"onstage" poems
I catch a glimpse of backstage
I can see your smiling face
So happy
So ready
I scream and point because
I'm just a fangirl
As you come onstage
You face me
Give a small wave
I'm pretty sure you're looking
Straight at me
So I freak out more because
I'm just a fangirl
Singing along
To all the songs
My voice doesn't work as well
The next day
So I imagine meeting you
Talk about you
Because after all
I'm just a fangirl
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 11:42 PM UTC
I could tell you the exact day I became complacent
I can recall the way he parted his hair and the way he touched a steering wheel and the color of his eyes
And how he cared enough about me to make sure I didn't drink and drive
But not enough to stop mixing my drinks all night
And since I can't stand up for myself, he watched as I fell apart
I am a marionette with a broken string but **** he's a master in the art
Constantly moving me; bending my frame and pulling my wires
And keeping me onstage whenever he desires
But it's hard for me to play my part and keep up with my lines
When I come home smelling like a different cologne each night
When I am just an empty canister they keep bringing to their lips
Begging and pleading me to offer them something with purpose
But it's always the same story:
They fabricate me
I break and I bleed under their idea of self discovery
And my selfish idea of recovery
Out of every sweet name or ***** word they've ever called me
I think I've found that "Lonely" is my favorite thing to be
I haven't lit a cigarette in weeks, but tonight I'll light three;
One for him, one for me, and one for the person I swore I would never be
Listen;
My biggest flaw is that when I settled for feeling comfortable,
When I settled for what he told me I was
I never even bothered learning self-love
Jan 6, 2018
Jan 6, 2018 at 2:05 AM UTC
The ballerina rises off her feet to stand en pointé.
Sparkles from her white costume shimmering
From the bright lights focused on her.
She elongates her arms into the air, bending her small wrists
And the tips of her delicate fingers lightly touch each other.
She glances at the crowd, looking for him
Even though she knows he is not there.
The long legs of this ballerina are linked, chained together.
And as she hears the music begin to play,
This ballerina slightly tilts her head and turns.
She does not blame him for leaving,
For this ballerina knows she drove him mad.
And onstage she chained her legs tighter and turned faster,
Eyelids fluttered shut, head tilted downward for a brief moment.
Obsession to the point of perfection.
He would never understand, which she always knew.
She had to be perfect.
Her head spinning and facing forward, this ballerina turned faster.
Drunken from Dom Pérignon and love along the coast of La Seine.
Allongé, this ballerina reached further and
Tourné plus vite sur ses pointes.
*Kisses filled with wonder outside the Place des Arts de Montréal,
Yet still she had to be perfect.
Faster with every chaîne tour; never stopping, wishing he could stay.*
She began to slow with every turn
As the ballet dancers flooded the stage.
White sparkles glistening everywhere,
The Prince made his presence known.
The tears she shed one night on the Pont Marie bridge as he walked way.
This ballerina slowed until she no longer turned, slowly lowering her arms,
One hand gently and softly grazing her face.
She stood in front of two rows of ballet dancers, searching for a face
That she knew would not be there.
Allongé, she bent her wrists where the tips of her fingers lightly touched
Before lowering her arms until they were in front of her.
She danced across the stage towards her Prince
Where he waited, arms outstretched, the ballet dancers facing him.
This ballerina turned once more before falling back into the arms of her Prince.
“I’m perfect.”
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 9:23 PM UTC
Life is full of mischief and artful trickery
The way through never made easy for the foolhardy
Misleading gestures only employed to solely distract
Left up to you to decipher and hopefully extract
Experiences teach much, had you only been accepting and learning
That a dove could be made to appear; out of thin air, out of nothing
When the road ahead offers no more than mere misdirections
Altered trajectories stemming from convenient misinterpretations
Your cards may have been dealt revealing astonishing outcomes
"Not the hand you get but the game you play," said some
Depending on deft wrists and a flick of the wand
Overnight you'll wake to find that a new day had dawned
Only would happen if into the wind you hadn't spat
Hope would emerge like a hare out of a top hat
The play on light and shadow, nothing short of dramatic
You volunteer onstage, accompanied by apprehension and suspenseful music
Faced with an eager audience; you realise that alone you stand
Be not surprised to learn that love is life's sleight of hand...
