"sixes" poems
across the Liverpool plains
the gas exploration
goes on without
being contained
drilling is never ending
holes sunk
which invariable
cause in the farming community
a disquieting funk
Santos
cares little
for the environment's
well being
its pipeline
must garner
all the gas
in the stream
landholders and those in the green party
have banded together
to protect the agricultural lands
from the rabid abuse
which the company
will wrought on
the water table
flora
and
fauna
they cry ****
as the company
exploits
the countryside
making of it
a harlot to be pillaged
and misused
the state government
is at sixes and sevens
so many competing
interests
must be listened to
should it give
Santos
permits
to
**** and plunder
or
will
it
allow
the
broad acres
to
continue
without sunder
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 7:35 AM UTC
Cricket is the only game which lures me so much;
And then engrosses me so much.
That craze would never drive out of me…
My inspiration was ‘Yuvraj Singh’,
Only then I arose to identify that King.
Once Yuvi’s record of six sixes in six *****
The firmament was incredible for certain minutes:
That was the first time I witnessed cricket,
And India’s triumph provided me a mind-blowing buzz to watch cricket,
Nevertheless continuing with ***** and wickets.
I would turn crazy when Indian cricketers approach the ground,
And that would certainly not halt lest they are made proud.
This T20 shadowed by IPL,
Made me to by stand that awe-inspiring sport.
Chennai Super Kings-my favorite,
Followed by Royal Challenges Bangalore …
And lots more hilarious teams and cricketers.
When Chris Gayle approaches…
Tsunami warning must be lifted and “Gayle” (gale) warning must be given!
That’s how cricket relocates…
Most matches concluding in the closing over
And some others in the finishing ball…
The most exhilarating sport
Read more →and the format-
IPL is all fun for me…
With cheer leaders and the draped studio;
With cameras and videos
And at last the much awaited IPL trophy-
Cricket is all that it needs!!!
Jan 6, 2013
Jan 6, 2013 at 12:43 AM UTC
I pity anyone visiting us with
A language besides English;
Who tries to understand the words
We like to use with relish.
We seem to say so many words
Just to keep our lips busy.
It occurs to me the so much of it
Has never graced a dictionary.
Upscaling, downsizing
Offloading the whole magilla
The whole nine yards, bottom liine
The big honcho, the whole enchilada
I was completely plussed and then
I had my self a hissy fit
I didn't know I had a flabber,
'Til someone went and gasted it.
Hanging out, kicking back
Into myself and whatever
***** it, man. I am like, wow.
And y'know, yodda yodda yodda.
Some mean kinda fudpucker
Betcher bippees, yabba dabba doo.
Mazoomas and headlights,
Totally hyped megabitch, too.
Talkin' about 'sup bro
Stufflike windas and winders.
Jammin and gittin widdit
And sumpinbout pillas and pillers.
So, I goes and he goes,
And I'm all jazzed and by golly.
It really rocks, rad to the max
Get down to some serious party.
Sixes an sevens, p's and q's
What's your point? Get real!
It's pretty much a ******
So, what's the big deal?
Too much, I mean it's tough,
And stuff, and really far out, man.
Twenty three skiddo old bean.
Just a flash in the pan.
It ***** It blows, It bites, big time
A wicked righteous mindfuck.
Get jiggy with it. Kiss my crank;
Slob my **** Lord Love-a-duck.
Sep 26, 2015
Sep 26, 2015 at 5:24 PM UTC
I am the monarch of the Sea,
The ruler of the Queen's Navee,--
When at anchor here I ride,
My ***** swells with pride,
And I snap my fingers at a foeman's taunts.
And so do his sisters, and his cousins, and his aunts
His sisters and his cousins!
Whom he reckons by the dozens,
And his aunts!
'I am the lowliest tar
That sails the water.
And you, proud maiden, are
My captain's daughter.'
'Refrain, audacious tar.
Your suit from pressing;
Remember what you are,
And whom addressing.'
For I am called Little Buttercup,--dear Little Buttercup,
Though I never could tell why;
But still I'm called Buttercup,--poor Little Buttercup,
Sweet Little Buttercup I!
Fair moon, to thee I sing
Bright regent of the heavens;
Say, why is every thing
Either at sixes or at sevens!
He is an Englishman!
For he himself has said it,
And it's greatly to his credit
That he is an Englishman.
