"screenplay" poems
Flashback,
To that time we played blackjack
I was impressed by your ability to shuffle all the cards just like that,
&then; you showed me a magic trick with pistachio shells
Oh what a friendship it is when someone buys you peanuts and opens all the shells
Yeah confession;
You're in my sci fi screenplay
I think I wrote about you in the most innocent way
And theres a song that,
I currently have on replay...
And a smile that can't help but shine when I see your face
What a moment it is when you're sitting there on the bus and you just want to photograph it
Life's a chess game, and now its your move..
I'm standing on the front line,
I'm giving my horsey to you (haha)
Oh this life's a chess game,
One wrong move and I'll lose....
But here right now we're at a stalemate
All my pieces were going but the piece that remains, patiently waits
For you..
Oh with you I never want the game to end so soon
And I know that we can't fall in love
Cause we've got different ones for us
But what a friendship it is when none of that matters no more..
You're the chess opponent I've been waiting for,
You are.
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 3:31 AM UTC
Ever felt like absolutely nothing is going your way?
Like you've tried so hard, yet they don't hear a word you say.
You do your best, yet still no recognition,
It just doesn't feel like my life, seems more like fiction.
Everything is going wrong and I don't know how to feel,
Is this really my life? These emotions seem so surreal.
I used to be so happy, now life's filled with strife.
"There goes the girl with the smile" , they'd say.
"she must have a good life".
If only they knew what I really feel like.
A roller coaster of emotions bottled on the inside.
What you see, is not who I am,
But I guess that's just life.
At least I have my pen and page,
That "something" that keeps me from showing all this rage.
I seem to be pretty good at giving advice,
Seeing that people keep coming back.
But why do I feel like i'm helpless, i'm useless,
Just an old dusty book that's shelved on the rack.
At least I have my best friends
So loyal and true they are.
They help me deal with my emotions
And heal each painful scar.
I'm really grateful for them, otherwise my life would have been a mess.
I'm trying to focus on the positives
And lay the negatives to rest.
This is my life that i'm living
MY LIFE that was meant for ME to live.
So why am I wasting it being all depressed.
I need to stop doing this to myself,
I deserve better than all this mental torture
I need to smile and give myself a break
Before these thoughts of mine, will begin to shake.
I need to stop looking for excuses,
Because all this procrastinating has got me blaming.
I'm supposed to live a happy life
But why don't I feel that way?
I swear nothings going right, everyday things change.
Happiness is a choice it all depends on ourselves
So I'm going to try and see if it works.
Those words the screenplay of my life.
Each day is an oppurtunity, dare to make use of it.
That much will benefit me I know
I just need to listen to myself more I guess
So why does it seem so hard
Haters are always going to be there,
So its no use casting the blame on them.
This, is all me, a choice to be made.
Where I have to decide.
Decide to stop being morbid, sad and depressed,
Decide to change my life and the way I react to things.
Its all up to me. Me. Me.
The choice is mine.
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 1:05 AM UTC
You wanted a love like in the movies;
rain drenched white shirts, palms covered
in daisy pollen; I love you more than--
a phone call, long distance, your fingers
curling the telephone wire like you're pulling me
towards you
like a fibre optic pheromone.
Soundtracks of a jazz piano, and old jukebox hits,
flared skirts and Mary Jane shoes, square dancing.
But most of the time, we don't get to choose
the colour of the bedsheets. In this story,
I know you're going to leave me. I can sense
the zoom of your eyes, rolling away from me.
The lighting in the room, like the ones where something
awful is about to happen: a sad, sick orange
like a cheap sunset; the music, or lack thereof,
the way you bite your lip like you're about to
break my heart.
You look to the ground, and I know this is where
the narration will start;
*this is the story of the first time
someone broke my heart.
She's going to look up at me
and say the words,
It's all over-*
and in a jump frame
the thunderclap will mask the sound
of my heart shattering, the sob disappearing
into my throat.