Sep 4, 2014
Sep 4, 2014 at 8:22 AM UTC
I'm Bailey.
I sometimes forget to recycle.
I'm from singing camels and trigonometry.
From soap bubbles and yellow scarves, Irish hymns and Zucchini the ferret,
piano keys, bluebonnet seeds, and DO NOT ENTER signs.
From salt.
I'm the color of hosed off sidewalk chalk.
I'm all summer in a day.
I'm a conglomeration of artistic thoughts that make me look more profound than I actually am.
I'm your infinite playlist.
I'm from elephant necklaces and rosemary bushes
from high-heeled taps and Camelot
threadless socks, shopping carts, and impromptu salons.
I'm the fifth ninja turtle.
I live where you laugh so hard you cry.
I'm from carrots and ranch.
I'm a happy cow from California, a fortune cookie with your enchilada, a drill team skirt over marching uniforms.
I'm from unfinished crossword puzzles and forgotten dead languages
from pixie dust and snapcracklepop
from actually-it's-pronounced's, because-i-said-so's, and that's-not-my-name's.
I am Nancy Drew with a Peter Pan complex.
I come from honeysuckle candles and sunroofs of pickup trucks
broken-down fences and peach salsa
the second you step onstage.
I'm from in between.
I'm Bailey.
I don't drive the speed limit.
And I'm from you.
Dec 22, 2009
Dec 22, 2009 at 6:08 PM UTC
We lie amidst Ripe mountain herbs,
The nightingale has just begun its summer trill,
This hymn for golden vocal cords
Composed no owner of a writing quill
So sweet were melodies produced
That I mistook the front row lady’s cheap perfume
For blossoms, above which haunting hornets mused;
For an aroma of our Shakespeare love in bloom.
The serenading cardboard creatures –
Those thieve their voice from birds with no address.
Meanwhile a glass raised in a playhouse features
But colored water, as red as gipsy’s dress.
When the last spectator goes,
Having not found at least one genuine sun,
As actors, we recede into descending roles;
Electric blood in lamps’ capillaries feels numb.
A lovely ladybug, I doubt, I will ever catch,
A lifelike flower, dipped in a painting fusion:
All this, fine artists tenderly attach
To lifeless decorations, for aid they do us in a willful staged illusion.
Three burnt sienna pearls run down your spine
Yet after a big round of applause
These jewels are no longer signs of the divine,
But witches’ marks or, rather, unalluring flaws.
After the play I went to buy a notebook from my shopping list
To store the overgrowing verses, such as these;
A sheet of paper guarantees
To treat them like extinguishing bees
Cashiers ****** the change into my hand,
You purchased hothouse roses with;
And up those pretty useless beauties stand
In someone’s vase, whose name remains a myth.
They give me back those polished dimes
You traded for a pair of shoes.
I’ve seen you marshal through onstage lifetimes,
Yet to disclose personas’ traces the theater walls refuse.
Your chocolate hair has just fallen from the hairdresser’s hand,–
That’s how I know the summer’s coming to a bitter end.
Apr 6, 2019
Apr 6, 2019 at 7:02 PM UTC
When I was seven, my best friend and I used to dress up and have tea parties. We wore the torn, hand-me-down dresses from my cousins like they were gowns straight out of a princess’s wardrobe, and we were beautiful. We would prance around my room with purple plastic teacups, and there was no better place to dine than the blue **** carpet from Goodwill.
When I was seven I wanted to be a dancer. Not just a ballerina, no. I wanted to do everything. I watched with rapt attention as my cousin’s modern class tumbled to the floor of the stage, and as I stared at their neon colored tank tops and black jazz pants, it seemed that my world made sense. It seemed that as long as I was there on stage, dancing with the same skill and emotion and passion, I would be beautiful.
For my eighth birthday, my friend gave me the sixth Harry Potter book. My favorite character was Hermione. At recess, we would tie the sleeves of our red uniform sweaters around our necks and run around the blacktop pretending to play Quidditch. I thought Harry was smart and cunning and funny, but Hermione. Hermione was full of enthusiasm and rules and always made friends even if they were only in her head. She was top of her class with hair that everyone noticed and her brain was bigger than her group of friends at lunch and that was okay because she was like me. I never thought Hermione was beautiful. She didn’t need to be. Her bushy hair was full of intelligence and her buck teeth were strong enough to bite off the tongues of her oppressors and her dull, brown eyes weren’t dull at all because even the Whomping Willow began as a patch of dirt.
