"vouch" poems
flawed to near insanity
but long as you could hold down a job then its alright
isn't that a wise policy she asked
i'm not so sure
watching the clowns strut their stuff
in the midnight sun
they are reckless to be certain but self aware to a fault
just makes it all the more bizarre
watch em go at it with each other over the simplest thing
its no way to live
you can vouch for the living as long as you haven't died
and this madness is just shy of being in a pine box
so darling lets get outa this crazy place
get away from the thinking
that you gotta be like everybody else
get away from the plastic hippie rat-race
roll down the easy highway
find us some sweet sunshine to breath in
find us a better life to be
Mar 6, 2015
Mar 6, 2015 at 2:45 PM UTC
tell me what words are there
to articulate this savage parade
not here, not in all the Lebanons
whose crystal castles sparkle
like broken glass
on the dark horizons
at the jagged edges of the world
from which cultured minds have receded
and all humanity has been relinquished
to the barbarity of the frenzied flavours of fools
who will speak for this wild parade
without impediment to mythical protagonists
tell me where are the energised arguments
against sophisticated yet false laments
where testament is torn through
weeping cedar trees
producing the unpredictable accidental quality
that memorialises phantom caresses
that have neither been invented nor encouraged
the hallow that inaugurates
the distinctive features of
destructive energies that are both
exuberant and hard to comprehend
this parade where there is
a savage sensibility
capable of apprehending
contradictory ethical imperatives
that vouch for a mocking stream of
tragic political consequence
displayed vividly in the inextricability
of civil order and political violence
that defies exclusive claim
by casting itself as freedom warrior
in disguise as militaristic humanism
and burns the temple tree
and where human identity
becomes an elusive possession
owned by a few
who in the inevitability of ignorance
refuse to recognise their tragic error
and the world does not mount
a strenuous protest
at this headlong dash for Ephesus
where antagonistic language and
neutral expression of thought converge
and here the value of valulessness
repudiates, even in a single poetic moment
Aug 25, 2013
Aug 25, 2013 at 4:04 PM UTC
Don’t read this if you’re squeamish,
Or if you’re eating food at the present,
Since some of the subjects discussed in this poem,
Are let’s just say rather unpleasant,
On the subject of donating organs,
Or the subject of organs at all,
It’s not unusual for my claims to leave,
Some subjects feeling pretty appalled,
Now I’d say that most people die,
In fact I’d vouch that it happens quite often,
But when my time comes, set has my sun,
I want all of me in that coffin,
Now I get it, I’d save lives if I donated,
And I don’t mean to sound like a **** (yes I do),
But the unmissable flaw, the foot in the door,
Is that not all of my parts seem to work,
My eyes are screwy, my heart’s far too cold,
The state of my lungs’ll make you shiver,
My kidneys too small, I'm not sure I have a pancreas,
And don’t get me started on my liver,
And let me tell you with a face like mine,
Not showcasing this beauty’s a sin,
But it’s awfully hard to have an open casket,
If I’m not sporting any of my skin
It’s selfish and weird I know that,
But my eyes are where my soul is exposed!
…Yeah actually my soul’s pretty tainted,
Can someone make sure that my eyes are closed?
I only want those I love to have a part of me,
So if I’m forced, if I’m forced, to partake,
-
-
-
They’ll be frying up my organs,
For refreshments at my wake.
