"skeptic" poems
I picture her eyes burning the sun to a blaze-
The warm winds of her tenderness, the beauty of her grace-
Angelic voices sing notes of an emotional state-
Thinking the thoughts that outlast all time and all space-
Interlocked destiny-Cupids arrow of praise-
Aphrodite holds Aries-In love with Capricorn days-
Pumping and pounding feeling her right through my vein’s-
Denial of a skeptic no longer scared of the chase-
Standing on mountain tops-Vision clear without haze-
Emotions storm in like lighting, thunder, and rain-
Physical feelings have my body going insane-
Lost under covers till the day finally breaks-
Illuminating passion bodies intertwined in a maze-
Baby girl is a blessing like her love that I crave-
Baby girl is the best thing I love all of her ways-
Blessed by spirits her beauty blesses my days-
-
RICHARD ITSKOVICH
Jul 29, 2010
Jul 29, 2010 at 11:26 AM UTC
Like a captive, I capture rapture wrapping around stakes that matter
Joan of Arc battered
Also tattered but, easily dismissive
Refracted from fractured prominent phrases people play with
Distinctly persuasive and evasive, dressed boyishly attractive, lax stature, dawning armor crafted by absence as if asked about it-
I’m drifted
Protection is principle prerequisite, when fire is lit
I sort of implore your aorta before it’s incinerated to ashes
Dethatched as a habit, with swords or hatchets crafted to singe heartstrings that attached it
While I slash slick Rick as a quick fix,
To fend for pretend pretenses or presumed tricks,
I can’t quit
Cause I hit lips against hash spliffs fashioned with dashes of passion all while rationing fireball cinnamon sips
Martyr to avoidance
I gaze at fabled dazed gossipers galvanizing grips on gritty grapevines while licking warning labels through smoke haze on blurred lines
Capably unstable
Other eyes attending scandal circles able to shout lies and rekindle handed arguments on tables with locked smiles stay boxed in
Avidly amiable
Searching for counterparts when combusted or branded
Toying with matches loses meaning when rules reseed
Those vagabonds claim love is some all end hard bent to mend what the same above can’t comprehend.
Breaking boredom, I pillage pillows with night terrors
And ardent arsonists yearn for flames that churn, turn, liquefy and learn learned thoughts and smoldered feelings
Completely complacent
Melting in one another they are completing each other like two candles tryst true at a wedding day
However later the blaze is severed, smoke sears, and charred black wick stands alone for them.
Aggressive and progressive.
As for me never pleading, fire forever fleets to streets between iron bars I built that cage in deep heat and seep dire dreams once desired
Suppose I’m a skeptic
Roasted or disconnected
Just jaded, just met you
Always over it too soon
Burnt but I’m amused.
I’m useful.
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 11:59 PM UTC
The world's on fire, peace is extinct
Look how fragile peaceful minds can get
All hostile minds are having a ball right now.
It's like peace got embellished in chaos.
Where's peace at, what happened to her?
Regional, global local, peace is in short supply.
This is the renaissance of a new world order
Where partial peace coexists with total chaos
People only search Google for mostly facts
Not for solutions to some distorted peace
What is peace then, how can it be?
Just a routine rhetorical question
Coming from the disturbed mind in me
Listen, One-minute partial peace
Bang, another minute total chaos!
Nowadays, Instability everywhere is commonplace
As unscripted hate rhetoric freely echos,
From jihadic podiums to confused minds.
The conspicuous birthplace of premeditated evil.
The mind, soft spots of those totally confused
Call it the hotspots and playground for the devil.
I, the skeptic, to say the very least,
See this quiet storm as a distorted peace!
twitter @ivaclappers
Jan 15, 2018
Jan 15, 2018 at 12:44 PM UTC
526
To hear an Oriole sing
May be a common thing—
Or only a divine.
It is not of the Bird
Who sings the same, unheard,
As unto Crowd—
The Fashion of the Ear
Attireth that it hear
In Dun, or fair—
So whether it be Rune,
Or whether it be none
Is of within.