You wanted a love like in the movies,
honey,
we all did.
But then the rain came, and the flowers
drowned in their beds.
You left your umbrella by the doorstep,
I hope you don't catch a cold.
May 1, 2018
May 1, 2018 at 10:11 AM UTC
Natalie!
at present I am present on a small isle,
which is so green genteel
to the eyes and the ayes,
you might include it
among yet unmastered possibilities,
living here forever.
indeed, the crescent beach so welcoming that
francais et l'anglais des anglaise is spoken here,
but actuality
has a way of intruding,
like
Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Bleu,
saying I know you,
even if it doesn’t
this breeze bearing load suggests your name
as a candidate for future, honours, an MBE,
a practiced curtsy for a queen,
whatever is he babbling about?
why I am presenting an outline for a screenplay that
will make you a little rich and somewhat fameuse
so you buy a house on the water,
party all night,
write in the miracle wonder of the late afternoon
on a summery isle,
modestly hungover
say!
where is this isle so sheltered,
where nooks are set aside for poets and drunks
to pub crawl, to stand on tables and Irish sing of
those things that poets endlessly babble?
so add :
come here and let us listen to all your possibilities
and cross just this one,
your presence here,
off the list
Jun 22, 2019
Jun 22, 2019 at 3:40 PM UTC
I had to walk out of physics today,
make my way to the back of the room
shoot for the door
with my hands on my hips.
Just started pacing.
I just stated pacing and pacing and pacing.
I followed the thin grey lines between the linoleum tiles
with my toes
counting every second I was out of class
and weighing that against how many more it would take
on a chance against hell
to get me back in there again.
I wasn't smart.
I never had been.
I just filled in bubbles correctly and I wrote
all the right things on a convincing, cliché
college paper.
I don't even know why I took physic,
but it sounded like a good idea when I was eighteen
and scared
and had some woman with a long braid screaming at me,
"advising" me that it was the "right direction."
I didn't even know who I was then so how could she.
I could mouth off a good response or two and I
probably embody every great literary character
in commercial fiction that is
the guy in the grey skinny jeans reading Shakespeare
in the corner of the dining hall.
Well, I'm not.
I'm not some stereotype for your next
creative writing assignment.
I just happen to think my *** looks good in skinny jeans,
I actually hate Shakespeare,
and the corner of the dining hall has the best air conditioning.
It's that simple.
There's your answer.
But my fingertips were shaking and my mind was racing
and there I was
just pacing and pacing and pacing
because this
is ********
This class is ********
This college is ********
And the whole world
might as well be ********
right along with it.
I never went back into class that day.
Which ***** actually because I lost a good backpack and calculator,
but in the long run it worked out alright
because here I am
writing this
and getting paid for it,
not that I'm greedy or anything
(I get paid a whole lot if you care to know)
but I'm writing more than just about
that day I couldn't breathe in physics class.
I'm writing to tell you
that there's quite a great deal of superficial things in this world
and if you find yourself a part of it
I'm demanding you leave.
Leave your good notebook, your steady job, your filthy marriage.
Leave it because it's actually true no matter how stupid it sounds
that life is too short
and things that are real
need to be attacked and clutched onto
if you want them to last.
I guess I can thank that institution actually
for teaching me everything I never wanted to know,
and for getting me to where I am
with multiple publications, a book signing or to, a beautiful wife,
three kids, a screenplay, oh
and a big
F U
to those that said I would never do it.
(Dr. Hefer, that means you).
Aug 31, 2013
Aug 31, 2013 at 12:17 PM UTC
Dressed in finest with diamonds and pearls,
Draped in cascading waterfall of silk and lace,
Velvety scent hovering delicate skin,
Senses heightened, a muse enters the ball.
Lights, glitters, somehow the chandeliers reflect,
The festive and jovial non caring mob on the floor,
Flirty and inviting giggles and smiles of women,
Received by the charming and engaging flock of men.
I hear a toast of welcomes and greetings.