Dec 20, 2014
Dec 20, 2014 at 3:22 PM UTC
Words and letters are written on walls
Some as vandalization others as messages
Words and letters are written on walls
Words and sentences are written on billboards
Some serve as advertising others to arouse awareness
Words and sentences are written on billboards
Words and paragraphs are written on my brain
Some serve as inspiration others to support guidance
Words and paragraphs are written on my brain
Words are the weapons I use in a society that controls my image
Words are the only thing that can divide me from being ghetto or educated
My words are the only thing that I can vouch for like my *****
My words are the root of the intelligence that propels this sentence
Letters in my words stand close to each other eager to make a statement
If I do not show my words, my letters of cheerfulness begin to fade away
Sentences are the compound of the mind that begs to be understood
Sentences are made up of a tyranny chained down by a trendsetters mood
My sentences contain verbs, nouns, adjectives and subjects that explain a lost purpose
My sentences define the meaning of an ironical imagery that leads me to dream
Sentences paint a picture that any blind character can see
If I do not paint my sentences how will I ever show my brains art gallery
Picasso used the paint brush to express his moods and feelings on a canvas
Shakespeare and Allan Poe used ink to utter their thoughts on a sheet of paper
Somewhere in my mind the collision of words and paint occurred
Where I fused the essence of writing with the masterfulness of painting
My words and sentences have met a significant other called paint
Paint and words are my new best friend
Paint and brushes are splattered and used upon walls
Some are called vandalization while they represent artistic skills
Paint and brushes are splattered and used upon walls
Paint and words are written on subways
So the eyes of the young and old can see the traveling message
Paint and words are written on subways
Paint and words smack up at my face
So that the world sees who conveys this message
Paint and words smack up at my face
Paint gives visual to what words cannot picture
My Paint serves as a method of expressing the mind’s tears and smiles
My Paint becomes a tour guide through the loops of divine wonders
Paint is just a stepping stone to the magnificent path of beauty
A brush is just a brush depending on who holds it
A brush is like the keyboard I constantly battle with to unleash my mind
A brush can combine negativity and positivity and make peace
A brush unites celibate beliefs with those whom are perverse
Words and sentences along with paint and brushes help explain my motive
Jonathan Pizarro
Lost Cause © 2011
April 17th, 2011
Sep 28, 2011
Sep 28, 2011 at 12:42 AM UTC
The moon had a belly ache and
He told gravity to slow down
He told time to slow down
He told the universe to slow down.
But they didn’t listen to him,
Because the moon is
So quiet,
So quiet,
So quiet,
They didn’t hear him
Whisper his worries
And the Earth wouldn’t even
Vouch for him
When he mentioned it at the next
Office meeting.
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 1:27 AM UTC
*In deep psychedelic trance
his companion painted
canvases that mix past,
present and future, factually
as quantum physics would vouch;
all of it co-exists, don't turn
a blind eye, it's not fair.
"There is more past here
that try to unseat future,
than the presence of present,
we would make reality sleep
won't believe in its patented lies,
we'd create a present,
in its fantasy, see the future"
The narrative is pictured as fallows:
The Cat and the Mouse
stopped their games,
they invented as a past time,
and also serious business.
Lucky prince befriended
a happy pauper.
The beauty beguiled
the friendly beast,
both eloped and
lived happily somewhere.
The bored king hugged
the leader of the coup
"I was dying
to abdicate at the earliest,
you were my last hope,
good riddance" he yawned,
sounding like cockerel.
He looked much relieved;
uneasy is the head
on which a crown sits
like a ****** politico
at the moment of election result.
The painter watching
what is going on said:
"Well, the colors I selected
this far, were all wrong.
Now, I am going to look twice
before I decide"
But when she worked
on her imagination
her manifesto was thrown out,
she was far more spontaneous
there is the rub.
Can't say, whether
the philosopher was pleased or not,
one can't definitely tell
he only smiled and hurried back to
catch the last bus he missed.*
Jan 4, 2014
Jan 4, 2014 at 3:09 AM UTC
Through the miracle of meteorology, up high - little by little
parts of me was made, without form within a clouds middle,
and eventually, formed in unique designs, lighter than feathers,
temperature and water work together to produce, a period of weather.
When shapes, never repeated - but in approximation, begin to fall, as snow,
feasibly forecasted, sometimes not so, down on to the surface below.
And so as blanket laid, across town and countryside, fields and city mews,
changing the familiar, smoothing contours, into new landscape views.
The material soft, white glistening snow so miraculously delivered,
at earliest opportunity is introduced to excited shouts, laughter, and shivers.
Fittingly gathered by adult and children's hand, with the goal - to build a man.
midst joyful sounds, travellers moans and snowball fights, the creators plan,
By rolled ball pile and heaped snow I was born, created by many in several places,
some small and really, lovingly made. Others large with various, curious, hats and faces.
All - to stand appreciatively of of the makers time, to create me and proudly put on show.
Winter feeds our lifetime span with cold wind, colder nights and, temperatures low,
we stand as white statuary, where children play, soon - will come the expected day
a thaw, will take our sustainability of cool, and so little by little I, and others go away,
with saddened countenance creators watch as we bend, wither and slouch,
stoically accepting this is, as is. Snowy days will return, snowmen too, I can vouch.
