"workmanship" poems
This is the colour of my anger:
A white hot searing fever
Tearing through my veins like amphetamine;
A surreal dream that keeps replaying in my brain
Over and over again...
Life is pain enough
Without other people
Making it tough. Guess I ran out of luck:
Top of the class and surrounded by dumb *****
Whose only qualification is knowing how to trigger
The ticking bomb I've strapped on
In my anger.
This is the colour
This is the colour
This is the ************* colour
This is the colour of my anger:
This weird red mist with its fingers
Coiled around my brain,
Blurring my vision as I allow it
To make my decisions
For me. Again, it hands me the gun, then runs,
Leaving me to get the
Damage done. Well, aint this fun?
Three, two, one, and it’s time to take cover
I won’t get any sleep
Until I’ve shown you the colour
Of my anger.
This is the colour
This is the colour
This is the ************* colour
This is the colour of my anger:
A smouldering orange lava
That laughs at the wrath of the sun,
And I feel like the risen Son
As it pours out of me, heavenly,
Reducing everything in its path to the
Sum of zero
But this is just a fraction of what it’s capable of.
Hot and full of hell is my fury. Shit's getting gory.
It's time to remove the canker.
No more bluffing, I’m all in -
Let the games begin
With my anger.
This is the colour
This is the colour
This is the ************* colour
This is the colour of my anger:
The cloudless blue of my eyes
As I admire my workmanship,
Reflecting upon the new ********
That I have just ripped for you.
My smile spreads from ear to ear, like a slit throat,
Beatific in my ecstasy as this anger drains out of me.
The adrenaline that pumped so furiously
Now dumps its load in me, bringing me to my knees.
Enough, I say, as I see how small you stand there;
Let's call it a day, now be on your way,
Just remember the colour of my anger.
Don’t ever
****
With me
Again
Jun 25, 2012
Jun 25, 2012 at 10:40 PM UTC
Painters, by the highest degree of inspiration,
And poets who with the Muse commune,
Command in their respective trades un-
Common craftmanship, exquisite creation
Of pen and brush upon the parchment
And canvass, through unfettered figment.
Gifted: poets, painters and musicians. Three
Geniuses on this terrestrial plane, with mind
As efficient as the moon in its fullest grind,
As do all artistic souls whose mastery
In finest workmanship are seen. Worship
The God of arts ye astronauts in spaceship,
For poets and painters are cardinal in artistic
Enrolment--and no less endowed are many another
Like sculptors--with thoughts solitary and cryptic.
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 4:53 PM UTC
Come on over and sit right down
The storyteller has come to town.
So many stories I have acquired and that's a fact....I keep them hidden in my knapsack in a book that's white and black.
This a story about you.......It was a day just like this .....a total stranger came to offer you A gift.
It was wrapped in the most beautiful paper one has ever seen. The workmanship was awesome.....some would say prestine.
He leaned on his cane .....due to a bad leg. He hurt it one night wrestling until the early morn......he also received a gift like a mother who cuddles her newborn.
So ....as he leaned upon the cane and lit his corncob pipe ....and blew smoke in the air. The extravagant gift was placed on the chair.
He said "This gift that is contained in this box is something that everyone wants." " You have have been chosen to receive this gift." "You don't have to take it.....you can give it to another.....if you chose. Although....it wouldn't be wise to make such a move."
The gift is still sitting in that chair......should I open it or leave it there?
A potential to change my life and end the strife I face on a daily basis. This isn't a deserted scene where you will see a thirst quenching oasis.
My basis for this story is about choices.....you have so many voices guiding your every thought......sometimes we chose wisely......and other times not so much.
These are the occasions when we lose touch or sight between right or wrong......the consequences for that wrong selection.......will have me singing a sad song.
If I chose wisely the day will be a lot easier to travel...not a perfect ride.....but I will arrive with all my bags in tow.
Chose wisely ........
So....he gathered his belongings and blew a smoke ring in the air.......and hobbled off into the distance. He hummed a jovial tune and yelled back that he would return soon.
The Storyteller...........