Glasses were raised of sweet bubbly champagne.
Wishes of well-being and welcome filled the room.
Faces passed into an recognizing blur of smolder.
But the reception was a well-played sham,
The festive, a rehearsed staged scene from your screenplay,
Artists are your familiars that act on your command.
With the exclusion of the maiden muse you invited.
Jun 16, 2013
Jun 16, 2013 at 6:12 PM UTC
If I listened to every advertisement
hollering through the static
of my cable-hooked television,
I'd have a mammoth bottle
of Hidden Valley Ranch
sitting with the ego-quenching sheen
of recommendation in my fridge,
a Weight Watchers membership
(it told me to join as soon as possible
with the speed of a steroid-devouring treadmill),
Children's Tylenol
(despite being situationally barren),
and a Bowflex-shaped elephant,
ivory tusks slumping uselessly in the corner.
My living room would be the fraternal twin
of the American Smithsonian,
a faux-genuine quilt
of our Founding Fathers'
present day descendants
draping over my popcorn ceiling.
I return to the latest
sacred cow in the flea store
cartel of Lifetime Movie heroines;
it's "Vengeful Vixens Sunday"
and Elizabeth Berkley shooting men
and stabbing women in the back
all while eating buckets of Ben and Jerry
and getting addicted to crystal ****
The dialogue is as freshly
packaged and slovenly edible
as the Minute Ready Late Night Dinner
with a cartoon grandma plastered on the logo,
all to remind you of down home,
or in the case of this Lifetime screenplay,
a time when the brain wasn't fully developed.
Same difference.
We all hide our guilty pleasures
as if our tolerance for the
secondhand existence of these favorites
were deemed malignant
by a cardboard kingdom
of young adult sophistication,
but I ask you:
who hasn't slipped into the comfort
of a mind turned to mush?
Apr 29, 2010
Apr 29, 2010 at 10:55 AM UTC
Caste of language and literature to the eye
You embrace the culture of Bodos
The Bodo race in the world to introduce
Sweet stories you wrote
Great race and all of the field to watch
You are the emperor of the short story
The poem of you bikram
Like brush many your creativity
Your poem in the blooming flower
Does embrace thousand poets
You are screenplay writer of Bodo films
You wrote alayaron in 1986
You written for 2002 film songali
Wonder how much of your creation!
Take only your creation
We are lose you!
Just said to me your philosophy
Can human effort and can be successful
Come on friend, let us go to try
Caste and country for advancement
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 4:48 AM UTC
Captured in a state of dread
There's no escaping The Walking Dead
Or Breaking Bad's **** perfection
A camera eye of moral deception
Our heroes are murdered yet still we watch
The vampires humanity was simply shut off
Prime time committed to bloodshed and crime
Nameless victims by screenplay design
Mad Men, House Of Lies, Shameless in fact
Gone are the shows with morals intact
Truth is, it's quite intriguing
Which in fact is the key
That allows the networks
To spread this disease...
Feb 21, 2014
Feb 21, 2014 at 9:18 AM UTC
Live like an unappreciated stranger
in your own house.
Become the careless talk at family dinners
about the disappointing child
and pretend like it was all a joke
and slowly lose yourself with every
echo of drunken laughter.
Look into the eyes of someone you love
and realize how you can't feel anything
other than dread.
Become the lustful thoughts of someone
you can't love
and watch them cut themselves
into pieces for you, when
in the end
all you can say is a pitiful "thank you,
but I'd rather be a lonely wreck
drifting across the sea."
Ask yourself to be found
in a map with no direction
and with nothing but your
faulty heart to guide you away
from home.
Pretend like the music
disappears into the background
of the screenplay your life has become
and the screen slowly turning black.
Find the dread
in your own heartbeat.
Take off your clothes
and see how you sewed every misgiving
into your skin like a story you
never want forgotten
and marvel at how bad your stitching is-
can't even hold yourself together.