The “Tune is in the Tree—”
The Skeptic—showeth me—
“No Sir! In Thee!”
5.2k
She's a skeptic for crystal bones
doesn't believe in God's treasured
zodiac prophecies.
Be jealous
of the wolves we still call sheep.
You were my lover;
now the moon shines
in utmost sympathy for
all those frigid nights stars bit at
your ears for the choices you've
made in cold song.
Stop drumming your heart to
the sound of my sky
Lupus told me to tell you
it doesn't belong a
vagabond such
as yourself.
If you can't cut off my tongue,
then who are you to silence
me?
The moon is flashing like the bullets
I've been catching between
my teeth.
Like all of the night's phases and heartbreak;
**The phases of love will wax
and wane.**
.
Aug 25, 2015
Aug 25, 2015 at 8:45 PM UTC
All the experiences
from life's coffers
I'm willing to take
To commit into text
with deliberate romanticism
My brand of unspoken poetry
with sense
only I can make
To rebut
my mind's
skeptic cynicism
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 7:34 PM UTC
An age old chair, in seasoned teak wood
carved, a perfect work of art, nothing less than
a masterpiece, and a reminder of so much past,
sat regally before our wondering eyes, tempting
on the central court yard of my ancestral home,
where generations lived.
Wanting to sit like my grandpas of yore
I found a carpenter, perhaps the last one for this work
who understands the air that surrounds the chair.
We discussed the concept,
design and the kind of wood
it has to be made,to create a replica
to bring back the grandeur of times past.
But then, found not an easy task it is
"Do you deserve it ?" the bearded
carpenter, was so blunt in his skeptic stance!
He puzzled me with his questions
Yet we were keen to give it a try.
The adamant carpenter relented
after many sessions of questions
and answers, perhaps my passion
did the trick, his eyes made me believe.
He promised to make me a chair
(The kind none would dream in this age)
as if it's a mission divinely assigned,
"You need to change a lot to deserve it"
he insisted, suggests a series of
purification rights "for your confused soul"
"To fit in to a chair like this , fulfill
all it's demands"in my ear he whispered
as if I am the chosen one for an ancient throne.
An antique chair shaped by the imagination
of my distant ancestors, now changes me
and without slightest resistance I submit;
would I ever know what is happening?
Aug 15, 2016
Aug 15, 2016 at 10:58 AM UTC
"Surreal skeptic, cynical cryptic! Licentious lecheries fabulist façade fantasias. Wild eyed spectral serene. Dream of catenary concoctions, ethereal salacious conjugation, bridge the gap in metaphysical mystique. Erotica erectile errantry’s exserted protuberance is a kinesiology kleptomaniac with his embark embargo extraditions and his eventuation evocative execrations, a positive amalgamated anathema android of a terminus thrall. The shadow in the shade of the silhouette sojourn. The bailiff’s rakeness rails incarnate, unicorn railway nails and all. He will paint mirador bartizan panorama tableaus all over your proximity parameter perimeter peripherals. Force the enmity to acquiesce into impunity.” “Why this is not but an ogling ogre of an oligarchy omelet” she shrieked as he continued to tickle her. “Down here at the bizarre bazaar we all believe in the blasphemous farcical fugueness,” he said. “Positive orchestration renditions of transpositional interlude.” “Come here,” she said “let my clambering clamorous clangor write you a wield wile treatise expose’.” “The legions of Chinga da are battling the hoards of Gunga din saying ‘kinetic supremacy temporize tractive fluent’ , it’s sheer genocide. That plasty goop nosed Gumby ****** Gunga doesn’t stand a chance. Coax cacophony clout, catatonic phonics, grizzly grotto grouches all”, She squealed. “Now you’re gumption dreaming”, he chimed. “Chutzpah panache spontaneous generation complicity, gambit alluvium aloof succor.”
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 7:17 PM UTC
Collaboration with Alyssa Underwood!