3.4k
when you are twenty something and haven't
grown out of what your family called “baby
fat” don't worry, because you are still loved
by your body. everyday it wakes you up and
nourishes you, and when it fails to do that, it's
only a malfunction, a button hit wrong. when
you get shamed into wearing a one piece by
your friends in eighth grade, don't panic, because
that swimsuit is killer and everyone you are
with is working it. when your friends talk about
skinny shaming since they have never experienced
fat shaming, listen. when you see fat shaming,
talk about it. when your mother starts shopping
in the plus size area for you, don't feel ashamed.
your body is meant for what it is meant to do.
when you have a panic attack in the dressing
room of the local american eagle for not fitting
into size sixes, calm yourself down, no one will
ever see that size. black it out with a sharpie, cut
it out with scissors, let the tag fly. when you
get ****** into pro-ana sites, shut off your phone.
when you are on your knees with two fingers in
your mouth, close the toilet. when you use ice
cubes as a snack, eat something else. don't
let your brain become a calculator before it’s
too late. when you come into school the next
day, your friends complaining about a not flat
stomach, tell them that the sack needed to hold
parts of your body is not flat for a reason. when
they complain about size four jeans, show them
how you wear eights like a badge of honor, like
your lipstick or your hair. show your stretch marks
as tattoos, show your cellulite as gold, your hips
as the gates to your mansion, and your thighs are
thunder thighs, let them boom down and let them
be free.
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 6:28 PM UTC
A bright lad called Alistair Cook
Did enjoy the occasional book,
He went out to bat,
NO - don't play at that,
They did him; line, sinker and hook.
On him I'd bet my whole house,
More like a lion than a mouse,
He bats with aplomb,
Both dainty and strong,
It can only be Andrew Strauss.
From the pavilion did Jonathan Trott,
Nervous and anxious he is not,
He'll be there for a while,
All England will smile,
And South Africa know he is hot.
Next in is the feisty KP,
His batting, the top of the tree,
Sixes so great,
They should be worth eight,
Now just stay IN for a hundred or three!
A chap from ooop north who is good,
Goes by the name of Paul Collingwood,
Gritty and tough,
We just can't get enough,
Fight as hard as him, we all should.
No more will the fear he smell,
He's been down to the gym as well,
His batting is slick,
Number six does the trick,
The crowd cheers for Ian Bell.
Swinging his bat, it's Matt Prior,
Born with iron grit, steel and fire,
If he holds each catch,
We'll win the match,
And his ranking will go much higher.
Our spinner is next, Mr Swann,
His bowling is coming on strong,
His batting is great,
Which the opposition hate,
Not to pick him much sooner was wrong.
Our tall quickie is young Stuart Broad,
His bat is a rapier like sword,
He can oft' bowl too short,
Yet the batters get caught,
And Of wicket-taking we never are bored.
James Anderson is our king of swing,
Late movement his favourite thing,
Please bowl nice and full,
Offer nothing to pull,
And just hear those stumps go 'ping'.
Graeme Onions comes in at long last,
Cannot bat but, he can bowl fast,
He makes them play,
While others may stray,
Durham long-hops a thing of the past.
Feb 9, 2010
Feb 9, 2010 at 10:59 PM UTC
I've always been wary--
and celebrated my potential
Betrayal
and
Certain
death(.) (oh)
At The Juice Joint.
All wet. (incorrrr
--ect.)
Applesauce. (non
sense.)
All dolled up. Showed off my
Gams
And Big Jazz
(eyes).
Wanted to get spifflicated with some
Dolls
and
Jellybeans.
...my fella.
?
Didn't have enough clams.
Any of us.
We
're the new
Lost
...generation.
I thought I'd keep the bank open,
but
interest wasn't given
Cash or Check:
didn't really matter.
Might've been
the
cat
's
meeeeeow.
And
how.
Ahhhhh...
we all had our glad rags on.
the Daddies hit on all sixes.
Let's get ZOZZLED on some
jag juice,
dewdropper.
Deeeeeewdropper. ~errrrrrrrr.....
Though giggle juice is more apt
...for me.
Leave the Mrs. Grundys at home...no fire extinguishers allowed.
How ironic.
You were the extinguisher.
Bring Your Own Knife
, we said.
It's a Stabbing Party
, we said.
I didn't want to handcuff you. Didn't want to exchange manacles.
("No, I'm no one's Wife, but OHHHHH, I love my Life.")
I percolate.
I percolate.
I percolate.
I'm not your quiff.
...not your sheba...or a vamp.