It’s a happy sadness for snowman builders and snowmen too, who together
wait in anticipation for fun and creativity, the joyful side of snowy weather.
From a Snowman
Michael C Crowder 23rd January 2019
Jan 25, 2019
Jan 25, 2019 at 5:09 AM UTC
Headland and Flounders
drift alongside the edge
and what is excluded
bitter vetch, its famine vouch.
Life was then hewed
on a cusps of Moon,
their points return as
Libertines and Rakes.
Born from the same ideal
with choice to inform
and saddle the consequences.
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 3:07 PM UTC
321
Of all the Sounds despatched abroad,
There’s not a Charge to me
Like that old measure in the Boughs—
That phraseless Melody—
The Wind does—working like a Hand,
Whose fingers Comb the Sky—
Then quiver down—with tufts of Tune—
Permitted Gods, and me—
Inheritance, it is, to us—
Beyond the Art to Earn—
Beyond the trait to take away
By Robber, since the Gain
Is gotten not of fingers—
And inner than the Bone—
Hid golden, for the whole of Days,
And even in the Urn,
I cannot vouch the merry Dust
Do not arise and play
In some odd fashion of its own,
Some quainter Holiday,
When Winds go round and round in Bands—
And thrum upon the door,
And Birds take places, overhead,
To bear them Orchestra.
I crave Him grace of Summer Boughs,
If such an Outcast be—
Who never heard that fleshless Chant—
Rise—solemn—on the Tree,
As if some Caravan of Sound
Off Deserts, in the Sky,
Had parted Rank,
Then knit, and swept—
In Seamless Company—
1.8k
I thought you'd always have my back
"Till the end of time," we'd say
I believed it until you proved me wrong that day
How foolish of me...
Your man tried to set me up with his friend
I didn't want to, but I didn't want to be rude
That was my downfall in the end.
You left us alone, and he thought the fun had just begun
I kept saying no but had nowhere to run
We played this game of cat and mouse.
All around the comfort of your house
I couldn't escape; I kept saying no
He would stop for a minute, then continue to go
He kept touching me and violating my body and space
When I told you, you said, "that can't be the case."
At one point, you both said to him,
"You're lucky it happened to her and not somebody else, cause she has people who can vouch for you.
Otherwise you could have a charge put on you."
That statement shattered an already broken soul.
I don't feel lucky at all.
I was never asked or given the option to press charges; the decision was made for me.
They tried to say, "He's a good guy," and "I've known him for 15 years; he's not an animal."
The experience I had with him is he assaulted me.
He groped, touched and tried to force himself onto me.
For hours after, I constantly said no.
I can't just let that go.
Just because he didn't **** me doesn't mean the trauma of the assault is lessened.
It felt as if you were both protecting my assailant.
More than you were protecting me.
I didn't ask for this to happen
I didn't deserve this.
You both said you'd cut him off
But you told him you'd only distance yourself for "a bit."
That feels like you spit in my face
You're still both friends on Facebook.
I can't even stand to look.
You said you'd have my back till the end of time.
Turns out you meant
Until your boyfriend's friend
Assaulted me.
– Protecting my Assailant // F.C.
Jul 20, 2021
Jul 20, 2021 at 4:02 PM UTC
Is it where you come from that matters?
Is it your history, your line of descent?
Do they really know you, they chatter
Would they sit down with your friends
Where do you come from they ask
What is your story they say
Will you do away with your mask
Let them know you if they may
What went before doesn’t matter
Only the present counts
It’s a fresh start you barter
For your past in the ground
But when it comes down to it
They still want to know
Where did you come from
Where will you go
You choose your own fate
Your life is in your hands
Your future’s for you to make
You’re not bound to the land
Let them know you by your deeds
By your words and by your song
Do they need to trace your feet
To know where you belong?
What is a reputation -
But a binding rope
No leeway to stumble
For it’s a slippery slope
If the days gone by are to colour
Every speech and action
Where is the scope to discover?
Aren’t our lives but a fraction -
Of what they could be
If we believed we were free
To set forth and make waves
Or float along with the sea
But then again you may say -
Do people really change?
Can they let go of the hate -
Washed clean by the rain?