Hermione wasn’t beautiful like a garden. Her fiery eyes were dancing with flames that could wipe out an entire forest without even breaking a sweat. I have never wanted to be beautiful like a garden or the sunlight on the Fourth of July. As I tumble onstage in a blue dress with a tear in the front, my feet are ***** and my palms are sweaty and not one girl has brushed her hair. Footsteps pound the floor like a mighty pride of lions and hearts race as the bass drops and I am not a garden. Don’t you dare call me beautiful.
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 5:57 PM UTC
#
Floating brazier spews electric amber waves
as a setting sun radiates on the ceiling
a shadow of a ship coquettishly sways
while in the center charybdis begins swilling
another message, another missed call
another debt collector and his esurient talk
watch the ship begin to swirl, this scene so banal
amber feathered tawny eyed peacock
continues furtively to scroll her story and shoe shop
crowded room with a panel onstage
reality and fantasy evaporate and fall as a single raindrop
drown in the muck, don't know how to disengage
and to stay in the sway of fantasy.
#
Sep 28, 2018
Sep 28, 2018 at 9:41 AM UTC
there is an old persian legend of a man who falls in love
with a woman and goes insane when he cannot have her.
even after she is married to someone else, he spends his days
composing love songs in the dirt, building sandcastle hearts
just to watch them collapse again when the tide rolls back in.
years pass, and the girl never writes anything back.
i still wonder if she was ever given the chance to.
i was twenty-seven when i learned that you could fashion a
stethoscope out of a cassette tape, broadcast the sounds of your
heart to a double guitar riff that screamed desire. you pressed
play and in an instant, i was priest to your deepest confessional.
i never asked about how you looked at me on the days that my
husband was too busy finding god to join me in bed at night.
i never wanted to know that you sinned in the color of my eyes.
i never thought i’d be remembered for the moment that i traded
krishna for ******* and the thousand days that followed:
day 176: we mix love and self-destruction in an old hotel room
until they go down my throat as easily as sweet red wine.
day 472: you turn watching me get ready for a party into an
excuse to make love to my reflection with the windows open.
day 894: you spend the entire morning restringing your guitar
but i can still recognize another woman’s voice in its tone.
day 1000: i loved you but never had the instruments to prove it.
we’ve both realized that obsession is a drug best left to legend.
to this day, they still call me the greatest muse of rock and roll,
but each switch of the radio dial is just another reminder that i
once tasted like music in the mouths of men, that their words built
me up like a flower-child mona lisa in all the permanence of three
minutes of vinyl, that though i inspired the most beautiful lyrics
ever written about love, they never called me onstage to sing them.
i was once told that if you love a woman to the point of madness, she
will become it. but any insanity i have remains etched on the insides
of my veins; i walk beaches now, much too old for sandcastle-building.
years pass, and the girl has never written anything back.
i still wonder if she will ever be given the chance to.
even the world’s greatest muses sometimes want to hold the pen.
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 8:47 PM UTC
Lizard King, on the bar, from rooftops
and over your legacy you took a swirling a ****
drunk on blood with a treacherous witch high off acid.
Grabbing your junk and exposing your genitals onstage
passing out, failing the test of life and yet making the grade.
You became and overweight bearded *******
weary and heavy like your poetic incoherent rambles
with a voice like Sinatra when you really wanted to,
like your average intoxicated uncle when you gave less of a ****
in the studio, recording frustrations while getting ********
Opening the doors to the eyes of delusion and distortion
the crystal ship sailed without causing so much confusion
as to who you are, who you were and who you aspired to be
the next great American wordsmith,
“Light My Fire” is a fine tune, please sing it for me,
without cussing me out, calling me a sellout and everything in between.
Breaking through to the other side of madness
wheels falling off riding by your roadhouse blues
some might say Val Kilmer made an even better you
a mirror image of the decimated natives of your youth.