Just admire my
chassis
if you will.
they
all
do
The engine'll purr
for you,
~~if you turn the keys just so
Everything was
Copacetic.
Copacetic...
For a time.
(get'hotget'hot!)
Caesar's here.
Hussssshhhhhhhh...
...speak
~~eeeeeaaaaassssyyyyy.
And then I realized.
I'm tired of being Caesar
( . )
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 7:32 PM UTC
Birds like airplanes like crosses in the sky
Give me strength and weakness at the same time
The trees a loft for the first realm of heaven
A grid of sixes beneath the mighty sevens
He was the firstborn of every creature
And the last of all the great teachers
Thirst for his word, cleansed by his blood
Rise out of the ashes like a lotus in the mud
Glorification means being ready to die
To submit to the rainbow throne on high
Dec 5, 2012
Dec 5, 2012 at 11:22 AM UTC
counting breaths and blinks
makes it easier to detach
from hands where hands aren't wanted,
and lips and teeth and tongue and ****
and heat and sweat and rhythm.
heartbeats and seconds in packets of four
are better for the brain
than fists and blood and fear,
and ticks of the clock and fingertips tapping in time
beat uncertainty and helplessness
and not knowing if he's going to live
any day of the week.
i can wash my hands until they're red
(beet red, beat, beet red, beat)
and raw
(and dry and cracked and bleeding and bleeding).
i can write and re-write
and control and perfect,
perfect the verb because
perfect as an adjective is
impossible
(but nothing less will do).
i can line everything up and count it out even,
in fours or
in thirty-sixes,
(six times six, six six times, perfect square, perfect square),
and i can hope
that my neat tall stacks of the things i need to control
will finally outweigh
the scattered mountains
of the things i never could.
i can tell you how and when and where and what,
just please don't ask me why.
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 5:26 PM UTC
We got those 1800s vibes
Men with moustaches
Women with moustaches
You ready to Hunt for your lives?
Get ready cos the Showdown's begun
Men, Women, lock 'n' load up your guns
Snub nose for up close, it's a must
Duck low take it slow, keep mouths shut
Wear you out
'Til your absorbed by the mud
Extract with a bounty, that's how it's won
Countin' up our rewards, no need to respawn
We've still air in our lungs.
It's that time again, we close to sittin' pretty
Lord I pray for courage, so light that soul fire in me
Stacks of crucifixes, so we don't run out quickly
Hang it loosely round my neck should it get dark and dingy
Ward off the devils spirits, or beasts made from three sixes
Martini firepower, and no I don't mean drinkin'
Sometimes be something sicker, for demons I be killing
I'm off to hell and back, to stop em from existing...
Get ready cos the Showdown's begun
Men, Women, lock 'n' load up your guns
Snub nose for up close, it's a must
Duck low take it slow, keep mouths shut
Wear you out
'Til your absorbed by the mud
Extract with a bounty, that's how it's won
Countin' up our rewards, no need to respawn
We've still air in our lungs.
Guess its our turn now, y'all ready for a feud
Ain't no stopping this crowd, we're simply too imbued
That cross around your neck, its just a waste of fuel
The venom flowing in us means conditions won't improve
We'll just keep on marching, until you're twice removed
This is our land you're farming, the boss is not amused
The biggest baddest of us here, do this **** just for fun
You'll never take us all something wicked this way comes
Get ready cos the Showdown's begun
Men, Women, lock 'n' load up your guns
Snub nose for up close, it's a must
Duck low take it slow, keep mouths shut
Wear you out
'Til your absorbed by the mud
Extract with a bounty, that's how it's won
Countin' up our rewards, no need to respawn
We've still air in our lungs.