*I'm not getting much from life,
it makes me want to scream!
Won't achieve my smallest goal...
let alone my dreams!*.
**Your life's hidden in Christ's hands
and your competence comes from Him.
His Spirit's working His purpose in you...
despite how things may seem.**.
*I'm frail and I'm weak,
I'm sorry. I'm not strong.
You say I can handle this test...
You couldn't be more wrong!*.
**Frailty's the best start
for watching our egos flee.
Once we know WE can't do it...
we begin to get set free.**.
*I am sick and tired
of the daily drudge!
And fellow believers?
All they do is JUDGE!*.
**So lay it all down.
Jesus died to bear
the indomitable weight...
of every burden you wear.**.
*Does God answer prayers?
I wonder if HE DOES!
If you go and backslide
He seems to hold a grudge!*.
**I find He answers differently
than what I might seek first,
for what's pleasant now...
May not fill my deepest thirst.**.
*Alright. He makes us patient.
But I can believe the lies!
He has no provision
to make me savvy... WISE!*.
**If wisdom like the world
is what the soul most craves,
where's the contentment...
in those who are its slaves?**
*The believer is the candle
Jesus is the flame.
Thank you sister for your help...
I'm calling on His Name!
I will heed your sayings.
I have been absurd!
He's good to all His promises...
They're written in HIS WORD.*.
**It's not absurd to question
or probe into our doubts.
HIS WORD can stand resistance...
through every skeptic's shouts.
We're here to help each other
find truth along the way.
JESUS IS THE WAY AND TRUTH
AND LIFE WE LIVE EACH DAY!
Alyssa Underwood (the voice of Truth)**.
SoulSurvivor (the doubtful believer)
Jan 5, 2016
Jan 5, 2016 at 7:59 PM UTC
I think with my heart;
not my head
in my hand
or buried deep under the sand.
Because when everything comes from the core,
i don’t need to wonder any more.
Thinking is not a chore:
like folding laundry into a tidy drawer.
But that’s what draws our glass floor,
and causes us to continully snore.
But what we chose to ignore,
should be infact, exactly what we adore.
Then maybe we’d ask for an encore
instead of a 24/7 drug store.
________________________
To you, i may be a boar,
but we must bust down the door.
Stop fighting the war!
Live for evermore(
if we wish to soar).
_____________________
But today our biggest sore
may be the us marine corp.
i hurt for their souls, scattered galore.
it is i who they fend for,
it is why their blood continues to pour.
But that doesn’t effect you,
because it happens on another shore.
Your questions? i have answer for,
but please don’t ask me the baseball score.
Those fact are not in my houses’ decor,
all forms of politics, i choose to ignore.
__________________________________
You can call me a dinosaur,
regardless, I am not a cannibalistic carnivore.
_______________________________
I know you may ridicule,
but i prefer to be the recluse,
only coming out, when looking for a spruce.
So, when i do explore,
you will not find me with the busy bodies,
you will find me with the mircoscopic spores.
After all, it's we they provide for.
After this adventure, i know they swore,
they could create me a commodore.
On our yaht, somewhere offshore.
There would be no more war.
just hugs, tugs, and kisses galore.
Before, I was a skeptic, ********
i now believe holeheartedly in folklore.
My faith in prewar,
is now eternally restored.
Because mother against man always out scores,
that is why i look no more.
Nature is my only mentor.
___________________________
now, i see myself as a matador.
i can be anything,
that is the underscore.
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 10:37 AM UTC
Oh, phalo skeptic,
part your wave for skirted ***** surfers,
tho, trout, tripe, and titmice thrill thrice..
Will duct tape save us?
Urge the Zamboni machine,
to microwave ice.
Quince down that pouting sphincter,
Oh, the tides do swell
on the morrow of passing fish.
Wheelbarrow pious.
Swift, awesome biblionauts,
Fire! Fire! Pail, Pail thy watered pitch.
Know this, every potato is somewhere vane ...