Abruptly moved to France to be the next Pepe Le Pew
but instead took a ****** bath to the afterlife.
Some loved your talent, others thought you made a prettier corpse
so tonight I’ll toast your legacy of leather pants
frat boy good looks, ****** off rants, Raiders on the Storm
and checking out right after Hendrix you inconsiderate ******
I still love you though, with my heart crossed
dearly dearest quintessential *******
Jim Morrison.
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 2:57 PM UTC
*Firelight Affairs & Atmospheric Starlight,
Rainbow Instincts Enlightening Her Satellite Twilight,
Quivering Symphonies & Colorful Voices,
Lyrical Abstracts Of Her Monochrome Noises,
Prismatic Rage In Her Eternal Sage,
Resonances Whispering Her Voices Onstage,
Vertical Ensembles Of Her Ecstatic Fashions,
Witty Odes Enlightening Her Arrested Passions,
Prancing Temptations & Provoked Mysteries,
Entrancing Her Artistic Waves & Surging Tapestries,
Storyteller Flares On A Perpetual Lease,
Intoxicated Mirrors Of Her Spiritual Release,
Lucid Memoirs & Condensed Revelations,
Inquisitive Glances Of Her Cupid Flirtations,
Crimson Armors & Her Reflective Scents,
Illustrious Serenity Embossed In Her Scenic Ascents,
Fluoresce Echoes & Her Scenic Prelude,
Coalesce Spotlights Guiding Her Summer Nudes.
- 01:24AM -*
Apr 17, 2017
Apr 17, 2017 at 3:00 PM UTC
What I am, I don’t know.
What I do know, however, is what you are.
My eyes have traveled over your person for hours, and I have studied your intellect.
I observe, I don’t make conclusions –
for that would be a sabotaged investigation of the potentiality of your existence.
The ‘you’ I speak of is nobody at all really,
it is the world around me in all of its embodiment.
I soak in the culture as I live amidst the chaos,
and my mind becomes oversaturated with sensation.
In San Francisco, yes, San Francisco, the sweet smell of diversity,
the push of movement walking up Powell Street and the creak
of the old elevator in Rasputin Music.
On top of a hill in Indian valley, a moment of freedom –
the air and I, we hold hands.
The wind and I, we run along picking daisies off their stems
until only the unwanted ones are left standing.
In the middle of a crowd in Golden Gate Park, waiting for the band to appear onstage;
I don’t know his name or hers, but they are very close to me.
Sitting here, on my bed,
flipping pages and pages as books progress;
if only my own storyline were half as intriguing.
Way up here in the air, this plane’s motion makes me tremble.
Occasionally I am distracted by the beauty of what’s outside the tiny window,
and the feeling of omnipresence I attain pushes past my anxiety;
the world is below me and I am defying its weight.
In precalculus class, I reach a strange state of tranquility;
I can finally revert to the robotic motion of pencil and calculator,
a momentary lapse from the stress of the day, and the world.
All in all and end in end,
poems are poems but it mostly depends,
everything is contingent,
and it’s all ambiguous of course.
That may be description of the world – or rather, one of myself.
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 2:49 AM UTC
Piano trilling
Drums thrilling
Bass pumps straight through your heart
Guitar screams,
Keys dream,
Vocals piercing like a dart—
Mist shifts
Mood lifts
Hot chills electric down your spine
Crowd yells
Colors swell
Lift your hands, lose your sense of time...