Get ready cos the Showdown's begun
Men, Women, lock and load what you want
Get ready cos the Showdown's begun
Men, Women, lock and load what you want
Get ready cos the Showdown's begun
Men, Women, lock and load what you want
Apr 18, 2022
Apr 18, 2022 at 6:11 AM UTC
twas a poor performance
on the cricket pitch
the fielding side let too many *****
go to the boundary ditch
those batsmen were fabulous
hitting run after run
they really had the fielders
well and truly under the gun
sixes and fours flew
in both sessions of play
the batsmen had a magnificent
selection of strokes to array
the gully fieldsmen
and those on the off side
were unable to contain
the brilliance of the batting side
the South African cricketers
were too sharp for the Australian team
in short order they put paid to
the Australian third test dream
had the boys from down under
done a better job on the cricket pitch
the South Africans wouldn't be crowing
like a rooster at early morn pitch
a concerted effort with fielding
would have handsomely paid
but the Australian side
couldn't withstand the batter's raid
before the next test series
the Aussies have much homework to do
if they wish to accomplish
a win over the other crew
it is a sad day for this
avid devotee of the cricket game
she has witnessed a poor performance
which was rather lame
one is hopeful of a turn around
in fortunes for one's cricket side
and should it come to pass
one will be heartily filled with pride
Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 7:03 AM UTC
I'll put a brick in my hood
I'll throw a brick to ya dome
I'll shove about anything
To get me through up my nose
And I still flatter them hoes
And get their ******* all wet
Until they drip, drip outta the dryer
I'm washed up they said
Yeah, I'm sauced up too bad
Sick as **** in the head
Don't give a **** about bread
I'm busy countin' my lead
I'm about as sick as they get
So I break up some nugs
Have a *** count my stacks
Line my crib with straight thugs
One, two, three, six, click
Clappin' these sixes while she's suckin' my ****
Leavin' my Deagle 'cause I'm wantin' to live
Givin' heaven the finger 'cause I'm lovin' to sin
No one gonna stop me
Yeah, nothin' that can top me
I'd wreck a fuckin' Bentley
Then suit up on a Harley
Take a trip to Muncie
And load up on some chronic
And smoke until I'm smellin'
Like a farm of hydroponic
**** I gotta get my mind right
But I can't 'cause I'm livin' in the high life
Not a cent gets spent on a dime, right?
Wrong, I spend it all the time
And time keeps tickin'
My watch looks broke 'cause I can't stop spinnin'
Run outta smoke so I tryna hit some resin
My lungs stuck up, but I just keep rippin'
Them souls apart, them hoes apart
Nothin' but the best for my bros so far
I am the number one in this
God-forsaken little blip
Midwestern farmer ****
No one here allowed to spit
But I do everyday
While all my fuckin' neighbors be balin' that hay
Hooray, we got another couple mouths fed
'Til I force-feed 'em an entree of straight lead
Jul 4, 2010
Jul 4, 2010 at 11:55 PM UTC
In a land of 93 people
lived a preacher and a nun
In a church without a steeple
they professed to 91
The sermon was quite boring
so seven found the door
They left amidst the snoring
leaving only 84
The nun looked to the altar
and the scary hanging Jew
Twice 11 faltered
and that left 62
But the preacher kept on talking
and he didn't skip a line
Then 13 more were walking
leaving only 49
The nun began to worry
as she saw the empty pews
They were leaving in a hurry
by sixes, fours, and twos
A dozen minutes later
they were in the church alone
The ****** masterbater
and his faithful penguin drone
"So what are we supposed to do?"
the preacher asked the nun
They started out with 92
(or was it 91?)
To be honest it was 93
including priest and nun
You'd think that I would know this
as I wrote it in line 1
But the time is getting very late
perhaps I now can sleep
These lines are not so very great
and not so very deep
But they served my shallow purpose
as my eyes begin to close
And since nothing rhymes with purpose
I believe it's time to go
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 10:04 AM UTC
SOMEBODY loses whenever somebody wins.
This was known to the Chaldeans long ago.
And more: somebody wins whenever somebody loses.
This too was in the savvy of the Chaldeans.
They take it heaven's hereafter is an eternity of crap games where they try their wrists years and years and no police come with a wagon; the game goes on forever.
The spots on the dice are the music signs of the songs of heaven here.
God is Luck: Luck is God: we are all bones the High Thrower rolled: some are two spots, some double sixes.
The myths are Phoebe, Little Joe, Big ****
Hope runs high with a: Huh, seven-huh, come seven
This too was in the savvy of the Chaldeans.