Oct 7, 2012
Oct 7, 2012 at 4:41 PM UTC
If your muggy-grubby hands
Even rise to slap me again
I swear I'll chop them off with my axe.
If your fangly-boniony feet
Get within kicking distance of me,
I swear I'll tear your legs from your hips
And then admire my workmanship.
If your mangy-crazy mind
Tries to infiltrate mine
To deposit some lie
That would change the perception
Of me, myself, and i,
I swear I'll grab a spoon
And scrape, scrape, scrape
Out your brain.
If your hoity-toity attitude
Tries to usurp my solitude
To make me someone I'm not
I swear I'll be completely dispassionate
As I wipe your every iota from this
Particulate Universe.
If I so much as hear you breathe,
I swear I will squeeze
Every
Drop
Of
Air
Left in your lungs.
You think this is too violent even for me?
You'd better believe
I've been pushed to the edge
Of all logical reason
By your every act of treason
And I won't hesitate to
Incapacitate,
Excommunicate
Eradicate,
You from my life.
You'd better beware.
I'm angry and all this I'll do.
I swear.
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 5:20 PM UTC
Earliest morning, switching all the tracks
that cross the sky from cinder star to star,
coupling the ends of streets
to trains of light.
now draw us into daylight in our beds;
and clear away what presses on the brain:
put out the neon shapes
that float and swell and glare
down the gray avenue between the eyes
in pinks and yellows, letters and twitching signs.
Hang-over moons, wane, wane!
From the window I see
an immense city, carefully revealed,
made delicate by over-workmanship,
detail upon detail,
cornice upon facade,
reaching up so languidly up into
a weak white sky, it seems to waver there.
(Where it has slowly grown
in skies of water-glass
from fused beads of iron and copper crystals,
the little chemical "garden" in a jar
trembles and stands again,
pale blue, blue-green, and brick.)
The sparrows hurriedly begin their play.
Then, in the West, "Boom!" and a cloud of smoke.
"Boom!" and the exploding ball
of blossom blooms again.
(And all the employees who work in a plants
where such a sound says "Danger," or once said "Death,"
turn in their sleep and feel
the short hairs bristling
on backs of necks.) The cloud of smoke moves off.
A shirt is taken of a threadlike clothes-line.
Along the street below
the water-wagon comes
throwing its hissing, snowy fan across
peelings and newspapers. The water dries
light-dry, dark-wet, the pattern
of the cool watermelon.
I hear the day-springs of the morning strike
from stony walls and halls and iron beds,
scattered or grouped cascades,
alarms for the expected:
queer cupids of all persons getting up,
whose evening meal they will prepare all day,
you will dine well
on his heart, on his, and his,
so send them about your business affectionately,
dragging in the streets their unique loves.
Scourge them with roses only,
be light as helium,
for always to one, or several, morning comes
whose head has fallen over the edge of his bed,
whose face is turned
so that the image of
the city grows down into his open eyes
inverted and distorted. No. I mean
distorted and revealed,
if he sees it at all.
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Two inches was the measure, of young Stevies blunder,
Digging out concrete, not knowing whats under.
He felt a nugget, that wouldn't yield to the Pick,
So he used the Jack-Hammer, until he got that "kick".
Caught fire on the spot, looked at me, shocked,
Died in flames, got a days pay docked.
Cut the main cable, Fifty millimetres, metric,
I know you hate to ask, but Friends aren't Electric.
Dennis stepped back, pleased with his graft,
Fell two hundred foot, down an unguarded shaft.
Been on the Grinder, cutting out steels,
So the Elevator boys could fix , their cogs and their wheels.
Never said a word, no shout or no fuss,
Dennis died like he lived, just one of us.
Me and Baz on a roof, we knew was asbestos,
Brittle like toffee, temperamental as Kate Moss,
Had no crawling boards, so we tip-toed like burglars,
Clinging on tightly, think Ivy on Pergola's.
I heard the crack, leapt to the hip-tile,
Baz clawed and scraped, resistance was futile.
They spread out the sand, where Baz hit the deck,
To mop up the blood, from a broken neck.
