"refilled" poems
my old futile dreams
make the windows all misty
ripping up the seams
blood mixed with ancient whiskey
a smile around the corner
lures the naive mind
******* up the world order
another death wish signed
overhead, brick by brick
the november wind stands still
heart oozing of homesick
empty thoughts keep my glass refilled
delusions cover my sight
faraway lights blink with eager
fixing the crooked night
dinner with the grim reaper
Aug 10, 2018
Aug 10, 2018 at 3:09 AM UTC
#*Words are the chemicals
Packed in vials sublime
Untouched pure in time
Their base Property lyrical
Words are the coefficients
Reactants , The Thoughts and Emotions
To balance the emotional equation
Poetic are the words omniscient
Combustible the thoughts, fragile the emotions
Handle with care , the equations
Cold storage processed, refilled
Magnanimous ,the words distilled
Thoughts never too dormant
Never static the emotions
The words a kinetic solution
Potential they have Charmant*#
Sep 10, 2018
Sep 10, 2018 at 4:32 AM UTC
Teetering on her baby legs
A newborn with a Solo cup
bombastic red with a few
undulating ribs
Held firmly in her hand
Is this her first or her third?
Somnambulant yet eager
And just a little out of place
In a foreign territory
On newly contested lands
She stumbles through a raucous crowd
Or was it just white noise?
She’s lost her companions
Somewhere
Although they could very well be close at hand
In the distance she can make out
Laughing faces
Bodies moving to and fro
Spilling forward, little messes
Throwing back cheap libation
She passes through a room and out the door
Into the out-of-doors
Someone following her unbeknownst
Watching her cautious, curious steps
And when she turns and sees the blur standing
She greets it
“Hail Fellow!”
Bouncing from variable to variable
Frequency to frequency
Confident and in command
Of a seemingly controlled chaos
He approaches smiling and holds out his hand
Anonymous
Having drawn her attention from the stars
That she could not find above
Leaning against the garage’s eastern wall
She takes it awkwardly
Tentative she smiles back reassured
Wobbling she returns standing alongside him
Or was she in front?
Purposeful and en route
Emboldened by his presence
And how the way was parted before her
Just by his being there.
By being so close.
She felt vaguely special
it showed in her half-smile
Cloaked in bangs
She held her head just a little bit higher
The co-conspiratorial glances
Met by boys eyes
And shes
Went unseen by the girl with the
Solo cup
One of tens upon tens upon tens
A coven would have known
It’s better not to
However.
She was shown a seat to rest
And her cup refilled
She takes a sip and smiles again
She takes another and then a gulp
That spills
He takes the cup away
And places it on the low table
Suggests she go to the restroom upstairs and get herself
Sorted
Embarrassed she is relieved for direction
Someone knows what’s going on
And his caring
Taking the time
His kind eyes
She’s usually alone
She waddles up the stairs to find
a toilet and a mirror
God she thinks
I look a mess
She tries to fix it
The hair
The eyes
The lips
The dress
The stomach
The *******
The thighs
She shrugs her shoulders at her reflection
Exhales and steps out again
To find him standing there
waiting for more.
She wants another cup.
She’s missing her cup.
I’ll get you the cup he says
In just a second.
Come.
Sep 30, 2018
Sep 30, 2018 at 3:53 PM UTC
You came in late, again
I said hello, pecked your cheek
and waited for the flow of excuses.
None came.
You went and poured a drink
I sat awaiting your words.
You came back in, sat heavily down
and looked at the floor.
I felt rage inside my breast,I had news to tell.
You never asked how I was, or how my day went.
I sat quietly waiting, listening to the ice ***** the glass,
I felt as vulnerable as that ice cube, once solid now melting,
waiting, fuming, controlling my anger.
You looked up, you looked at me, no through me, and said
"I'm late because I've been having an affair"
Did a freight train just hit me? I felt despair, but you said more,
"She's pregnant, and is keeping the child"
Clarity liberated me from my stupor, late nights,
meetings, high mileage on the car.
I asked a question,
"Are you leaving me?"
You dropped your head, and said the words most wives dread
"Yes, I have to be a father, do the right thing, I love you but....."
Your words trailed off.