1.4k
__12
• •
• •
|
9 «——— >§< ———» 3
• •
• •
6__
_“Struck is the hour from its ivory tower,
At sixes and sevens, the stars in their heavens,
As minute hands dance at twilight's advance,
To the cadence of time, the archangel’s chime;
Listen closely for me at a quarter to thee,
‘Twixt the tick and the tock of grandpapa’s clock,
Unquicken thine pace, for run is the race,
Hear the pendulum lock, ziccoty, diccoty, dock._”
Sep 23, 2020
Sep 23, 2020 at 4:55 PM UTC
I have no control,
I'm just a reflection of emotions deep below,
Feed me some antipsychotics,
Free me from my mind,
Bionic-
I got the sickest of Minds,
Come equipped with the quickest depictions that sicken your eyes,
Unassisted, don't be resistin' the fight,
Trip sixes leave you ******* to die,
Rap circles around you like a serpent constrictin your life,
Drag you through the mud and the muck before I kiss you goodbye like the crucifixion of Christ,
You don't know what's livin inside or what I put into these lines,
You might wanna diss me but it's almost forbidden to try,
**** on you ******* while I'm kissin the sky,
Diss all your writtens while you listen to mine,
A misfit, I'm twisted with an addiction to rhyme,
Watch you stiffen at the sight of me hissin at night,
Silence these voices I tried but my prescription ain't right,
My lungs are collapsin like somethins kickin my sides,
I'm not twitchin, I'm flinchin,
Pay attention, there's a difference,
Somethin wants to get in and take away my decisions,
Sometimes I wonder how the **** I got in this position,
I keep talkin to God even though he don't listen,
He's prob'ly ****** off from all the sins I've committed,
Unspeakable actions let the demons in, scratchin,
I keep pleadin and askin but believe I'm the baddest,
Can't seem to keep it, reactin, but receivin the static,
Creepin in the dreams of an addict that needs to be handed,
It's reachin in me and its makin me panic, I'm takin it back and,
Retracin my tracks and erasin the past and,
Replace you with ashes and take the flame back I'm,
Burnin alive while rehearsing these lines,
You can feel it churnin inside, the turnin through time,
You're cursin my life,
Feel like bursting inside-
Feed me some antipsychotics,
Free me from my mind,
Bionic,
Walkin a fine line,
But I called it,
"Its night time,"
Don't worry, I'm on it-
Mar 12, 2015
Mar 12, 2015 at 6:37 PM UTC
the Australians are playing
a good brand of cricket
they've got the English
at sixes and sevens at the wicket
our bowlers seem to be bowling
with much strength
all their delivers
are of a fine line and length
last time we met the English
in an Ashes Series
our Australian team
played like a lot of old ladies
but they've made
some key changes to the team
which shall yield
our cricket side a winning dream
play to-day sees
the English batting at the wicket
they've a bit of work
to do on their cricket
the Australian team
are drilled to perfection
with all their plays
going in the right direction
the Australian's
catching and fielding has improved
we'll be making sure
that all the English are removed
twill be a goodly day
at the Gabba Cricket Ground
watching the English batting
heading outbound
Nov 22, 2013
Nov 22, 2013 at 6:38 PM UTC
Justice for the meek
won't come soon
Under skies aligned
with sinful moons
Neglectful statues
posing as mothers
Executives commission
the blood red summer
Venture across the divide
earmarked by three lines
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 10:01 PM UTC
I’m not quite right today.
I’ve a thoroughly gasted flabber.
The milk of human kindness
Seems to have begun to clabber.
I got plussed but now it’s minus,
I’m so chalant I am nearly flat.
I am almost as spaced out
As a modern day Schrodinger’s cat.
Catch my phrase, please
If you think you can.
I am what became of
The Muffin Man.
The son of no mother
Who never had a dad.
I’m the reason that
The March Hare went mad.
I was once a pillar of immunity
But lately I am wagging a scally.
But somewhere along the line
I became a cat in some alley.
I‘m at five sixes and sevens
I lost the war and the battle.
My creek is totally full of ****
Here I am without a paddle.
Catch my phrase, please
If you think you can.
I am what became of
The Muffin Man.
The son of no mother
Who never had a dad.
I’m the reason that
The March Hare went mad.
My last leg hurts a lot, and
My pooch is rather *******
I’d say I am a bit ******
But then, that would be lewd.
I’m a scant one barrel short
Of being a real son of a gun.
My **** has started whiffing
And is no longer much fun.
Catch my phrase, please
If you think you can.
I am what became of
The Muffin Man.
The son of no mother
Who never had a dad.
I’m the reason that
The March Hare went mad.
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 11:08 PM UTC
As to how I feel thou wilt never know
like winter days crownèd with golden sun,
like bold summer replete with summer snow
while autumn's trees lose of their foliage none.
Much better for thee to view such a thing
than perjure the priz'd innocence of thine,
for such is its worth angels would take wing
and gather round thee thinking thou divine.
But O, to be at sixes and sevens
not wishing for thee to know of mine plight,
mouthing mine sorrows to the cold heavens
bearing this burden of wrong that is right.
For better for thee to think what thou will
when for me bad is good while all good ill.