Health and safety, if's and but's,
Shoddy workmanship, taking short-cuts.
We have no say, we try our best,
Hard hats, harder boots and high-visibility vests,
Are all that we leave, not Time-Shares or Merc's,
Just daughters in tears, Dads not home from work.
Jan 31, 2016
Jan 31, 2016 at 11:03 AM UTC
Immortal Love, author of this great frame,
Sprung from that beauty which can never fade,
How hath man parcel’d out Thy glorious name,
And thrown it on that dust which Thou hast made,
While mortal love doth all the title gain!
Which siding with Invention, they together
Bear all the sway, possessing heart and brain,
(Thy workmanship) and give Thee share in neither.
Wit fancies beauty, beauty raiseth wit;
The world is theirs, they two play out the game,
Thou standing by: and though Thy glorious name
Wrought our deliverance from th’ infernal pit,
Who sings Thy praise? Only a scarf or glove
Doth warm our hands, and make them write of love.
1.9k
I am alive with Christ (Ephesians 2:5). I am far from oppression and fear does not come near me (Romans 8:2).
I am born of God and the evil one does not touch me (1 John 5:18). I am holy a d without blame before Him in love(Ephesians 1:4, 1 Peter 1:16).
I am God's child, for I am born again of the incorruptible seed of the word of God, whichvlives and abides forever(1 Peter 1:23).
I am God's workmanship, created in Christ to do Good works (Ephesians 2:10).
I am a new creation in Christ (2 Corinthians 5:17).
I am a believer and the light of the Gospel shines in my mind(2 Corinthians 4:4). I am a doer of the Word and blessed in my actions(James 1:22, 25). I am a joint-heir with Christ(Romans 8:37).
I am more than a conqueror through Him who loves me(Romans 8:37).
I am an overcome by the blood of the Lamb and the word of my testimony(Revelation 12:11).
I am a peacemaker of His divine nature(2 Peter 1:3,4). I am an ambassador for Christ(2 Corinthians 5:20).
I am part of a chosen generation, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a purchased person(1 Peter 2:9).
I am the righteousness of God in Jesus Christ(2 Corinthians 5:12).
I am his elect, full of memory, kindness, humility, and long suffering(Romans 8:33; Colossions 3:12).
I am forgiven of all my sins and washed in the Blood (Ephesians 1:7). I am redeemed from the course of sin, sickness, and poverty(Detronomy 28:15-68; Galations 3:13).
I am called of God to be the voice of His praise (Pslam 66:8; Timothy 1:9).
I am healed by the stripes of Jesus(Isaiah 53:5; 1 Peter 2:24). I am raised up with Christ and seated in heavenly places (Ephesians 1:6; Colossions 2:12).
I am greatly loved by God (Romans 1:7; Ephesians 2:4; Colossions 3:12; 1 Thessalonians 1:4).
I am strengthened with all might according to His glorious power (Colossians 1:11).
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 4:29 PM UTC
There’s not a nook within this solemn Pass,
But were an apt confessional for one
Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone,
That Life is but a tale of morning grass
Wither’d at eve. From scenes of art which chase
That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes
Feed it ’mid Nature’s old felicities,
Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass
Untouch’d, unbreathed upon. Thrice happy quest,
If from a golden perch of aspen spray
(October’s workmanship to rival May)
The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast
That moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay,
Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest!
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The cream lace dress falls to the floor.
The bright morning light fills the empty spaces.
The many layers pool around my feet.
The structure, the texture, the workmanship.
They all fill me with delight and splendid wonder.
I throw my head back and gently close my eyes.
I wonder how my mother felt in this dress.
Her dress.
Many years ago.
When she danced with my daddy at the prom.
Looking into his big, brown eyes,
Lacing her fingers together around his strong neck,
His hands placed ever so lightly on her small waist,
I wonder if she loved him then.
I wonder if she always had.
And always would.
I never knew my mother.
From the pictures, I could tell she was beautiful.
I never felt a true connection with her,
Although I had longed to.
Until I tried on the cream lace dress.
Her cream lace dress.