I stood up, took your glass and refilled it for you.
My turn.
"Did you start coming home late because of her? Or because I've gained weight? Or both those reasons?"
Silence.
"Pack your bags, leave the keys, get a hotel bed"
Those words came out so clear, you'd swear I'd knifed you.
~
At the front door, you turned, about to say something, I cut you off
"Send me your new address, I need it for the solicitor,
I'm divorcing you. And by the way, before I forget, you're not the only
one that's been late, it would seem you know how to propagate"
I shut the door, rubbed my tummy, and waited to be called mummy.
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 2:35 PM UTC
I tromped across North America a few years back
Following the Mayan Elders
Listening to the powerful Lakota Brothers sing songs of mourning and joy
Building community
I was following a White Cherokee
We created clan
I was motivated by the teachings of the Anishinaabe
And represented Thunderbird Clan
We stopped in sacred spaces such as Serpent's Mound
And Cahokia Mounds
We peered briefly through the veil; Samhain
I followed the red path and eventually found I had always been on it
I met Hopi and Navajo elder's
And my friend Sea, a pipe carrier brewed a special tea
I was gifted tobacco that had been grown from seeds
Recovered from an iceman's medicine bag
She transmuted the ancient tobacco into a tea
By folding it into a sweetgrass and cedar brew
Sea gave it to me in a basic stainless steel carafe
Every time we drained the carafe
I refilled it and the essence was just as powerful as the previous brew
When I finally caught up with the Lakota brother's in Sedona
Their voices were raw
We all were
I shared the tea with them
So much magic on that journey
The joy on those brothers faces as the tea reached their throats
I gave them the carafe and told them
It was the gift that keeps on giving
Their thankfulness has been the gift that keeps on giving
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 11:48 PM UTC
The teapot is now full.
How long the time has been.
The aroma is so fragrant.
Thoughts and laughs are blending in.
Through the flavor of the leaves,
Hidden contents are revealed.
Though inside the painted glass,
Taste betrays against its will.
Potful after potful,
While the hours sneak away.
Struggles and life’s many woes,
With each sip no longer stay.
Though at first the tea is tasty.
Though it’s easily refilled.
It just can’t last forever.
The pouring soon is stilled.
The last cup is too bitter!
The last word is the same!
The teapot is now empty,
Till teatime comes again.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 1:03 PM UTC
It is often said that the cup can be viewed as half full or half empty
The fact is we should be able to agree on is
We all have a cup that can be filled
If we All tried to build another person up
Fill there cup
Instead of putting others down
which can drain ones own cup along with the other persons cup
If you meet another person who appears mean or insensitive or rude
perhaps their cup has been drained so much
They don't know how to fill it up again and are badly in need of having their cup refilled
A small compliment a little kindness, a smile could help fill up the cup again
A cup of friendship can go a long way and help another person have a better day
The world is full of hurting people needing to have their cup refilled
Seeing things from someone else's perspective is a good start
Is the glass half empty or half full, you can decide?
Have you raised your glass and tried to share a Cup of friendship
and filled another's cup today?
If not the present is a good time to start
If we all filled up the cup instead of emptying it
We would have a better world
Fill up the cup today
Aug 19, 2015
Aug 19, 2015 at 12:57 AM UTC
Unreality: Thanksgiving Miami Style
It is 70 degrees, afternoon,
sunny Miami winter style.
Nike shorts, flip flops,
polo shirt white,
music, pandora, and
no place he
needs to be.
the collected works and
worries, left behind,
the boy, and he is taking
it to the limit,
wanting a day of no cares,
one more time.
yet, recollecting, writing
impertent, dissatisfied,
no reason, none that I can
irrationally explain.
previous night,
my eyes have
seen the
second-coming.
everybody smiles
happy, looking fit,
tight black dresses
the law of the land.
food flows like wine,
wine flows like water.
lose track of the numbers,
glasses of Cortese di Gavi,
cold and white refilled
in the Miami heat,
exactly, how old am I,
and where
my eyes should
not be staring,
bodies intended
to maim,
after they
**** you.
it is a long-short tale,
how it came to be,
that I am living thanksgiving
in the unreality of Miami style.