I'm busy now, rude duuude,
have you sweated a recumbent lout?
Indent chill mots,
Pete, I'm big in Europe, pal,
Have seen me dance the Macarena?
Fool, fool on that high hill,!
Take care when licking spiny urchins
Oy! I scare myself.
Jan 19, 2011
Jan 19, 2011 at 2:34 PM UTC
*"If you wake up this morning believing that saying
a few Latin words over your pancakes will turn them
into the body of Elvis Presley, you have lost your mind."*
He has often asserted that the thing is absurd:
that someone who does not (whether out of hatred, indifference,
lack of conviction, or frankly whatever)
accept traditional dogmas
is still, for some reason, capable of wishing that they could.
I think he is right; I’ve heard a staunch atheist say “If only
I could, but I cannot.” So, this is why he aligns himself
as an anti-theist: he simply
was never properly convinced.
This position seems (at least to me) well-supported,
for anyone can quite readily (and easily)
accept what their father or their clergyman has said
(especially as a child, not knowing any better).
Thus, to be an atheist
one must have first acknowledged supernatural power
and then later, after a bit of thought, dismissed it. In light
of this, I propose a toast to the Real Skeptic,
the one who was never really convinced;
of it. The one who, when celebrating the Eucharist,
wondered why God wanted to be eaten,
who , when receiving Christ,
thought of the extreme certainty by which other faiths'
devotees (Islam, Heaven's Gate,
Mormonism, Bon,
Cargo Cults, Shinto, Falun Gong)
live and preach – some even delighted to die.
Thoughts like these always made me feel uneasy as a child
because how could I hope to keep my little mind
from accidentally discovering fallacy after fallacy? So, here is a toast
to the Unconvinced, who can’t possibly help but not believe.
Oct 1, 2012
Oct 1, 2012 at 3:47 PM UTC
There was no one...
So I spoke as if a secret
into the wind.
I told it,
*“You may blow your skeptic tune.
Your quiet whistles of doubt.”
“Exhale if you must,
upon the countenance of her face.
Run your invisible fingers
through her hair...
Taste her lips like you would
the surface of the lake in the sun-shy morns.”
“Then you would dispel all disbelief.
You would take these words I say,
and know why confide in you.
You would know why I had fallen.
And you would know why
you would then be my messenger...”
“So that you could word the song
I could never sing.
You could caress her face
when my fingers could not.
You could kiss and fill her lungs
with all that she needs when I am gone.”*
.
Jul 15, 2018
Jul 15, 2018 at 10:58 AM UTC
God, are you listening? Because lately, I've been feeling distant from You. I feel like Peter when You called him to walk out on the water, yet he sank. But I feel like I'm drowning in this sea of doubt. A knotted ball of string I cannot seem to unravel. Slowly creeping deeper and deeper into this battlefield of questions in my mind. When You said "O you of little faith, why do you doubt?" I could not give You an answer. I do not know if I am turning into a skeptic or a cynic. Faith has doubts, but I feel as though I am longing for epiphanies to spark in response to my questions. Lord, are you there? Because I can't seem to listen to my own voice. Wanting to be heard, but feeling ignored. Waiting for answers, but left in silence. But I hear You even in the silence. Soft whispers echoing symphonies of love songs and truths. Thank You for loving me even when I have doubts. When I feel like I no longer have the strength to carry on, You are there. Always. Lord, take my hand, and don't leave me. Don't let go, for these hands are too weak to hold my own heart. Hold me, when I am falling. Despite my doubt, remind me of Your love for me that surpasses beyond all else. When I say amen, help me to believe it. Let my faith be louder than my questions.
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 7:02 PM UTC
All those homilies are works of comedy;
the only sounds you'll need to hear are my moans and plea, praying for you to take me.
I would need no altar to make you kneel,
the sight of my bare back alone would send those sinful lips of yours into overkill.
And, please, put that bible away,
we'll have the best erotica written by the time this night is over anyway,
or perhaps until the sun becomes astray from the unforgiving light and day.