I felt like she, instead of the fabric,
Was wrapped around me.
Embracing me tightly.
I never want to lose her,
Even though I never truly knew her.
But this dress,
Her dress,
Allowed me to find what was always lost.
Dec 6, 2011
Dec 6, 2011 at 3:19 PM UTC
As long as it doesn't affect me;
as long as it's not immediately relevant
and something I have to immediately worry about;
as long as it doesn't **** up
my credit score
or my
shiny
new
house
then,
**** it.
And
**** you,
for bringing it to my attention.
how dare you.
this was promised to me,
it's predestined,
my two-story, three bedroom, two bath; the foreign workmanship and american artifice; the creamy halo of vinyl in the sun; the wrath of windexed windows and their hard missiles of bright, reflected sunlight; the soft lips of my children; my wife's pillowy, warm stomach and scratchy ***** our retriever that eats his own **** picking apart tiny specks of feces from the sun-pricked tips of our rug of fescue; these are the works of God, this is the land of God. You are marring this flat earth
Nov 21, 2011
Nov 21, 2011 at 10:21 PM UTC
Dead...
The nightmare from hell
A ****** at heart
The shadow that fell...
Dark...
The ash against the snow
The black sheep of the family tree
What Labels do I not know?...
Doomed...
The fault line in the ground
The corner of the darkest hall
Where no life is found...
*Time has passed and your Labels mean nothing to me now!!!
For where sin abounds... Grace all the more abounds!!!*
Redeemed...
Temple of the Holy Ghost
A branch of the True vine!
Holy and Blameless before God and the Heavenly Host...
Righteous...
Seated in the heavenly places with Christ
God’s workmanship
Partaker of His promise, through the ****** price...
Raised...
From my death grappling grave of sin
Was once dark but now filled with light
One of the many unworthy who were chosen
*It's been so recently those Labels have been eating me alive...*
But Lord you always remind me who I am in Christ!
*The Labels make me crumble up... have I failed to be a guide?*
Your word and church, they bring me strength to survive!...
Shut Up Labels! For I have Been Revived!
Dec 14, 2017
Dec 14, 2017 at 7:05 AM UTC
It was so many months ago,
On the feast of the deceased,
Jack-o-lanterns' gleaming glow,
Soul tormented by savage beast.
Overworked and overstretched,
On cold nights, with howling wolves,
Loneliness had scratched and etched;
Pride been trampled by heavy hooves.
Agony ached through my body,
Poisoning mind and spirit's heart.
Workmanship's been so shoddy,
Every day was a hard start.
And so I thought, 'Why am I here?'
'Nobody cares or even thinks of me,'
'Only torment strikes mine ear,'
'Better to shut up and dare not plea.'
So they checked me out of school,
Bunch of suits forced me to hospital,
Examined by creeps while on the stool;
Why was everyone so hostile?
That night, I tried to fall asleep,
Poison and toxins flying 'round,
Cruel cameras watching me weep,
Whatever happiness had been drowned.
Jun 30, 2014
Jun 30, 2014 at 9:55 AM UTC
most of my poems come spontaneous,
dare I say even easy, the composition,
tumbling rumbling usually no fumbling,
this one, the prep commences. a month priority plus, with wellsprings of considerations,
in advance…
*’tis Miz Patty’s day of birth,
ah, the feminine mystique
prevents me from revealing
her precessional numerical
decades of decadence,
but adoration of this Magi,
is not so constrained,
so bend my knee to the woman
who writes a
poem’s complexity
as if it were a fine
medieval tapestry,
colors aflaming,
workmanship intricate
intriguing, well deserving
of a place,
in the Metropolitan Museum Cloisters fortress,
that guards
the Hudson River’s Upper Valley’s
verdant stippled wider majesty,
near to where Washington’s
troops fled Manhattan heights
to safety in New Jersey, most
ignominiously
*I’m told that tears arose,
then fell, when first she
read this inattributed essay
on this jubilee day, a clarion
reminder note of her coronation,
to this great green planet,
Missoura Mama as she is
with great affection so known
throughout this glorious land*
*Ah, wax too eloquent,
never my style,
only my favorite sin,
when one begins
to pray tribute,
to a finer poet…and
mine own heroine*
*this aperture of insight,
this scrap of script,
why the papyrus turns
pinkish red, as she demurs
this ode of praise,
while the edges crisp
burnt, brown ~black
by the heat of her outraged
enraged protestation
of “way too much,”
a pretense commenced
by my opportuned
impermissioned reveling
revelation of this
datapoints accidental
dislocating disclosure
as is my sin actuelle,
go on too long says
my devil muse,
so a final thought*
*if this should somehow be,
the first poem you’ve recovered
in this land of words gone mad,
make to hers, and there spend
a day, a lifetime, in a lovely land,
where her words will slip through
your eyes and hands, like fine
grains of sand, each letter,
a pearl in
black and white*…
Dec 9, 2024
Dec 9, 2024 at 11:00 PM UTC
a rumination, a revelation
stuck or trapped
in body?