Hear the sound of the rain
and wonder why
the grey clouds of your heart
never go away with the same.
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 12:20 PM UTC
Should I let you in,
Should I let love, win?
My whole wide world, is brought to a stop,
Then my heart spins and twirls, when I feel so high atop
Of this world as a mountain, where my dreams are like fountains,
Which pour out these rivers, and chill spines with shivers.
I should let this win,
I will let you in.
I'll jump upon the feeling express,
And race to explain with abrupt finesse,
Just how you do. Just what you do,
to show me that the word is true.
Show me what lies so deep within,
What joins two together to create our kin.
Believe in me with the same trust
Of those whom you love but do not lust,
Just tell me how you feel today,
and promise me it won't go away.
I know that in my heart you will forever stay,
I knew from the start, without any delay,
How you make me love you
Like a well written screenplay,
Or the wheels of cars, on an open freeway.
You make me love you, and I will tell you, someday.
Jan 10, 2012
Jan 10, 2012 at 5:26 PM UTC
translation from russian by rolanda
E.К
I write you from ex-colonia
grounded twenty centuries ago
by romans-sounds like a symphony
for hyperborean ear, hundred time
increased distance till addressee.
Looks like Agrippa knew what she did
the sister, worth by her madness of her brother.
Further cinematograph-nude body
bent and etc..accordingly screenplay
maid lapping in marble bathtube
horns leads triumphal aria
with a long sound. On the backstage
usual complaining on the fate,
tangent glance to the east,
muscle of cease walk
the female wolf her concrete ******
snapping, moving back to the building of arsenale
lost fatten twins.
I recollect what you didnt finish to say me
closing second door on the bolt,
on same spot there is a snow, cover up Prachechnij bridge
panorama of river, filled up by ice,
something with tear through two thousand miles
or old age with saged belly.
In our age, verticals are
soaring unreachable, slipping to result
of life, just right to dress on sandals
but hardly happens to slip into toga.
Invariable law of falling drops
down, no matter- fontain, rain, ******
Harbour of postscript...rats storm the ship.
Funeral office offers moire
from spring collection for upholstery of
coffins, grief on the faces of personals,
just in time served coffee with cream
soften disaster of final account.
I write you, for what? - after victory
of foreign football team
from the closeness of prosperous summer,
connected Alps and Andes
by wave of psychose from tv,
inflicted by joy of superiority
above..(not clear what of), and their poses
of victors is sign of ugliness
from point of view of observer-
old neurasthenic and misantrope.
Contemplating fly of pterodactyl
by eye of stamped cyclop,
gilded **** on short spike of chirch
scream by voice of Luter:
"Be blessed folks cars!",
and morning flow down by sunrise on wood
by Dmitrij Poparev
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 10:27 AM UTC
The dissonance feels indiscernible now.
My favorite bench became home
for both of us.
You didn't scorn,
rather embraced me from the beginning.
And the sky opened;
the stars glowed only for you.
Watch them glow,
watch them sparkle for you.
(I bet you didn't know this was for you)
Only poetry was being written.
A screenplay coming to life.
Avant la prochaine fois, manquer,
avant la prochaine.
Jul 10, 2011
Jul 10, 2011 at 12:06 AM UTC
INT. WILL'S HOUSE - NIGHT
Andrew walked inside of his best friend Will's house, carrying a six pack of Stella, and moved to the beer-pong table, where Lauren and Erica were playing with Daniel and Marcus. The girls turned to face Andrew and Erica mumbled something to Lauren. Lauren laughed and nodded. Andrew hoped she wasn't laughing at him, but when he saw her smiling at him, that was when he knew he would end up falling in love with her. Well maybe not in love with her, but he hoped he would at least get to know her. He took off his jacket and set it aside on the couch next to Will and Carrie. Will looked slimmer than usual, his arms skinny, and his clothes baggy on him. He didn't like seeing his friend look like a stick-figure, but he didn't really know how to approach the subject. Instead, he hugged him and felt Will's skin and bones, wondering how long could his friend go on like this.