was supposed be at the
head of the table carving,
giving secret tastes to
numerous grandchildren,
multiple dogs,
defrosting after the
Macy's Day Parade.
my children, their
kith and kin.
that was supposed to be
my New York reality,
at the head of the table.
divorce, monkey wrench,
I am in a different state,
a different table, a
welcome bystander,
but her love,
my love,
has brought me,
to unseasonal places,
higher and higher,
where I am welcomed
as her man.
not a bad unreality,
but still someone has torn
off a piece of me,
a tasty combo of
sad and guilt,
that I ******* up,
which is why this
writing is my re-righting
the ship of perspective.
maybe I am dreaming
of what was never,
could have been,
should of been,
kidding myself, with an idyll,
the unreality of an idol,
though I vague recollect,
there were meals like that.
think this is my fourth trip here,
sort of, almost a tradition.
BobbyDylan, he reminds
what that woman,
done for me,
been doing to me.
*"I was in another lifetime
one of toil and blood,
when blackness was a virtue
and the road was full of mud
I came in from the wilderness
a creature void of form.
"Come in" she said
"I'll give you shelter
from the storm".*
so she did,
a new reality born.
so semi-sad poem, but
happy thanks to give,
for this day,
new family
embracing, and I am
recollecting,
read somewhere,
you cannot be thankful
for having,
only for giving.
Thanksgiving
Not
Thanks-having
Thanks-receiving
New Reality: Thanksgiving Miami Style.
Nov 28, 2013
Nov 28, 2013 at 3:53 PM UTC
(and I cannot live
from with-out)
<>
a poem in appreciation to Rossella Di Paolo
<>
I, too:
- am an embryonic work in progress,
well into my seventh decade, with no ending in sight
I too,
live in the house of poetry, the address likely differs,
but suspect the innards of the houses differs little,
the decor, quite similar
- my house shrewdly requests a rethinking,
noting, it lives my artifice,
with in & with out
Then, we are a We:
- my cavities house her, She, Poetry is of Ruth (1) born,
- Poetry, She, reminds me, ”whither thou goest, I will go”
This duality:
- where the haunting of words providential,
emanate, both inhabiting & inhibits my breathing
She, a fearsome creature, a fearful-something,
for it tears me and shreds tears its demands be wrung
from with in to with out
She, Poetry:
- leaves me gaping, hollow, fills me with
depressurizing boreholes exposed to the elements of
externalities of an admixed atmospheres, that nature demands be refilled, fresh in, stale out,
for which the artifice trick is knowing which is which
when Poetry’s birthing:
- chest pounds, heart-rate beats heavy metal,
abdomen contracts, there then, no languid in my language,
no help untangling the alpha-bet jumbling,
product of the screams of pushing,
squeezing it forth*
*you’re hoping to quick-catch newly formed combinations,
for if you fail, a poem
noisily crashes to and through the floorboard cracks,
where poetry’s chaotic glinting etes
maliciously glimmer~winks at me
with a sarcastic thank you*
*“ah, too bad, another creation stillborn,
gone to rest, biting the nether dust,
without hope of resuscitation…”*
just another unfinished work in progress
periodically
a survivor clean caught, transcribed, edited to be finished,
amniotic fluids cleared,
poem resurrected
blessed with eternal life,
readied to be shared and delivered,
affirmed
and you say to no one and to everyone:
this poem will be our poem,
wither it goes, ascending, descending,
all live in the house of poets,
one house,
many apartments,
each poem a god,
and
my God will be our God,
your God, my God,
in the House of Poetry
Jun 21, 2023
Jun 21, 2023 at 5:55 PM UTC
i was reborn, like a phoenix
but without all the glory.
i didn't set the hospital on fire; i struggled
to pull myself from the ashes
of a former prodigy,
one entwined with madness
in all the right ways
laced with misery like a noir heroine,
so sexily depressing-
whereas now i am just empty
i did not emerge unscathed, no,
not like the fledgling, i
am covered in scars and faultlines from where
the sorrow tried rip itself
from my sorry body
and the crimson glue holding me together
replenishes itself more diluted each time
before i died
i swung through technicolor
episodes of scarlet, rose,
ecstatic white, and the
sapphire blue to haunt my dreams
waking and at night
but the color leached away,
the antiseptic began to pervade, refilled my veins
and purged me of everything but grey.
