
Who's expertise is ball bustin
Who majors in ********
Excelling in the field of advance
Hot air production
A profession heckler who
Composes an orchestra conductin
A firework show eruptin
With colorful rants red, and purples
She's acclaimed for rhetorical
Questions that repeats in circles
An elite linguistics scholar
Who's sarcasm is an accomplishment
Very talented...no gifted at making
An insult sound like a compliment
And Her stamina to do so
Is like an Olympian who's pleased
Only when her track and field
Meet of slander makes ur ears bleed
A masters degree in belittling
A graduated philosopher for the bitter
Must be a psychologist the way
She attacks my sanity to litter
Insecurities, and doubts and I
Heard she has a phd in hypnosis
Until u start to believe her ********
And this psychosomatic is ur psychosis
A world class magician who's
Tricks leave u perplexed in thought
A novelist who narrates to taunt
Controlling all characters and plot
She wrote the book on torturing
A man and emasculating him so
He may never move forward and
She was in the military I'm told
Historically known for her
intellectual Warfare
Manipulating soilders and utilizing
The grounds to ambush u there
A social tyrant who's brilliant
Political ties help her achieve
Her plan like constituents are
Biased so they're all after me
A paralegal who's unfair and lethal
And to her it's titalation
Unfair is her terms but like a
Perm ull get burned in litagation
A degree in early childhood
Education so she acts like a rebel
Perfecting being childish and
Unaffected by ur feelings on levels
Only a schoolyard bully could
Match, she's my jailhouse warden
Who's power is focused on me
Relentlessly constructing like a foreman
With Her future blueprints to
See what the hell she builds for me
Will look like, and she's also a director
In the *********** industry
So she tells in great detail
Just how I'll be ******
She must have been taught by
Peter pan how to never grow up
Trained as medic who specializes
In one area over them all
Nudering human males
So surgically she removes my *****
After she breaks them and
So I am the constant fool
This exceptional jack of trades
Makes me wish that I stayed in school
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 7:54 PM UTC
///
our mind can feel everything
if we can feel the beauty of roses once
it can make some meaningful words,
even can create a few metaphors of a poem
we write all through our life
it can be grown as words of war
even can be born as a piece of peace
or can be grown both,
war and peace
it can be made a pain or gain
or it can be seemed as a stream,
that can be bought a grain of sand
Even it can earn both,
the pain and the gain
life can make a song
it can be a song of joy
sometimes it may be a coy
even it can make a rhythmic tone
that can't always be a romantic tune
as the river is not always plays a full of chimes
life can be found love
or can be gathered loss
or it can be earned both love or loss
as the poem " Annabel Lee"
that gifts us a pang of pain
life can be moved long like a novel
as Tolstoy's war and peace
even life can be too short, tragic
as the life of a poet,
like Sukanta, Keats and Poe
life looks like a novel
it's growing as well
with both lost and found
of so many stir of dreams
our mind is an endless paper
feelings are as ink
times are as the pen
everybody is the novelist
begins writing since he's born
and finishes before his death
though someone exceeds beyond the death
wise men told
life is a learning
life is a continuous earning of wisdom
that can be repair our kingdom
///
@ Musfiq us shaleheen
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 11:52 PM UTC
I was lost so innocently in your eyes
Completely
Fooled
By love itself
So,
I guess that explains why your words
Pierced
My
Gut
And left a suffering so deep
That no drunken novelist can explain it
Like you set fire to my kidneys
Bathed my lungs in citric acid
You know
I loved you more than I had thought possible
And my fingers will
Never
Feel
So at home
Again
But it's been a pleasure to have your hands be the ones to
Rip
Apart
My chest
And break the bones that make up my rib cage
It was an honour to love you
But
This is my final tribute to you
My final goodbye
The last time I put your inflections to paper
The
Last
Time
I
Ever
Miss you
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 5:38 PM UTC
INTRODUCTION
*someone's following you online here,
and you want to know why
Well, here's why...take your pick*
POSSIBILITIES
1)
Oh, I follow you because you look good
and though I never read your poems
I come back often
year after year
to see if you age at all
2)
you don't use your real name
you use a moniker or pseudonym -
and I'm just going by the desperate hope
you are Obama or Putin incognito
and you might give me asylum one day
if I'm outlawed by one or the other
3)
I'm in jail for life
and this is the only way I can stalk anyone
4)
I was hoping you'd reciprocate
and follow me too -
so why the hell don't you, hypocrite!?
5)
I'm your ****** boss in disguise
and I'm at this site keeping track
of how much office time you waste here,
you ****** loafer!
6)
I'm actually your wife
and I got a thing or two to say to you
about all those comments
you've written for the women here
Same old liar here and at home, aren't you?
Just wait till you get home...
7)
Well, I'm a ****** academic
who never gets creative
so I'm collecting all your poems
and I'll publish them in my name
and there'll be praise all round for me
as academic, and poet, and novelist too
(the novels I steal from my students)
8)
you scratch my back
I scratch yours
9)
Why do I follow you? -
but aren't you my mum?
You never taught me
to let go of your apron strings
10)
actually, it was a mistake, see
I was on my smartphone and I went
tap, tap, tap
and my index finger fell on "Follow"
and I'm too darned lazy to set it right...
that's how I ended up following you
11)
My cult tells me
the Messiah is here at this site
so I just follow everyone
in case it happens to be you -
it is you, isn't it?