Aug 25, 2018
Aug 25, 2018 at 7:04 PM UTC
the drummer boy’s
existence is emphasized
not during holidays
or birthdays
but rather onstage
where he’s the true conductor
of the band
I see him as the heart of the band
the lifeline which pumps strength
and keeps the blood flowing
because it is only through his heart
and his beats
when the strings know when to strum
when the cords know when to sing
when the keys know when to play
whenever he’s onstage
whenever the heart beats
it is not only the song which lives
but the band as well
Aug 24, 2017
Aug 24, 2017 at 6:55 AM UTC
By:D.E.T
Goin' back from memory
I remember that I started to feel empty
When I saw a poster
Post D.E.T is a monster
All I did was blurt
A laugh although it hurt
Me, people tellin' me I'm a disaster
All I did was smile
Although that wasn't my style
But yeah, I smile
When everyone was gone
I sob the tears that I was holdin' on
From that day I knew that everyday
I had to pretend that I was okay
Even if it meant feelin' lonely deep inside
So, no one can see the pain
That I hide
Inside
Had to go through this everyday
But as I grew up I knew that was goin' to be the way
Cuz I'm used to being called a monster
Now that times passed by
My emotions are dry
So, go on call me a monster
Cuz I'm stronger
Tougher
Although they made me suffer
Come on put me on a cage
Where I find myself on the stage
Where I get call a monster
Now so, monster I have become
Onstage but I'mma gonna uncage
Myself
Put me on the cage
Write me a page
Tell the page that I am a monster
Now that time has fly by
Y'all stand aside
But y'all collide
Cuz I know karma
Is gonna come back and make pay for the drama
That caused people call me a monster
Yeah, moster I am my heart
Is now dark
Monster I am cuz y'all ******
My soul
Cuz y'all just wanted to ruin
My soul
But that only made you look cruel
Cuz y'all were nothing but
Don't need you to understand
So, you can stand
Where I land
Cuz I'm a monster like you said
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 8:22 PM UTC
You can't separate
the actor from the character
they're not mutually exclusive
but brutally intrusive.
We put a little bit of ourselves
into the roles that we act
extracts of our souls
dripping out
slowly bleeding our hearts dry
from acting out our parts
Pouring everything
into faux characters
to engage with our rage
while onstage
unknowingly
constructing our own cage
We think no-one can see
the lies we tell
when we wear our masks
but our eyes betray us
with irises on fire
arises our desire
from the words we yell
Burning eyes behind stone masks
that shows them our hell
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 4:55 PM UTC
I am the only actor.
It is difficult for one woman
to act out a whole play.
The play is my life,
my solo act.
My running after the hands
and never catching up.
(The hands are out of sight -
that is, offstage.)
All I am doing onstage is running,
running to keep up,
but never making it.
Suddenly I stop running.
(This moves the plot along a bit.)
I give speeches, hundreds,
all prayers, all soliloquies.
I say absurd things like:
egss must not quarrel with stones
or, keep your broken arm inside your sleeve
or, I am standing upright
but my shadow is crooked.
And such and such.
Many boos. Many boos.
Despite that I go on to the last lines:
To be without God is to be a snake
who wants to swallow an elephant.
The curtain falls.
The audience rushes out.
It was a bad performance.
That's because I'm the only actor
and there are few humans whose lives
will make an interesting play.
Don't you agree?
1.5k
The curtains close and the lights go up
We wait for the next performance to get ready.
Soon the think red drapes are parted,
and my heart jumps,
because there he is.
The show begins, screaming into the mike,
Are you ready to rock?
I am.
They **** the songs, but after awhile I stop paying attention
to the songs and start watching them.
I watch as he throws his hair back, long and thick and curly,
singing at the top of his voice, with the edge and rough raw that even
a shot of T won't get me.
I shift from him to his friend, his friend that is everything I want.
He belts out Hound Dog, he rips into his guitar and shreds the songs
a p a r t .
His slender arms, with the bulge of muscle shining shining sweat.
Furrowed brow and nimble fingers that I want all over me.
Turn back to the first boy, watch his hips
circle behind his guitar, his groin pressing against the smooth wood.
Behind his zipper a throbbing energy that he teases with,
smirking into the audience, with more grace and sensuality
than I when I practice in my room behind a locked door.
The tears come at the end, and I blink them back,
always blinking them back.
a l w a y s.
Can't decide if I like you or if I like your body,
if I want you or your body.
Is it bad that I want to strut onstage with my bass guitar laying flat against my chest, to shred a song with my vocal chords bleeding ****** raw?
And at the same time, I long for a smooth body,
a flat stomach and long, luscious hair, tumbling down my back.
Gentle ******* beneath silky cups, curving me into a petite doll.
I watch the boys and my heart aches, for him, and for his body.
I don't know what transexual means but it might be me.