before my death,
i reigned over the darkness, banished it
when it did not suit me,
manipulated reason, lived in a waking dreamland,
in complete control of my life-
but now, when i am fragile as eggshell,
it's the only place i can hide,
a haven where i can act like the lack of light
masks an imagined vivacity and not a skeleton in flat black and white,
disguises and emboldens me,
allows me to be whole again,
to forget the borders, my limitations
indiscernable in dusk
i used to cast my own light-
now i am my own shadow
and in the dark i fumble for
what i used to be,
reconnect myself with the world
throw myself from the cliff
and hope to find my wings again
Oct 9, 2012
Oct 9, 2012 at 3:41 PM UTC
second sight alternate mind
sliding down the slippery slope
chasing a rabbit into fantasyland
the world is the same but changed
this drink is full of laughter
this drink makes everything strange
and why am I here you may ask
as I refill my already refilled glass
to find myself of course
I've looked everywhere else
and this is the only place I exist
at the bottom of a bottle
recycling the abyss
I am alive tingling inside
and I know he is waiting
on the hangover side, but
I'll let him deal with it **** it up
while I just crawl away to Hyde
until he is again enticed
to walk away from his Jekyllite life
we're all inmates so what's your poison
prisoners here in alcoholism
Jan 16, 2022
Jan 16, 2022 at 8:47 AM UTC
I spent Thanksgiving
this year
not in the blue-collar comfort
of my aunt’s house,
nestled somewhere
within a well-buried suburb
of a quaint, but un-noteworthy neighborhood
with walls decorated with Budweiser signs
juxtaposed against portraits of the ****** Mary,
where a football announcer’s voice plays like
conservative talk radio
in the background.
Instead, to save the labor
of my weary immigrant grandmother,
we dressed in Sunday best
and drove ourselves in
three well-packed mini vans
to some elegant hotel restaurant,
ideal for people-watching
from the gaudy, art-deco staircase
while pretending to be in the Great Gatsby.
It didn’t feel natural, though,
that beside a modest turkey breast
with cranberry dressing, sat a beautiful
cut of prime rib, carefully ladled
with truffle au juis–
nor beside a humble dollop
of mashed potatoes and gravy,
should there be salmon to die for,
and berries slathered with brie.
The food I nibbled
with bites of nervous guilt,
as the impeccably dressed waiter
exhaustedly refilled our water glasses,
nodding his head reflexively
to my mouse squeaks of “thank you’s”
What monsters are we,
letting these people work on Thanksgiving Day?
Grandma said, calmly, that some people
are just happy to be paid,
recounting
her impoverished childhood
in war-torn Germany—
that to simply muffle
the aggressive rumbling
of a days-empty stomach,
she and her brother
would ****** a handful of
potatoes from a government farm,
not many, but just enough
as she grimaced
at the ever-so-slight mealiness
of her rosemary-infused pork chop—
the woman who couldn’t afford ham
until she became a citizen.
We nodded quietly and
swallowed our privileged guilt,
washed down with
politely cut bites
of perfectly cooked salmon.
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 3:17 PM UTC
I often cry when writing my love poems
*this secret, yet-not-so-secret, for the words become
blurry birthed by the amniotic fluid of encasing tears,
and when I write, wearing my emotions on my sleeves,
for wiping my cheeks, nose leaking, because I write of
sorrow supreme, that has no solution, pain repetition-dulled,
yet, provoking each time for the words bubble up, of-course,
it is love, in its thousands of reincarnations, coming to haunt,
the lost, the unfound, thinking of
my parents,
my children,
my lovers,
come, gone and
those who stay…*
I bemuse myself thinking, each tear a lost poem, removed
by sleeve or tissue, wiped away, lost, irretrievable forever…
but these yellowed memories forever and ever refreshed
by sea spray and wind, my face absorbs their unique nutrients,
and love and pain rebirthed as if it was the happenstance of
today, and the poem water tank just goes on and on being refilled…*
Jun 25, 2023
Jun 25, 2023 at 11:14 AM UTC
My forgiveness *** is a jar
That lives inside my heart
Filled with all the forgiveness I have
It looks like fairy dust, glittery and golden
When someone needs some of my forgiveness I take a little from the jar and give it to them
Sometimes a little, sometimes a lot,
Sometimes more than I feel they deserve
The jar is refilled by the forgiveness others give to me
For I too need forgiveness sometimes
Right now my jar is running low
I have given away far more than I should have done
And to people who I think should receive none at all
The cutting insults he made
The selfishness she showed
Were two this week alone which emptied over half my jar
But that's what we do, isn't it...Forgive?