And can we trust someone who lays
No claim to yesterday -
For whom nothing can vouch
But the words of their mouth?
If one is constantly changing -
Then where does one stand?
How can the others trust you -
How can they shake your hand?
Is trust merely an illusion
We conjure up for ourselves -
To alleviate the confusion
To put reason on the shelf?
One day we all must choose
When there is much to lose
Whether to cling to the family tree
Or take flight and be free
Those you grow up with are forever
They’re the ones you never leave
Where you came from is your start
The first page of your story
But it can’t tie you down
It can’t hold you back
You mustn’t be afraid
For in the attack
They may have the armour of the known
And the weapons of their forebears
But you will have freedom
And an army of others
Your brothers in thought
And ideals and humanity
Sisters with whom you fought
The winds of disparity
So I suppose what I’m saying is
The only story worth telling
Is the one that unfolds
In the final reckoning
Sep 16, 2021
Sep 16, 2021 at 7:06 AM UTC
1
**I like your light makeup,
mangled logic that never
served its intended purpose,
the svelte figure that creates
an awareness indelible on proportion,
and the intelligence you have
to keep it just as petite
all through the years
the out law male chauvinist, that lurks in me is pleased,
lopsided analysis of contemporary affairs
you make, allows me
to intervene, put you back to the track.
I dig the coiffure that makes the birds think,
its their nest, newly built.
Your purple prose I learned to like,
as it gets more and more evocative.
Syrupy songs you write, and sing
used to get one bored easily
no more, your emotions now are
more rooted and move me very much.
you know better than any one, how much I love bitter concoctions you cook.
2
But then
I realize that the cadence you create is unique,
you look life at its *** and frown,
your poems though rare, show plenty of evidence
of quirky charm, which I like.
Your weepy stories and convoluted plots too
I learned to like, all these are just habits, right?
They bear a stamp of your originality I can vouch,
love your starry eyes when each is filled with admiration,
for me in those special moments,
when I pull you out of quagmires
time after time.
3
I can't take eyes off your face,
exuding such innocence,
that vouches your genuineness,
each time that assures me that
you cannot ever be bad,
unless you want to portray
yourself that way cleverly.
Though not my cup of tea,
I love the gizmo culture you love,
your craze for computer games,
(though bit bizarre at this age!)
I enjoy it and get fascinated when you go too far.
You love to make love in the dark,
I later learned to appreciate its tactile advantages,
and encouraged you unleash the panther in you, on me
though I love to do it with lights on
so that we can see the rainbow
the moment it spreads on ,
till it dissipates and we dive deep in to sleep.
4
You touched my depth in a way different,
made it possible to love the woman you are-
the way you are, I love it
because, you are unique,with all imperfections
together we are complete.**
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 2:18 PM UTC
"Amour is the most intense kind of sweet fever,I can vouch that
When it's clandestine, the effect on victims is much more acute"
As the trembling example of that condition, she whispers in his ear,
Between adventurous samba steps, every one watches agape.
"Don't you know merciless girl,that's what makes me go pale quickly
in your presence,this illness is mutually induced, that's for sure"
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 3:12 PM UTC
The shadows get frighteningly long,
he watches in silence like a painter
whose mixed up colors in the palette
are found to be of no use, the pictures
are muddled by inept handling of colors.
once colorful skyline is suddenly
pecked in to pieces by winds,
the belligerent evening birds in discord;
the child playing in the park now gives up
her carefully structured house,
receiving cues from swarms of darkness,
looks at her mother as if she isn't interested,
anymore, as if feeling the encroaching loneliness.
"Evening is a spoiler of beautiful things"
he jots down on the page of the day in his mind
"it's enticing beauty is just a masquerade"
a truth he would vouch as a fact of life.
It's time to be back home, the dusk falls
holding mom's finger she goes
back to the lighted space of warmth
that has an assurance of kiss any moment,
on his way she sends a smile, just a stranger
till two days before, as if saying "See you tomorrow"
this little one is a fresh guest of breeze
a pure blessing, sunshine rare in winter.
This rusted garden bench knows him well,
the fragrance of mango blossoms from a land distant
in a season long past still spreads the scent of musk
touches somewhere deep, brings
memories from a land so far, a land where
evenings were spent under the shades of mango trees
in exhilaration, awaiting the mango fruit season.