ANDREW
Will, wanna get next game?
Will considered it for a moment and shook his head.
WILL
I would man, but I'm feeling pretty tired. Going to take a dab in a minute, you want one?
ANDREW
Ha, not tonight man, I got to drive back home after this.
Andrew turned around and caught Lauren staring at him. She looked away and shot the ping-pong ball into one of the red solo cups. All Andrew knew about Lauren was that she moved here from Florida. She was here for the summer, perhaps longer. She was good friends with Will's girlfriend Carrie, but Carrie had told him the other day over Facebook chat, that Lauren was talking to some guy named Peter back in Florida. Good for me, he thought. He wanted to be single for a while, but there was something uncanny about Lauren that drew him in closer to the pong table. She was wearing a black cardigan and a white blouse underneath with jean shorts and flats--typical NOVA **** but he sensed she was deeper than her appearance. She had blue eyes, blue as the sky in the current summer month of July.
ANDREW
Hey do you guys mind if I get next game?
Erica looked at Lauren. And she looked back at Erica and shrugged.
LAUREN
Are you good?
ANDREW
I can be.
Lauren considered him for a moment.
LAUREN
Great to hear. You and Erica are going to go against me and Daniel. Cool?
ANDREW
Yeah that's cool.
Andrew found a spot next to Erica and stood beside her, high-fiving her.
ERICA
Don't worry about Lauren, she's just super competitive.
ANDREW
Let's show them some competition then.
Jun 24, 2016
Jun 24, 2016 at 7:44 PM UTC
A questionnaire of my family history is only a monologue I tell myself.
Practicing in front of the mirror to get better.
So, the next time the doctor’s words I am sorry falls back into their lips.
& I am onto my feet.
A vapid, monologue screenplay.
The rehearsed version of my life.
Answering the questions.
Somehow still fumbling through the words.
Yet leaving voids in my answers as my family’s members absence did.
Mother?
Two strokes. She’s alive but not apparent enough to know it.
Her blood runs too thick.
Blood pressure always boiling.
Mother knew how to live fast but never well enough.
Father?
Dead. He was alive but never long enough to hold it.
Heart always dropping and head into the palms of his hands.
Thirst never stopping.
Alcoholism is a wicked thing I say.
Siblings?
Brother. Alive somehow not present enough to count it.
Healthy. We count his days as tick-tack-toe though.
Family history has a lineage that says the roots in this family tree are rotten.
Sister. Victim to mental health.
The prodigy of a broken foster system.
I reckon her days are counted in lines.
Between days she’s alive & the days she wishes she wasn’t.
The doctor does an homage in the way she bows her head.
Makes the hollowed-out chest of mine seem like it’s filled with water.
I let out a gasp.
Trying to fill the room where all the air has seemed to have evaporated.
Hoping to catch my breath.
My story filling their break room like a lingering coffee smell.
Keeping them brewed in satisfaction that it could always be worse.
My story always seemed like the punch line for better days.
Our family has been waiting since genesis for such.
These are the days I wish I believed in something.
A god to drown every nightfall with dawn.
Oct 20, 2020
Oct 20, 2020 at 1:41 PM UTC
A sublime structure,
that breaks down in subtle stanzas.
The perfect protagonist,
who relates to most.
Memorise your lines,
the casting call is imminent,
the stage seems so intimate,
but you've waited a long time for this day.
Break a leg i've heard them say,
but I know you're ready to change.
this could be the beginning of a new chapter,
a mid life crisis,
to end your life in that perfect way you always liked in those movies.
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 5:33 AM UTC
Copacetic:
attempts of levitation
Elevation to levels you did not wish for
I ignored
My truth in relentless
ruthless pursuit
of symbolic status demonstrating my supposed worth.
Copacetic:
Severed the lock and
opened my box of tools
to set the rules
for a game
I had said I never wanted to play.