I am now wondering what other peoples jars look like
What shape, what size, how empty, how full
And what colour is their forgiveness? Red, silver? Gold like mine?
Do some peoples jars never open?
Sealed forever, never giving, unable or unwilling to receive?
Do some people really not care about the importance of forgiveness?
I care
I take care of my jar
I hope that when it is almost empty it will fill back up with
The forgiveness others do not want
I like to think forgiveness isn't wasted
Finds a home, a jar somewhere.
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 6:43 AM UTC
There're swords,
lots of them,
and long-bows,
with fresh, eager arrows
jostle with notched expert axes;
legendary hair frame braided beards
flowing into refilled tankards
drowning curses through broken teeth
gnawing at poor personal hygiene
across the stench of the public tavern
as granite-stares challenge
bone-shattering laughter.
-
All as anticipated -
there's Orcs about
and the prescribed heroes assemble.
-
-
Slow rolling leaden mist cloaks howling creatures at dawn
from deep within the forest,
then disabling rain falls at dusk
and steel clashes with steel in the storm…
-
All these exploits ferment short of full strength
and stretch onto a wide Winter screen
before facing the final critical battle
for a 12A Christmas.
Jul 12, 2016
Jul 12, 2016 at 4:01 PM UTC
Creased felines crossing lines,
Pressing claws into dust.
Western hemisphere,
Reviving the pilgrimage.
Bubbles and logs
Satiate their under garments.
Enhancing hair follicles
Resembling shards and spurs.
At a woodsy bar,
A tabby liberated the fangs
He rented last holiday.
The bartender shook with perplexity.
Reacting simultaneously-
A minor character, Little Leon.
The dusty town called him
Leon, for he was alone.
Little Leon got taller
In a basement full
Of water. The dusty town
Was an adjustment.
The tabby and Little Leon
Faced off for recognition.
Leon wretchedly charged
The floor boards with sopping ends.
Crayon versus colored pencil;
They chose their weapons
Anxiously. It was
Bring your son to work day.
The bent bartender
Spared his child’s eyes.
“I’m not your little boy,”
The child shrilled at him.
“I don’t want trains,
Or fake guns meant for play.
I miss my mom,
And dresses on Sunday.”
Cats on a pilgrimage,
Rarely stop from
Slurping a drink. Pity refilled
Cups, as tails twitched in trial.
The tabby and Leon
Came to a halt, seeing as
Punishment was engraved atop
The bartender’s grungy mitts.
The clowder gathered,
As the Tabby scolded the man
Behind the bar. “Remember where
you leave your beverage.”
And that was that.
Leon’s internal complexity,
Being left with only himself,
Dissipated. There are others
Who feel more alone.
Tabby picked up his crayon.
His spurs clanked
And spun, as his guided
His feline friends out the front.
Tumbleweed skidded
Outside the bar.
The bartender finally saw
That his son was not a son.
Mar 18, 2012
Mar 18, 2012 at 5:10 PM UTC
When I looked into the sky,
The wave of blue that is the same shade of
Your eyes crashed over me.
My heart ached when saw that color.
It was like having to kiss you
All over again.
There was not a cloud in the sky, 75 degrees.
Our first date was at night.
I have not felt this warm in months.
I reached my arms out in front of me,
Palms toward the sky,
Basking in the heat that refilled me.
I was consuming the sun.