So come on now, your able hands
would make the saints envious
with all the unkind things you'll do to my equally unkind body,
Bring it on, your cunning tongue
could make even a skeptic curious
even the angels would be stripped off
their grace and glory.
Forget about your god when all he ever do
is make you bleed, cry and beg,
you know the only place you'll ever find eternal salvation is between my legs.
Your hot breath and hands against my neck,
amen.
Mar 7, 2017
Mar 7, 2017 at 11:44 PM UTC
A baby takes steps
such deliverance and liberty,
and each one taken, a sculptor's dreams,
raw clay to break life's mold.
A painter and a skeptic,
each stroke of the brush
questioned.
Why? Why? Why?
A festoon adorns his hall,
forever and ever
seemingly falling,
gently riding the curve
ever-expanding.
Pin down the treacherous worm,
defiled in soul
and callous has it become,
shun shun shun
holier than thou I have become,
a revolutionary I have become,
an angel in your eyes I have become,
and an apple beheld by Eve's eyes I have become,
true neutral,
true blue,
on and on I live.
Flew through the window,
was a crow,
it weaved and spun
a marigold story,
till it near melted
down through the drain.
Protuberant mound of earth,
bulging eyes pierce the sky,
enlightenment from the ground,
insects yearn a nihilistic life,
existed they never did,
and their ashes carried to the wind.
Farewell,
au revoir,
march in the perilous parade
hastily prepared for the world,
but please do bring your sandals.
The Sculptor and the Child
have crafted in their dreams,
the ideal world.
Jun 9, 2010
Jun 9, 2010 at 6:57 PM UTC
There’s something I need to say,
Simply put, I want you.
Tormented by dreams,
No longer just in my sleep;
But I find myself drifting,
Dreaming of you as I lay
Awake on my bed,
Staring into the light above me.
It’s as if nothing else exists.
Only you do.
But it’s irrational,
These dreams that encompass me.
You see, I barely know you.
Yet you’ve got me enchanted.
Captured in the way you talk,
The way you carry yourself.
I could go on about these things
I perceive of you.
Are these things even real?
I'm afraid that I'm only
Infatuated by your mystery.
I've only ever seen
What everyone else see’s;
The person you choose
To share with the world.
For all I know, you wear a mask.
Pretend to be something
That your not.
And then I’d be a fool.
Yet I can't seem to stop myself,
From this day dreaming.
You forever press against my mind.
I've gotten carried away;
Started to craft a you
In which I can enjoy.
But what happens when
The veil is removed?
Once I finally get to know you?
Disappointment.
And what then?
Dreams popped like soap bubbles.
What if you remain obscure?
Should I take this chance?
Or should I run away?
Love at first sight;
Many believe it to be irrefutable.
Yet I find it to be unreasonable.
How can one just know that
A person they've only just seen
Be the person that they’re
Destined to be with?
It seems to me that
that would simply be infatuation.
Aren’t they only falling in love
With someone’s appearance?
Yet here I am,
Having just met you
A short while ago;
Claiming that I couldn't
Bear to live without you.
All I want is to make you mine.
Terrified of the person you may be;
Frightened by the idea of rejection.
After all, I am a skeptic
Of my own emotions.
Afraid to eat my words,
Yet, also, to prove myself right.
What would you say if you knew?
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 5:45 PM UTC
I used to be under the illusion,
That love was more than matter,
Strewn across time and space,
A pattern in the scatter.
Strawberry fields endeavor,
To tell us to believe.
That the illusion can survive,
If we learn how to grieve.
In the sadness and the woe,
That comes when we let go,
There's a truth that fails to show,
A truth that we should know.
Love is just a lie,
That we use to get on by,
A label for sensations,
That give us reason just to try.
There are those of us who'd say,
They can't take love away,
But nothing is forever,
In the shadow of decay
Perhaps it did exist,
Somewhere between lips,
But I dare not say it's this,
In the space between your hips.