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 6:07 AM UTC
items
title - author - (read / unread)
songs of war
and peace -
afghan women's poetry
edited by sayd bahodine majrouh
(yes)
the cantos of
ezra pound
ezra pound
(pending)
the unbearable
lightness of being
milan kundera
(yes, albeit
given to someone)
the man in the
high castle
philip k. ****
(yes, "
" " ")
do androids dream
of electric sheep
"
men without women
ernest hemingway
(yes)
a moveable feast
ernest "
(yes)
for whom the bell tolls
ernest "
(partially, university
assignment)
a passage to india
e. m. forster
(no, i prefer the actual cuisine,
dash of cinnamon, cumin
cloves, cardamon and i just
read: a short-cut to india)
the outsider
albert camus
(yes, lost the book somewhere)
frankenstein
mary shelley
(yes)
aesop's fables
aesop
(yes, good enough
for zeno to
paradox achilles
with the turtle, i.e.
aesop's fables
were primarily based
on the behaviour of animals)
dr. jeckyl & mr. hyde
r. l. stevenson
(no, a literary
version of the beatles'
yesterday, conjuring
for money anyway)
iron in the soul
jean-paul sartre
(the other two titles
of the human comedy
i don't remember;
i have all respect for
sartre the novelist -
but none as a philosopher)
treasure island
r. l. stevenson
(yes)
i'm the king of the castle
susan hill
(yes)
jane eyre
charlotte brontë
(yes)
on the road
jack kerouac
(yes)
the bell jar
sylvia plath
(yes)
fiesta: the sun also rises
ernest hemingway
(yes)
the ordeal of gilbert pinfold
evelyn waugh
(yes)
five plays
chekov
(stuck to shakespeare
and russian
existential macabre)
the existential imagination
edited by frederick
r. karl & leo hamalian
(yes, esp. the extract
about socrates)
Dec 30, 2015
Dec 30, 2015 at 3:39 PM UTC
i was a young girl,
the age of fourteen,
when my friends were paperback novels.
when the kids used to laugh at me in my face.
i wanted to disappear from the terrible world i was born into.
i found refuge in the yellowed pages,
where the story was not my own,
where their troubles related to mine.
these characters were my only friends.
they held my hand when i cried.
when i was made fun of for being so **** antisocial.
the endings made me so sad.
it was an internal death of an unknown,
unacknowledged soul.
i was the child who read on the bus,
who stayed up too late to read the last of the old pages.
they inspired me to be free.
to live life the best i could.
they gave me hope for a happy ending.
at the age of fifteen,
i scarred my skin.
i'd forgotten the happy endings i used to read about.
i felt like a character in a book when i wilted inside.
when i took the painkillers,
hoping for an overdose.
it was an internal death of an unknown,
unacknowledged soul.
i woke up at the first hour of the day,
unsuccessful,
but successful.
i scribbled on the blank pages of books,
i wrote my soul on the pages and it poured out on the floor like an acidic pool of experiences.
i was a damaged soul,
but daisies grew from the cracks of my heart,
and a new life was born inside an old one.
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 5:39 PM UTC
In the beginning all I wanted to be was a dancer
An astronaut
A genius
A teacher
After that an architect
I remember being young and wanting to be a firefighter
Then scientist
Then a football player
And after a while I wanted to be a novelist,
Later a musician
And for a bit I even thought I might want to be a senator
Then a vagabond
Wandering the ***** streets and paved highways
Then a poet
And here I am
Writing these words,
pretending that they mean something,
and of course, they don’t
and they won’t until I
become
beautiful
a model
a mom
a **********
and these words won’t mean anything until I have lived them
YOU
Know that these words don’t mean a **** thing
But I gotta write them anyway
Because otherwise my thoughts will drown in my head,
Kicking and screaming for their lives,
while this blue ocean falls and crashes over them
And I want to be a fighter pilot.
I wanted to be a star
That shines brightly in the bathed black night sky
I wanted to be a hero.
I wanted to save and be saved
From the ground that keeps falling on me
After my fair share of dreaming
I soon became an artist
I became silent for a while
Developing thoughts
And movements
Developing myself behind closed doors
Empty spaces
Screened windows
In the end all of us become what were supposed to be
Not matter how hard we try that’s the best we can do
In the end, that’s all we ask for
And in the end, I was a friend.
I was needed.
I was there.
I am here.
And I can’t keep wishing that I was something, because this is what I am.
And this is how my life is
Every day, brushing my teeth like it’s the most important task I have ever been given.
And I
AM
Nothing important.
that's alright with me
Jun 1, 2011
Jun 1, 2011 at 6:48 PM UTC
For once I'll cut the language play
in favor of getting to the bottom and being outright
Forthright with the motions behind
two eyes, emotions and notions like wind at seaside
Sure words work and we can know
because words hurt
words save and alleviate
Been twisting words more than a decade on
but when I stop and think what actually have I done?
Nothing much, just talk, speak, write
Once did and still want to be a novelist
and if I can learn to multitask at the keys I might
but as it stands, the wheels spin forever in the parking lot
only accomplished in the close-up shot
and when backing up the facade crumbles all on its own
then as quick as the pretense rose, I have no home
night is cold without the future wrapped around
the curves to which you're devout
the future slips slippery forever
whoops!
accident again and it's gone
that last shred of impetus keeping me strong
what if there's meaning though in the steps that I walk?
what if my mistakes raked up fuel the others who don't belong?
maybe being me means just rolling the dice
I haven't died or taken a life so maybe I'm doing all right
let these missteps and hiccups lead not to backspace
but fill the heads full of that black shrouded beast
with what earnestness I have
so that in hopes, though, perhaps vain
I might smudge the pain so that
when you look in the mirror while you eat the pills
and see your shadow looming in grinning and licking your ear
the shadows don't make it that far and fade into light
I don't know
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 2:17 AM UTC