Oct 31, 2017
Oct 31, 2017 at 1:39 PM UTC
TOGETHER THEY SAT ON THE RED VELVET COUCH
THE ROOM SOFTLY AGLOW
BATHED IN WARM CANDLE LIGHT
HER INTOXICATING PERFUME
SWEETENED THE NIGHT
AS TOGETHER
THEY SAT ON THE RED VELVET COUCH
TWO ALMOST EMPTY WINE GLASSES
SAT ON THE TABLE BEFORE THEM
BOTH GLASSES TOUCHING
AS IF IN AN EMBRACE
BOTH WAITING PATIENTLY
TO BE REFILLED WITH THE DARK RED WINE
THE TASTE OF WINE STILL LINGERED
AS HER TONGUE
SLIPPED PAST THE CORNERS
OF HER FULL LIPS
FULL LIPS
THAT CRIED OUT
TO BE KISSED
KISSED
FULL MOUTH
KISSED
WITH ALL THEIR WETNESS
KISSED
WITHIN ALL HER WANTING
THEIR HANDS
TOUCHED AND ENTWINED
HE PULLED HER INTO HIM
THEIR WANTING LIPS MET
HER LIPS
SO WET
SO FULL
SO HOT
SO PASSIONATE
THEY BOTH TREMBLED
AS THEIR YET CLOTHED BODIES
TOUCHED
ELECTRICITY FLOWED
BETWEEN THEM
SETTING OFF SPARKS
THAT FILLED THE ROOM
THEIR TONGUES
DANCED WITH PASSION
HER'
FILLING HIS WANTING MOUTH
HIS
MOUTH DRINKING IN
EACH
DELIGHTFUL
MOMENT
GENTLY
HE ******
HER
FULL BOTTOM LIP
INTO HIS MOUTH
HE COULD FEEL HER WARM BODY
AS SHE SANK
DEEPER
INTO HIS ARMS
THE PASSION GREW
THE
FIRE
RAGED
THE
ROOM
SPUN
AS TOGETHER THEY SAT
ON THE RED VELVET COUCH
jSWEPTSON
Feb 10, 2011
Feb 10, 2011 at 11:16 AM UTC
Wipe that powder off your nose
And keep killing those boys
With your poisonous emerald eyes
And those venomous blood red lips
Don’t let your nose bleed again
It might give you away
Rich girls don’t cry, remember?
Here doll take some of my Xanax
Drape yourself in luxury
Go buy yourself some diamonds dear,
Go get mama’s ****** refilled will ya?
Stop that frowning, you’ll get wrinkles!
You better marry that man
He's perfect for you, just look at that ring!
Aw my girl's growing up, her first botox appointment!
Don't worry honey, pretty girls are happy girls.
Apr 19, 2013
Apr 19, 2013 at 1:14 AM UTC
My heart is a watering can
with patched up holes.
There is rust around its edges
but it's full to the brim.
I've poured it out
over dry dirt;
nothing ever sprouted
save a few shoots that soon shriveled.
I refilled it each time, trying a new.
Finally, I've tipped it,
sprinkling over my love for you,
and to my deepest delight
a garden grew.
Jul 19, 2016
Jul 19, 2016 at 5:30 AM UTC
Once I loved a pretty girl
But she don’t live round here no more
Ventured out into the world
To keep her pride and settle scores
I remember brighter days
Full of song and open seas
Then mid-September’s chill gave way
We can’t refuse our destiny
Seasons changed – feelings, too
Suddenly she’s out of touch
Portraits of our dream won’t do
Now as I paint, I lick the brush
After hours at the bar
Chewing fat and catching eyes
Often wonder where you are
Or if that’s you dressed in disguise
Once I loved another girl
But not the same one as before
Like a clam without a pearl
She was a shell without a core
I tried to help; I gave her love
Favors, *** and cash to burn
Everything I could think of!