God’s mental workmanship
so shoddy?
born on
automatic mode
now manual
now unsewed
no sense
of future
without
a suture
too conscious of
consciousness
certainly too
autonomous
too aware of
being aware
I stare, I stare
overly aware
of own existence
no path of
least resistance
body seems irrelevant
no Eucharist, no celebrant
with all that it can bring
life is
a most uncomfortable thing
May 31, 2015
May 31, 2015 at 12:48 AM UTC
i simply exercised my vocabulary in tantra-yoga... you mistook poetry for its expression of freedom curtailed... and while i did my tantra-yoga bending and pointing at unseen geometries... you simply ran a 100 metre sprint, elongating the hyphen into a boa eating itself with avarice the pepper & salt.
0i preferred the haggis / czarna kiszka
than my retrospective -
i'm doing mine early, for reasons not
necessarily true, or for that matter worthwhile...
but nonetheless assuring -
had i too the gift for painting,
and the nerve to keep a young girl captive
i'd too succumb to fathom a Grimm's tale...
live the secluded live, secluded to the point
of incubation - i'd lived it like an
Arctic explorer, by the fireplace
talking drunk tales of escaping polar bear
hunts - within a pentagram of limbs intact,
greasy Glasgow my farthest stone throw of heart...
furthest the Føroyar Øer - if only i kept my heart
as stern of the body to mind as the atom of ego
in my mind to be lost among the carousel
of weathered abstracts known
as the four winds and the thrice winding clockwork -
what abstractions to bear
from now on? a memorial service?
only in poseur marginalising tomorrow as only
a change of attire for today; so too the
semi-clad conservatives of supposed workmanship
English? takes two to a woad; whatever Argentinian
*** did to you in tango... takes two to a woad!
but there's you apish and impish entwined for
coerced blue of some other Newtonian prefect
of argument, when the painting screams far from
Norway the distinction between azure and
aquamarine is very far between
suggestion of marriage... i've ate my liver as if it were
a heart by drinking salute! to a marble stone all hopes
to have my life back! i mistook my liver for a heart!
i did that! you mistook more than i care to remember
having been forced a forgetting...
those 3 years in Edinburgh meant nothing... nothing!
spend them in South America, in Antarctica!
i will not swallow another breath with a vowel coupled
to a consonant.... until the remnants of me
believe the words: Europe united, only when Scotland
is free.
Jun 30, 2016
Jun 30, 2016 at 10:01 PM UTC
What you get is not always what you're gonna see
There's a me I choose to let no one see
If you see that me let me be the first to offer up an apology
That's my B side, that's the stranger I gave a ride and once inside it destroyed my family
And quickly
I find myself beyond a solitary sorry
The fix is never near as easy as you plea for it to be
Always aware that my grip on reality was secured by the same guy who's loosing it mentally, the workmanship is shotty
I do know the motions to take though and I go through them awkwardly
Robotically emote what I think is expected, a real time commentary
Going live is scary, that's just reality
I've rehearsed my lines so when I do I blend in seamlessly
Neither are an ability I use to be a mystery, well, not completely
I'd rather no one see behind the privacy shrubbery
It's private property but I never enforced it properly
Good 'ol hindsight, always 20/20
No control on this disorder, examples are aplenty, it'll eventually break free then consume what's left of me
No one believes when I say this is not me
Honestly, I don't put up much proof of the contrary
I do try, but these copy/paste repairs are undone too easily
Woe is me
©2023
Dec 21, 2023
Dec 21, 2023 at 5:21 PM UTC
in the end, who needs words when you can't spell the sounds
they run parallel to the ground, away
leaving t's looking like l's, who may fall flatter.