Jul 4, 2010
Jul 4, 2010 at 6:37 PM UTC
Such glorious faith as fills your limpid eyes,
Dear little friend of mine, I never knew.
All-innocent are you, and yet all-wise.
(For Heaven's sake, stop worrying that shoe!)
You look about, and all you see is fair;
This mighty globe was made for you alone.
Of all the thunderous ages, you're the heir.
(Get off the pillow with that ***** bone!)
A skeptic world you face with steady gaze;
High in young pride you hold your noble head,
Gayly you meet the rush of roaring days.
(Must you eat puppy biscuit on the bed?)
Lancelike your courage, gleaming swift and strong,
Yours the white rapture of a winged soul,
Yours is a spirit like a Mayday song.
(God help you, if you break the goldfish bowl!)
"Whatever is, is good"--your gracious creed.
You wear your joy of living like a crown.
Love lights your simplest act, your every deed.
(Drop it, I tell you--put that kitten down!)
You are God's kindliest gift of all--a friend.
Your shining loyalty unflecked by doubt,
You ask but leave to follow to the end.
(Couldn't you wait until I took you out?)
1.9k
Discombobulated and flabbergasted, flummoxed indeed? No such bemused and befuddled? I am not perplexed on the prognosis to prospectus. They’re incongruous, I’m incredulous, it’s catawampus. Reconnaissance reconnoiter, rectilinear reciprocal rectitude. Radix repartee: Down here at the bizarre bazaar we all believe in the blasphemous farcical fugue-ness, estranged ensemble orchestrations and all. Some of us are even into the various assorted forms of related stranger weirdness. We’ll be having none of this putrid quasi queasy. Corrupt costume counselor siren skeptic. None of you ignominiously pusillanimous incorrigibles who aren’t brave enough to love are required.
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 10:05 PM UTC
Though I'm not in jail it all just feels the same
Waking up depressed told just not to complain
A shotgun to my head i feel like Curt Cobain
Not a literal sense, but the context sustains
I don't want money, success, not even some fame
I just want to learn to play this game
Each day it gets hard i just keep breathing
Wondering how the **** this happened, it feels like treason
From a comical skeptic to a reliable source
I question the water that was gave to the horse
Viewed as a sinner but always in doubt
"Read from the scripture and figure it out"
Nightmares keeping me awake like a proxy
SO many bad thoughts I wish I could get off me
Do your 12 steps Bob, everything is kosher
Yet I wake every night screaming still sober
A stranger does the same, and everyone wants to know her
A technicality set, a glimpse for closure
Different from most but related to some
I feel alone but second to none
Shaking again always be the **** up
"drinkings a sin" Always press my luck up
Some things I will never understand
But if it doesn't change I will be ******
Apr 19, 2024
Apr 19, 2024 at 11:48 PM UTC
I am as I am,
my thoughts are nebulous and coherent,
I am the reluctant believer,
I am the optimistic skeptic,
I prepare for the worst,
and pray for the best,
I am a product of my environment,
but I also hope that I am more.
I scoff at those who say that they know,
be it the singularity that is deity,
or the absence of divinity,
his finite and plural nature,
or the limitations of the father,
as such I am a heretic,
and so I blaspheme,
relishing the jealousy of knowledge.
As I stare into the eyes of the unknown,
a canvas casting light on the firmament,
I realize that the futility of thought is artifice,
the cords wrapped tight around my sleeves,
exist only in what I live,
and what I choose to accept.
I accept.
And with this thought in mind,
I reject the null,
for I cannot accept the reality that I am given,
for a world without end has no meaning if not for progress,
if gain is finite and the continuity infinite,
there is no point,
the blade of Christianity is dull,
and so too the endless strains of antagonists,
horribly over-educated and overwrought.
I reject.
What separates God from man?
Maybe it is the ability to arrange matter,
it might simply be an issue of innate power,
but it might also be the sustainability of material,
the ability to see,
for we may as well be blind,
or perhaps it is simply a matter of punctuation.