And asked for nothing in return
Then I fell into a hole –
Funny how these things turn out –
In need of but a gentle soul
To lift me up above the clouds
But when I asked for her to care
To show the warmth of open arms
She offered nothing but a stare
And only time could break her guard
Once I healed a broken heart
Brought about by foolish charm
Gave it my all right from the start
Unraveled like a ball of yarn
Days went by and turned to months
Drawing close to my twine’s end
So I sought out familiar fronts
To seek the love of kin & friends
My heart grew warm and full of joy
I leaped with faith and did good deeds
My shaded past would not destroy
The man that only I could be
The months grew closer to next year
As one by one I placed the stones
That built the path to facing fear
And taking on the world alone
Once I triumphed over evil
Choked the devil til he died
Oh, he’ll be back, there’s no doubt he will
But never more shall steal my pride
Once I learned that Love is Evil
Now she’s back to claim her prize
But I won’t let my heart be refilled
Without the whole piece of the pie
Sep 24, 2015
Sep 24, 2015 at 4:06 PM UTC
Someone tell me where we are
not all that close, not all that far
Marching feet and distant drums
but I can't see where they come from..
Baby Soldier with angry eyes
filling empty space with hate
for fat old men made fat on lies
it's not your fault..........it's just your fate
Baby soldier
Slaughter in the market place
You heard their cries, you saw their face
How then can you sleep at night?
How dare you say, "everything alright"
Baby soldiers with empty eyes
empty minds refilled with hate
for fat old men made fat on lies
while baby soldier licks the plate
Baby soldier
Dancing in a rain of fire
Just one more death for your empire
but baby soldier dies alone
his soul is gone his heart is stone
Baby soldier with empty eyes
filling empty space with hate
for fat old men made fat on lies
It's not your fault It's just your fate
Baby soldier
Baby soldier lay it down
the crops won't grow in blood soaked ground
but baby soldier cannot hear
above the sound of hate and fear
baby soldier with angry eyes
feeding on their hate and fear
while fat old men get fat on lies
everyone dies that's why you're here
Baby soldier
Someone tell me where we are
not all that close not all that far.
Jan 22, 2016
Jan 22, 2016 at 8:20 AM UTC
Scrambling upon slimy rocks
Pocketful of glistening pebbles
Wellies damp from taking just one too many steps
Tiny soft mottled green shelled crab
Held delicately between forefinger and thumb
Smell of salt air on your jumper
Knees scuffed red raw from exploring
Daring adventures of a boy
Down upon St. Mary's Isle
Teasing little sisters with monsters from
Recently refilled rock pools,
Sea anemones, all shiny slippery jelly
A dead lobster with only one claw
Amazing treasure from a world, he knew well
Early morning, cold breeze cutting through
A green jumper, mother shouting at the gate
Something about being warm, he didn't really hear
Skipping over seaweed covered rocks,
Net and rod grasped firmly in hand
Off to catch a monster, fish from beyond
The edge of an island, where magical things occur
Like weathered, washed up wood, from
An imagined wreck, or
Bright blue netting, and seaweed cage
A sharks purse contained within
The salty, sweet taste of the sea air,
And the splash of frothing white spray
As the seventh wave hits the rock
A boy or a man in paradise
A simple boy in paradise, skipping over rocks
Discovering seaside treasure, by the rocky shore
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 2:39 PM UTC
I finally picked up my refill
And finally stopped running uphill.
I'd been out for days,
And was in a haze
That nothing could fix but my refill.
I finally refilled my meds, guys.
Last week I ran out of my supplies,
And I sunk like a brick
Into depression so thick
That it kept me from refilling my meds, guys.
At last I am back on my Adderall
And everything feels much more natural
I cleaned up the sink
And now I can think
About how good it is to have Adderall.
May 4, 2020
May 4, 2020 at 3:14 PM UTC
i could write in my own blood
and you wouldn't see the hurt in my words
I still cannot believe that i can tame my tongue.
But i turn it from a dagger, and hide the dagger in the churned earth
among the spring seeds,
maybe when the flowers bloom,
they will bare a sharper sort of beauty.
Maybe when the pain returns pain
maybe then it will rain, and in the rain
I will see past lies that looked so like truths
and they will be more plain
Perhaps naked petals will unfurl,
and wildflowers will change their minds to be replanted
Memories of that sincere girl will sprout,
and i will be refilled with trust to uproot my doubt,
Perchance i will trace the stems up to the flowers
and pick each golden oval, off of its shadowed bower
hidden there among the aged leaves and cowering
under the trustworthy arms of an ancient oak tree
look deep and remember that it has a place etched deep in my craggy heart
but that place is empty and not the same, as was the carving,
from the start
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 12:22 AM UTC