Copacetic:
transformed myself
conformed to roles that fit like satin gloves
- if only in my own screenplay -
Downplayed
insincerity
Role played
authentic individuality.
Copacetic:
gulping misconceptions and
Mutually accepting regression to places
we thought we had
grown past and
persistently masked our intuitions.
Copacetic:
We departed
- no verity given or received -
with hearts decreased
in clarity and size
Our journeys lie ahead of us
respectively-
Collectively there's no decision
but to scurry on our own ways
And presently
your days look quite different than mine.
Aug 5, 2013
Aug 5, 2013 at 12:56 PM UTC
I want to write a screen play
The story of a life
A journey to insanity
The weary inner strife
The endless days of torture
Night's of intense mental pain
The wishing you where dead
Yet clinging to life's vein
When sparks of love afforded
To be snatched away in game
Each tearing a little deeper
Your sanity deranged
Their victory proclaimed
Like chess played with neurons
On a a board that has no squares
A three dimensional prison
That exists inside your head
No solace reached in morning
Their tirade begins again
Retreating deeper inward
You worsen every day
Finally a knife edge
Stay or walk away
Berated for your failure
Each and every day
Survival is all that matters
Clinging to your life
Thoughts are so intransient
You smile as you cry
A hug could simply **** you
Your humanity's been lost
Others did not see it
Nor how you paid the cost
So if I wrote a screenplay
The story of a life
How would I begin or end
What words would I write
Would you see the meaning
And hold me close tonight?
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 12:35 PM UTC
I can't help feeling when I look at your screen
That our story should be rewritten, ain't all that we seem
I'm sitting at dinner eating all the lies that you dish out
Tell me I'm a fighter but I'm on the bench, sitting out
This ain't my writing, my screenplay was written for me
Acting like a drama queen, motion picture category
Didn't need your ******** but here I am, serve me
This ain't ******* tennis, there ain't no love in you from what I see
Loving in the dark like a parked car, cliché
Forced like a *** joke made in the third grade
Wish I could go back when I didn't know what ***** are
Push it real good, ***** ******* is a fine art
Ask to see my body like my personality’s a waste
**** got the audacity to claim that he’s a ******* ace
Flush me out, yeah no way I’m losing with a full deck
Confiscate my heart to keep the cards I’m playing in check
Heart is pounding out my chest I tell you that I feel sick
You’ve got the audacity to tell me that I’m full of ****
Ask you what you’re playing at you say don’t worry bout it
Friends say that you’re ******** me and man, I don’t ******* doubt it
Been down this road too many times, a year ago
You wouldn’t even talk to me yet here we are, and I’m your **
***** that’s a joke, man why so serious?
Gassing up this mother, light it up
Fast and Furious
Jan 3, 2016
Jan 3, 2016 at 11:38 PM UTC
On the precipice of something great
they stood--or, rather,
sat--weaving hopes
into their palms and throwing shadows
just to find the ground.
Whatever they never were
fell from the soles
of their swinging feet and clattered
as it struck
the sides of history.
For a moment,
they let the madness
of memories
overwhelm their senses.
They could've gone so astray.
They could've been so static.
A half-written screenplay.
A near-forgotten attic.
But they had escaped
the ever-churning wheel,
the silicon bubble of this reality,
and burst brusquely and permanently
into possibility.
And they were exhausted.
So the rainbow-chasing was left
for another day.
A fervently promised tomorrow.
For tonight
they collapsed side-by-side
back into the present darkness.
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 12:03 PM UTC
the floor is icier than the last time i crumbled down here. i'm enclosed within the walls of eerie silence, blackness all around me, enveloping my terror, releasing my pain. tears seem to find their own way down to the floor, first dancing with delight, then solidifying and morphing into dark crystals. what is more comforting than the fetal position? the escape that has been written repeatedly into my screenplay of a life.