I accept, but so too do I reject,
and gladly will I play the fool,
if it will place the odds in my favor.
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 1:04 AM UTC
Believe me when I say
I am an above average equivocator;
A hyperbolic exaggerator;
But I love to listen to the experts,
Their promises of love, wealth, justice.
Now, I'm also a reflective skeptic,
Remembering in tranquility and such.
And the wellies fit well.
Dec 18, 2016
Dec 18, 2016 at 10:31 PM UTC
"Wish in one hand and **** in the other."
Your disappointments leave me smothered!
Wake up tomorrow - why even bother?!
I'm just a drunk like my ******* father!
You say there's hope, but it's a ghost
A dream you wish to see at the most
I guess you can call me, "Skeptic"
Not paranoid - just ******* sick
Hell on Earth seems to be dawning quick!
Just a simple wish upon a star
You're abuse has gone too far
I'll just sleep off all the scars
Another shot of whiskey in my glass
Getting tipsy before I kick your ***
I just need to calm myself at long last
My dreams are filled with too many images of you
You're the past and I know that we're through
I guess all these demons will just have to do
Keep coming back, because I'm a ***** for more
I must be a ********* at the ******* core
Ptolemy - what's wrong with our souls?!
We look past the stars to gaze at black holes!
I don't believe and I can never be deceived,
for this paranoia permits no bit of reprieve
I guess everything is just as it seems -
idealized, and finalized - know what I mean?!
I know returning to you will only cause me pain
I'm no Queen but you're the King that reigns
As a lowly peasant, I know I must refrain
But there is just something that draws me to you
The stars have predicted the truth
And I know there's nothing I can do
You've moved on, I keep thinking about the past
I know the heartache cannot be surpassed
I'm just sorry that I ever asked
For my final ******* act the stage has just been set:
Dead man walking, but I don't have one regret
Is it the psychosis in my brain
or the necrosis in my veins?
Either ******* way, I've never been more sane
Head on to heartbreak - let romantics rot
Pardon this dead cat, but out of everything I've taught,
why was reciprocity the one you forgot?
If there's a cure for bad blood, you can keep it
Your shit's been sewn so now it's time to reap it
Jul 5, 2015
Jul 5, 2015 at 8:50 PM UTC
I think with my heart;
not my head
in my hand
or buried deep under the sand.
Because when everything comes from the core,
i don’t need to wonder any more.
Thinking is not a chore:
like folding laundry into a tidy drawer.
But that’s what draws our glass floor,
and causes us to continully snore.
But what we chose to ignore,
should be infact, exactly what we adore.
Then maybe we’d ask for an encore
instead of a 24/7 drug store.
_______
To you, i may be a boar,
but we must bust down the door.
Stop fighting the war!
Live for evermore(
if we wish to soar).
_____
But today our biggest sore
may be the us marine corp.
i hurt for their souls, scattered galore.
it is i who they fend for,
it is why their blood continues to pour.
But that doesn’t effect you,
because it happens on another shore.
Your questions? i have answer for,
but please don’t ask me the baseball score.
Those fact are not in my houses’ decor,
all forms of politics, i choose to ignore.
__________
You can call me a dinosaur,
regardless, I am not a cannibalistic carnivore.
_________
I know you may ridicule,
but i prefer to be the recluse,
only coming out, when looking for a spruce.
So, when i do explore,
you will not find me with the busy bodies,
you will find me with the mircoscopic spores.
After all, it's we they provide for.
After this adventure, i know they swore,
they could create me a commodore.
On our yaht, somewhere offshore.
There would be no more war.
just hugs, tugs, and kisses galore.
Before, I was a skeptic, ********
i now believe holeheartedly in folklore.
My faith in prewar,
is now eternally restored.
Because mother against man always out scores,
that is why i look no more.
Nature is my only mentor.
________
now, i see myself as a matador.
i can be anything,
that is the underscore.
Oct 5, 2016
Oct 5, 2016 at 8:40 PM UTC