A change in the lighting of sky overturns everything.
time administers it's hidden poison drop by drop,
the memories of an evening from afar asks in a feeble voice
"Will the child come to the park to play tomorrow again?"
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 12:30 AM UTC
The problem with phantoms, rings so clear
Like fear, they don't just go away
The more is learnt of the world, the smaller it becomes
The less of open space is felt.
The mnemonist lives in a pretty tale
And heads the way off rocky shores
For, oft a fool will come along
And wilful, bash his mind on reef.
Spill then thee, cantankerous spirit
Thy guts of ill-placed rancour
For in puny efforts to uproot
Fresh soil turned is...fresh soil turned.
The more we feed on empty words
The larger grows that aching void
Engulfing all but esurience
Engorged thus, thee will choke.
A mere gesture of goodwill
And extending act of kindness
Will conquer every wicked sentiment
And leave thee broken ... in thy own mess.
So, thy tiresome pictures on the wall, we see
Paint on, dear artist, paint on
These very merry parties, ye assemble
Will ken thy sharp and twisted ire.
Push on, weary soul, try to find thy heart
Thee seest not thy efforts fall in vain,
Fail to latch, for thy error sits too tall
In the absence of saving grace.
So caught up in thyself, art thee
Thine eye too bright upon the prize
That thou did not see thy plot at play
Thy goest yet on; breaching full redemption.
Weave thus thy tale and clothe thy mind
For, in this act, thy mind doth shut
So ill-fitting thy own garish attire
Seams must needs split eventual.
Seeketh truth and truest, thy find's a trove
But sadder yet's the day, indeed
All vouch that in thy heavy plunder
Its value now plain conferred.
Treasure trinkets, happy hoops
Whatever be thy favour's currency
When day is done and swift sea smoothes
Revered will always be...saving grace.
Star Toucher, 17 February 2013
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 4:49 AM UTC
My mum tells me to be careful as I close the front door
Every footstep the tick of a bomb about to go off
And I know that she will worry until she hears me return
That maybe this time I wasn’t careful enough
But I know Careful
Careful is a woman who walks in our skin when the door shuts behind us
Faceless and watchful
With keys jammed between each finger
And her honey voice is flowing through a perpetual conversation with the home screen of her phone
Her gait wide and her hood up,
hair down but tucked away
She never looks up
only shifts her eyes from left to right on a pendulum trajectory determined to read the cadence of the shadows
Like they are palms or tea leaves or a CCTV in operation sign on the front of a shop window
On the walk home
She is always moving
A waterfall rushing down the steepest drop to get back home with all her foundations in tact
Careful is always waiting for the other shoe to fall
She is texting texting texting details of her plans
Where she has been
where she is going
what is the license of the taxi she is in
Are the doors locked as soon as she shuts them?
How salty is too salty for a margarita or a tequila or a glass of water
Can anyone vouch for the milliseconds that her drink was out of her sight?
She has a pair of earphones attached to nothing jutting from her ears
and her key clawed hands wrapped tightly around a can of pepper spray
And her car is parked right outside the building
Careful is always a woman living in a war zone
where the enemies can be the ones that she has trusted most
Or strangers that cast long shadows
She is a landmine that is always in danger of being stepped on
She is made into a three star salad that the jury reject because she was underdressed
Overexposed like the photos that Careful should never have sent
Because even she knows that she cannot exist
A woman is always careful
But never careful enough.
Mar 28, 2018
Mar 28, 2018 at 2:27 PM UTC
Man,
i have one hell of a mean appetite,
my brain is stuttering
and my fists are ready to fight.
Feel my mettle,
heat the core,
watch my face,
as my feet hit the floor..
Come one step deeper,
one head **** behind,
they say scream harder,
as i begin to lose my mind.
But there's no vouch in my voice,
and no breath beneath my chest,
i can hear the thunder roaring,
in the beating within my breast.
And i can't see the boundaries,
between where me and i begin,
you want to see me roar,
as if the game is ready to win.
I'm one step caning it,
3 steps naked on your floor,
I beg you to be harder
as you come through the door.
No-one asked for this music,
as i turned the juke-box on,
but i danced the night away til my feet bled,
and sang where there was no song.