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 1:07 PM UTC
Not to greet the dawn of the day
At care free weekends
Leisure infused lethargy
For him it was up 7 at 10 AM
He was at sixes n’ sevens
Quipped from cuddle of bed
At the warning warrant
Of piled up weekend errands
He sipped tea n’ clicked on screen
To play music of unseen scene
As he surveyed household
To bring home into his fold
Cutlery rattled prattled
Vessels cranked in sink
Threatening to stink
If not surfed to shine
Used clothes hanging banging
Summoned washing wearing
Carpet in sequence flared up
To mop it up long along
Bathing tub demanded its bath
Well before he had his bath
As he peeped out a while
For refreshing breeze
Waving blades of grass
Accosted to trim their size
Sinking hope of a post lunch nap
Grouse of grocery then unveiled
And kid’s unrest for the day-out outwit
Took a long drive for the joy ride
Week end outing weakened though
Alas! Weary weekend seemed longer than week
Feb 12, 2015
Feb 12, 2015 at 8:02 AM UTC
Sixty-six chapters and sixty-six books
(please, Catholic brothers – no ***** looks)
were needed for God to make known His plan:
the gift of salvation and future of Man.
Yet sometimes it seems rather cryptically stated;
poor Israel must wait and will wait (as they’ve waited).
Isaiah took sixty-six chapters to tell it;
for two-thousand years has the Church tried to sell it –
must Christ and his teaching thus languish in mystery,
waiting offstage in the wings of His history?
(Wings of the cherubim, angels, and vultures
now beat down upon us, uniting our cultures
while tech surges up in a dizzy parabola
micro in management, global in formula…)
Sixty-six chapters to say it in Greek
(Aramaic – or Latin; whatever they speak)
while the somnolent audience scrolls on their screens
in apocalypse trance over zombie machines.
The scrolls are unopened, the parchment still sealed
the slot-machine handle refuses to yield;
as the sixes line up towards the threshold of seven
the virgins sleep late in the Kingdom of Heaven.
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 8:43 PM UTC
A tall slender grizzly old man gently touched my shoulder
exactly the way my late beloved father used to do
Daddy a saint who loved and was proud of his son like no other
He lived and loved for all his children too
Unjustly hated alone and friendless in a cold cruel barren land
This grizzly old stranger patted my shoulder
Cause in a simple polite gesture I held the door opened for him
But in that gentle pat of his touch I felt the spirit of my father
It told me not to worry and that one day everything would be ok
In that sanctified epoch it was a message from heaven
Be as you are my child for the old and the wise see truth like day
we know the good ones unlike those at sixes and sevens
Those that are wilfully chosen to walk the path of true Light
have Guardians, ArchAngels and Pious messengers
Be it my saintly father or someone else's grizzly father in white
To reassure, protect, to guard and remind - Stay the true path
A tall slender grizzly old man gently touched my shoulder
When all seemed forlorn and wicked voices sang
An innocuous humane act but a sign from God's realm older
I will reach out and touch and distance you from evil,s fang
Go gently my children for I am here and no harm will befall you
Nov 20, 2018
Nov 20, 2018 at 12:57 PM UTC
That classic cliche of a clock ticking too far
And a love that burns in the back of the mind
Scratching heat into the seams of social self control
But I'm strong enough to smile for the cameras
The tasty dabs of smiling sherbert keep me posted on the here and now
The all work and all play lifestyle brings smile from far and wide
I don't deserve forgiveness for the bitter taste in my mouth
I was the one that melted my key into the furnace
And I'm the one who can see the bridge behind him
Spit on me if you must, my love, my friends, my observant big brother
Pity is not for the imbalanced and favoured
I am strong, I am proud, and I am rolling sixes
Just allow me an occasion to mourn my mistakes
My hand feeling cold and singular again
My eyes dragging across the floor in retrospect
My lust seeping from under my fingernails with gangrenous inferiority
I want what I can't have, shouldn't have, not again
But that empowering sense of growth makes the counter productive
So appealing
Sometimes I can't take it
I would show you the nostalgic touches of the boy you've lost
And the inspiring intensity of the man I have become
Through every nerve and every word you would know why I love you
But..
Life is not that convenient
The imbalance is the nature of this evolving colossus encapsulating our species
I will learn to accept my loss
I will learn to love another
I will continue to develop my scripted status and materialistic hollows
Just know that I hate myself and you
For how much I miss you
Mar 22, 2010
Mar 22, 2010 at 4:14 PM UTC