Mar 26, 2016
Mar 26, 2016 at 3:26 PM UTC
*plotting and planning
intentionally loving
a screenplay for life*
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 1:08 PM UTC
I remember when I wrote
my first proper story at ten
It was called Gateway to Heaven.
When My grandad died
I found myself preoccupied
With the notion of the afterlife
Cause I could not believe that someone
Like him could simply be gone.
Couple that with an obsession
With space exploration
And what you got was a spiritual sci-fi.
To be honest it was more a screenplay
I bought it into class
for some reason one day
Not sure why
Maybe I wanted someone to read it.
Left it on my desk and went for a ****
And when I got back my teacher
Who had a bit of a flare for the amateur dramatics
WAS reading it.
I was met with an intrigued gaze as I walked back in,
I remember thinking
*ahh why are you going through peoples things?!
That's rude!*
(Although I secretly knew she would)
Tryin not to blush as she asked
Me questions about it,
then asked me to stand up and read the plot out to the class.
At this point what you've got to factor in
is that I was incredibly shy,
hmm no maybe not shy,
more under confident.
Not cripplingly so,
don't get me wrong
I was incredibly social,
was very popular in my class as a child
but when it came to sharing thoughts of my introspection,
any talent or shows of confidence,
well let's just say I'd learnt to keep that **** to myself...
But I stood up and read it.
And was met with a
mass of baffled gazes,
a memory that I don't think
will ever leave me.
To be fair it was pretty out there,
all black holes, theology and grief.
The silence that fell,
matching the silence of space itself
makes me wary of silences still.
That eternal moment
Tryin to Guage the judgement
thinking oh **** it!
now everyone knows I'm weird,
shoulda just stuck to my status quo in my final year.
But it was broken eventually
by my friend Funmi who said
"I don't get it"
I'll never forget it,
it was sorta funny,
mostly disappointing.
I wish I had the mentality at that time to think these guys just ain't ready for me
but I guess that was that,
class went back to what it was doing,
teacher came up with
a look of approval and some words of encouragement which was odd,
she wasn't my favourite teacher at all
and she knew it full well
and i spose that marks my underwhelming moment in the spotlight...
*Although I've always
maintained the belief
that it'll shine bright on me one day
or maybe I'll outshine it*
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 3:10 PM UTC
The low slung summer sun, hung asunder
under the thunder we plunder and blunder
Is it any wonder we paint with these numbers
The portrait of a scene, plastered in the retina
broken hearted because that day was terrible
The first bright day, after months of misery
every storm lost in collective recent history
Five O'clock rung violent in warehouse silence
the casual commute home seemed so timeless
Turn through Hyson Green past a Halal shop
through the lonely back roads to Radford's top
Stopped by the garages when the wind had turned
to see a classic hometown scene almost adjourned
What happened never should have happened that way
As the memories linger they feel like a tragic screenplay
Man say to man, give me everything you have
man say man, how could you possibly say that
Sky say to clouds, let the sun shiver
crook say to poet, I need your **** liver
Poet say to God, lord when will I be free?
god say to poet, please stop bothering me
Beast say to boy, I'll count to three
boy say to beast, that I'd like to see
So man pulled a knife and waved it in the air
and man looked away, in absolute despair
Knife said to man, hey poke me in there
and man penetrated man with incredible flair
Muscle say to flesh, this doesn't feel right
eyes say to brain, this is a terrible sight
Knife say to body, do you feel that huh?
nervous system shocked replied, nu-uh
Skin say to vessels, you need to stop bleeding
Vessels say to brain I think we need healing
Brain say to body, we're going down heavy
Death say to life, we've broken that levee
Man said to knife, you've had enough fun
knife said to man, we've only just begun
I looked away petrified and pulling at my head
for when I looked back at the scene,
it was me lying dead.
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 3:19 PM UTC
Why was it
I'd just written a perfect screenplay
So I looked up to deliver my final line for the night
That when I saw you
My computer crashed
Feb 2, 2019
Feb 2, 2019 at 11:47 PM UTC