I am 10 beats harder hitting,
My heartbeat is keep time,
throwing my hands up to the sky,
and i look for the horizon line.
Pull me in harder,
throw me out with the acrid air,
that you left with the ruffled sheets,
and memories of me being there.
I have a deep insatiable hunger,
that is lost upon the ground,
and i have a rumbling scream,
that is vacuum packed in sound.
Running, running like there are care packages,
being dropped from the sky,
yet everything is an illusion,
and i'm left digging through a 'wondering why'.
Shadow boxing in candle light,
with someone i barely know,
and i am ready, and i am ****** willing,
for you to enjoy the show.
******* harder, faster,
til the sweat becomes pearls of dew from my lips,
and i bite hard down upon some skin,
and rip apart the sheets with my fingertips.
I taste, and choke, and i come up for air,
Hunger; hungry desire is written in my skin,
and i let my body release endorphin's
and i dance with the passionate demon within.
Eat me, excite me, exhume my heart,
my hands are shaking with pure white heat,
so i will sit quietly breathing nothing,
and calm myself from the soles of my feet.
Man,
do i have an appetite,
Come feed me
with cucumber sandwiches,
and cups of tea.
Jun 9, 2013
Jun 9, 2013 at 2:40 PM UTC
A visible spirit
She came to me and
Asked for my name
I asked her why:
Does she need my name for?
She said that I yelled at her
And if I do it once again
I would see the visible spirit of her
I have come across so many spirits,
On my job, and none could match
My mines: I stood my cool,
And I vouch never to encounter her
I would walk through the valley
Of the shadow, of death, and I would
Fear no threats, not for the likes of her,
I know her, I once was her, but
Not as stupid as her, wraith
I will not let it rest, I whisper
Under my breath, another one
On my radar, another close called
My way of doing things:
Sep 1, 2018
Sep 1, 2018 at 9:10 AM UTC
Death Be Knocking
28 December 2009 at 00:21
Death be knocking in your sleep
While you lay there peacefully in a dream
The Angels came and took out your soul
Now your rest in peace in your eternal abode
The struggles you went through
Those painful headaches of yours grew
Your complaints and worries you told me so often
Which made my heart soften
You made me laugh so much
For your character id always vouch
You were my big brother to me
Despite all your anarchy
The way you made my blood boil
When you'd say I smelt of desi oil
I'd get into a hefty frenzy about it
Then you'd always make me sit
Tell me to calm down
And don't frown
You made me happy and sad
Sometimes you'd make me a little mad
But most of all, I just want to say;
'I miss you so much , I just wish you'd stay
Just one more day
Even just for word play
I'd tell you how great you are
To me you are a star
Death came knocking in your sleep
Inshallah your in a better place
away from the stressful day to day race
Dec 27, 2010
Dec 27, 2010 at 1:38 PM UTC
634
You’ll know Her—by Her Foot—
The smallest Gamboge Hand
With Fingers—where the Toes should be—
Would more affront the Sand—
Than this Quaint Creature’s Boot—
Adjusted by a Stern—
Without a Button—I could vouch—
Unto a Velvet Limb—
You’ll know Her—by Her Vest—
Tight fitting—Orange—Brown—
Inside a Jacket duller—
She wore when she was born—
Her Cap is small—and snug—
Constructed for the Winds—
She’d pass for Barehead—short way off—
But as She Closer stands—
So finer ’tis than Wool—
You cannot feel the Seam—
Nor is it Clasped unto of Band—
Nor held upon—of Brim—
You’ll know Her—by Her Voice—
At first—a doubtful Tone—
A sweet endeavor—but as March
To April—hurries on—
She squanders on your Ear
Such Arguments of Pearl—
You beg the Robin in your Brain
To keep the other—still—
1.2k
Babe,
if you were my man I'd start off by calling you babe.
I think it's **** in a confident to the point kind of way, just like my love for you.
I would run into your arms in a ***** dancing lift kind of manner each time I see you, just because that's how excited I would be to see you, every single time.
I would kiss you. I would ******* ravish you with my tongue, lips, teeth, and you will know what it's like to kiss, what it's like to really kiss.