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 9:15 PM UTC
she begins to swing her hips
and flicks her bick to overload
her lips on fire with the words
her mind is a furnace comin unglued
see the images leaking out the seams
rivets slamming the walls
as the ***** busts a nut
she is full on now
aint no stopping
aint no slowin down
what are you crazy think you want her
spreadin roots in this state of mind
like unleashing a hailstorm in a paper cup
this version of the girl aint for bring home to momma
she swims out of her eyes
and bites the natural world
but she is an artwork on two fast feet
she is the cover of time pasted on a cereal box
eat that walter cronkite
any questions
his hand a tangled knot
in the handles of his life
and the he begins to bounce on his feet
as the tune rides up onstage
the crows parts to let the kid roll
they can tell this one is gonna burn the carpet
he calls out the things on his mind
the funky thing crawls down his mind
and out the dancing in his legs
heavy steps like rolling thunder
light ones like flashes of lightening
see the music speak with this
poor fools broken form bouncing
but see that ear to ear grin
that ain't painted there
its live and in person
cause this is living
when the music shakes to your soul
long into the night as the band onstage
plays through their list
plays all the favorite ones
and some for the silly little ones who think
its so cute to wear weekend Tye-dye
these two got the dance-floor sweating
these two stretching the flesh
and greeting the sky
one star at a time
people can you feel the heat
coming off her
shes gonna give birth to a lighting rod
and its gonna explode allover this dance-floor
all too soon the band is pulling out the encore
fare thee something
and her exhausted smile is filled with love
for every note she has made love to
this night
and his laugh is for the trails of mind light
that he has danced with and ran with
they wind it on down
they meet in the middle
and hold eachother
as the music finally fades
the rest of the world goes home to sleep
these two
will lay down to relive it in visions
for a lifetimes in a dream
goodnight prince of the river
goodnight princess of dreadlocks
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 5:24 PM UTC
Cloudless confusion blows through the dead mind's sky
All eyes envying the ever nearing end of time.
This constantly reccuring thread.
This secret sentence meant to reinvent this magic.
It is a morbid mirage.
Murdered marriage
A massacre, unmentionable.
Mesmerizing sobriety,
Majestically marauding science.
Mindless moon born madness.
Inner sinner-inner sanctum.
Sheltering some malevolent Mysterium.
This thoughtless thirst for sanctity.
The shapeless shadow wisps which whisper.
Shock of spewing blood against a backdrop of white.
A keenly edged knife ********** grins into milky skin stretched tight.
The shifty sorrow of quick fading light
Deep down dig of fright
Straining: fighting with the last vestiges vanquished
The swallow of sentience, this last candle scarcely alight.
Burial romance.
This slow turned page.
Slow revelation of cumulative age.
Empty vessel volition withering onstage.
Don't weep this ****** burned
This solace we've earned
Good sense long past spurned.
Sadistic disaster our honey and sugar.
Outlined by the end
The smile of evil men.
Sad string stung, star struck spirit spun.
The voice of Us long undone.
Screaming chorus Kingdom come.
Seance chorus all wanting some.
This cracked Kingdom collapses
Each moment which passes
One last squandered synapse and then all falls quiet... at long last.
My lunar goddess
Lunatic
******
Murderess that got it
Jan 31, 2014
Jan 31, 2014 at 8:51 AM UTC
Every time I think you're sick
I look in the mirror and see
That I've got the same disease
I loathe my thoughts so much
They make me freeze
And then I remember where they came from
You bred them into me
I learned them from you
If this makes me sound like a ****
Remember who is just as sick
That's right it's you
Now listen to this track
Be back in a few
It's never my fault
We have to stop the symptoms
But never the disease
It's always their fault
We have to stop the enemy in our bed
Rather than make the demons in our hearts stay dead
Is it a surprise I'm a demon summoner onstage
Calling forth the self-hatred in their hearts
Culling them away from their rage
Exercising exorcism like I do with words
You are the monsters
Pens are my swords
I only learned from the best
The best teachers in town
I'm so successful I dedicate this crown
To the ******* that made a blood pact
A deal that put me to a test
I don't want to ******* take
This portrait of us isn't real
It's ******* fake
It's never my fault
We have to stop the symptoms
But never the disease
It's always their fault
We have to stop the enemy in our bed
Rather than make the demons in our hearts stay dead
How does it feel
That I profit from our ozzfest
Our screamo shows
Our nu metal fest fodder
How does it feel that this drama
Makes me rich without trauma
I'm no Johnny Davis or Chino Moreno
Solo soy tu coseno
Adjacent to a hypotenuse of hate
An underlying burn I'm used too
I can't ever feel nothing
Because I always feel your burn
It's never my fault
We have to stop the symptoms
But never the disease
It's always their fault
We have to stop the enemy in our bed
Rather than make the demons in our hearts stay dead
It doesn't have to be this way
We can put our swords away
And face our demons together
We don't have to divide a house to fall
I don't have to come home appalled at the blood
The very blood in my veins boiling
We can live instead of toiling
**** the symptoms
Cure the disease
Don't make me freeze
When you never claim fault
So you can go to sleep in peace
And make me lay in pieces
I want to finish this song
But most of all
I want you to finish it too
Feb 16, 2014
Feb 16, 2014 at 10:02 PM UTC
I should have known better than to rest on a stereo-type,
my eagerly awaited Latin lover tore into the night!