I would run my fingers, all of them, through your hair sweeping it back from your face and just hold you really close to mine, spending an eternity figuring out what colour your eyes really are,
cause you'd always crinkle them when we're together, cause I'd make you smile, laugh and happy all the time,
so I'd have never really seen what colour they really are, and when I find out it wouldn't matter anyway,
cause that will be my favourite shade of eye colour to begin with.
I would sit on your lap and put my arms around your neck and continue to tell my aimless yet superbly animated stories of things I saw, people I met, thoughts in my head, when all I really want is to be just that close to feel the heat of your body, your pulse and your gaze.
I will cook for you and make you do the dishes just so I can stand next to the counter and watch you align them on the drying rack with ridiculous precision, which I find lethally adorable.
I would re-learn physics, follow football, play video games, listen to punk rock all of which I really dislike, just so I can be another step closer to your world.
I would do anything, absolutely anything for you, and let you do anything to me, cause I trust you a 100%, interestingly the only man I can say that about other than my father.
I would learn to speak your language just so I can meet your family for Christmas and thank your parents from the very bottom of my heart for bringing you into this world and raising you to be the man you are.
I would however never try to change you.
I would preserve you and the perfect, raw, uncontaminated essence of humanity you carry, and rather change, adapt and give up myself to be with you.
I would vouch to spend the rest of my life with you, change my name for you and bear your children.
Babe,
if you were my man I would in a heart beat die or **** for you, and the latter over and over again.
I know you would never want me to change and like me for who I am,
ironically,
you wouldn't be my man.
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 11:44 AM UTC
۱
Where do we come from? Where are we going to? طَرِيقً
What sense is there in our life? We never have a clue. الحَيَـاةً مَعْـنًى
How many blameless souls under the wheel azure نُفُـوسٌ أَطْهَارٌ
Are being burn’d to ash and dust – where is the smoke, I ask? دُخَانٌ
۲
Thou shall not plant the trees of grief... شَخَرَة حُرْن
Though for enlightenment search the sun: إِنجِلاَءٌ
Shall care thou of lovely and love wine! رِعَايَةٌ
For time we live’s unequal to divine. وَقْتٌ
۳
I came into this world – has it become more splendid? مُوسِر
I’m gone – will it be hurt so badly? خَسَارَة
I wish somebody told me why سِرّْ
I came from dust and dust become will I. هَـبَاء
۴
I drink not wine for cheer, I drink not wine for vice, عِلَّةًُ
Nor drink I to deny all that is bright and holy. سَبِب
I just want to forget myself if only for a while – نُكْرَانُ اَْلدَّاتِ
That’s why I drink all time – the price I pay is solid! خَزَاءٌ
٥
Neglect the Law, the Prayer and the Lent, رَفضٌ
Though feed the poor with what you have, instead: رَحْمَة
Be good... Then your reward will be – I vouch for it – عَهْدٌ
Now mortal bliss, then – immortality. حَظّْ وَ خُلُود
Sep 21, 2012
Sep 21, 2012 at 4:41 AM UTC
I think it very sad, don't you?-
That we grow old but songs never do.
I'm listening to Kim Carnes
sing of Betty Davis eyes
but I can't will myself back
to the Dublin Pub
where I heard it the first time.
We were young and beautiful then.
(Vouch for me, I'll vouch for you)
I hear they've torn the old place down.
That's a **** shame, sad but true
Mar 27, 2018
Mar 27, 2018 at 5:55 PM UTC
Your words cut me open
Even deeper with each one you’d spoken
I’m not one for revenge
But between you and a bench
Dangling from a fatal fall from a ledge
I’d have a seat and call it a day
And I’d fall asleep perfectly okay
It was a poor excuse for a bench to be honest
But it beats a skum-bag, heart breaker like you any day
Maybe ‘cause it’s got nothin’ to say, really
While you’d ***** ‘til you hit cement
Even then, I’m sure you’d vouch your soul to be my personal torment
But first the devil would have to give you back the soul you spent
To buy a ****** bench
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 6:40 AM UTC
Saying what I feel
Ain't no easy feat
Yearning for something that
Isn't what it's meant to be
Lying through my teeth
Over and under again
Vouch for my existence
Even though it's through a pen
Yearn for me
Over many a mile
Unbreak my heart and open a smile.
Feb 26, 2010
Feb 26, 2010 at 7:42 PM UTC