I didn't like the head stand he performed on my rib cage,
Nor the slurping grunts as he ****** his **** as if he were onstage.
He flipped me like a burger and rasped me with his hands,
I closed my eyes, counted to ten, and remembered some good bands!
He said ''you like it baby?'' as he shimmied up the sheet,
I cowered in anticipation as he manoeuvred his great big feet.
Ladies, be careful what you wish for, it might one day come true.
Steer clear of stereo typing you could end up black and blue.
I'll just warn you, in a friendly way, his name was Henriques Stud,
Next time it's Roger Rabbit and not my Latin dud!
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 3:46 PM UTC
When the heart stirs
the feet soon follow
or so it is with me
born to be a dancer
Lithe and compact
fearless in motion
a Baryshnikov of the living room
a Nureyev in the night
When my daughter
was new born
seventeen sweet years ago
I would hold her close
dance her through the whole house
sing to her
tell her
I'll love you forever and ever
no matter what
promise her everything
it was in my power to give
Here
in my dotage
my dancing embarrasses her
my rude manners
outrage her at times
No matter
I thrill when
I hear her sing
weep
when I see her onstage
grin like God's fool
when I meet her at
the backstage door.
This tribute
and these poor lines
are humbly offered
by a man who is blessed
a man who wakes up every day
saying thanks
a father proud
a retired musician
(more or less)
whose child
without urging
took up the mantle
and carried it further
than dad ever could.
Jul 4, 2016
Jul 4, 2016 at 3:45 PM UTC
It was quite evident as a teenager , drawing Boston's guitar shaped space ship on the back of an English book , playing the opening riff to Smoke on the Water with a broomstick
Hiding in the closet , listening to Kiss's first album , singing in front of the mirror to REO Speedwagon
Bad Company on the eight track in my '63 Ford Falcon , taking a Guess Who album to show and tell in Kindergarten
Reciting every lyric on Three Dog Night albums , Foreigner turned up so loud that the windows would ratttle !
Learning Free songs note by note on the guitar , playing Born to be Wild like I was on a World Tour
My heroes are Page , Scholz , Perry and Geddy Lee ! Soundgarden , Alice in Chains , Mott the Hoople and Queen
Jimi Hendrix bringing his Strat to life , Eddie's blistering fretwork !
Crosby , Stills and Nash , three part Angelic vocal harmonies , Ronnie James Dio wailing like a banshee !
A Gibson through a Marshall , A Fender through a Vox , a Tele through a Peavey , a Rickenbacker through an Orange !
Jim Morrison turning poetry into song , Elton John baring his soul through the piano
Eddie Vedder in a trance on stage , Anne Wilson crying out in pain , Layne Staley raising the hairs on the back of your neck , the reassuring voices of McCartney and Lennon , every musical note committed to paper by George Harrison
Chris Cornell screaming into the night , the aura of Robert Plant onstage
the sweet guitar work of Eric Clapton , heart wrenching soul of Janis Joplin
The wailing guitar of Robin Trower , the blues power of Rory Gallagher
Siren song of Annie Lennox to the infectious , brilliant lyrics of Tom Petty
Nov 16, 2015
Nov 16, 2015 at 11:50 AM UTC