they are dropping like dots from i's,
but they are not wasps but are they flies
there is still a buzz in my ear
the hairs on my head run from the razor,
but only get as far as the cracks in the floor.
the fingers on my hands touch the workmanship,
sculpting my busted head, but change nothing.
the ringing in my ear is familiar
the life has become an empty tube of toothpaste,
and now I have to refill it from the counter.
the live wire I keep touching, looks
like a nerve, in my one arm that is ripping me off.
If I have a tone, it a came from outer space,
my feet are running on the floor, louder the neighbours
are hammering on their ceiling, my legs buckle, no feeling.
there is nothing so refreshing as a dog licking your
face when you are flat on your back staring out to space.
The tone has stopped, they are here...
It begins.
©DWE092013
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 7:57 PM UTC
carve your heart in me, love.
deeper and away, our tender kisses bid the full moon farewell.
the pungent swelter of breath and the verdure of leaving furiously sway in attendance.
i can see you now through the pane of the next minute,
moving near with a moment's fervent undulation.
together with anonymous eyes, the stars watch in glee
unsheathing the night, flayed like a bare bone.
your thigh's silken river, brindled and flowing like words
from any loose tongue fragile enough to break.
my shaking hands tremble with a fresh fruit's succulent emergence,
rid of alarms, wringing the wine out of it for mine to drink.
chanting the mellow, the bed whirls with noise
when all of these volumes slither back to their caves,
i will touch with my territorial hands, your body's ample darkness and choke its depth,
concluding the sepulcher with the lightsome fire of my kiss and its workmanship.
all the things we once left trilling marks on
remain stilled,
watching at the edge of the pantheon, our souls unashamedly admitting that we are uncertain with ourselves.
i can hardly surrender fears to your brazen feelingfulness yet as your fingers try to unclose what the winter of living has hidden in the shroud of cold,
i find in me that we are each to ourselves
like autumn's tawny daughters.
the gentle ray of your wyes searches me
underneath the tumble of virginal sheets.
your ******* tingling fleshly in the sharp
stab of the air's crisp arrival through
the windows.
going down and finding myself in you
(my tongue breaking free from my mouth's dungeon leaving all words
and soldering this avid yearning)
dancing inside you
in sempiternal motion,
i can feel the sweetness
at the verge of breaking
like the length of words reduced
to all-telling moans.
rising and falling in the stillness
is the aftertaste, leaving me bright in
youngness, laughing freely
behind whose flumine hair sleeps
in the eventide far from ending
as my hand still roams like a starved beast
in the jungle of slackening breaths
and gushes of blood,
hunting for something still,
drunk in believing that this moist venture
will lead me to an unfaltering belief
that it was your heart that i have had
in my hands, forever to endure—
these moments
and their stark absences.
Oct 16, 2015
Oct 16, 2015 at 12:46 AM UTC
“Is it done yet?” they scream
The deadlines coming near
Finish it soon – finish it quick
Just don’t forget workmanship.
Working hard – getting it done
Not allowed to have any fun.
Have to please them, make it look good
Make it look like they think it should.
I need to win
Pressure yells into my ear,
Take home the prize,
But be fearless and kind.
Do not fail and do not flee,
I wish they would just leave me be.
To finish my painting and make it look good,
Not like it was made by someone working with wood.
A painting that show a grimace with a stare
Trying to hide what lies hidden in wait,
Wait that some may see through its eyes,
Seeing the word that was so cleverly disguised.
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 4:50 PM UTC
Life Is Like
A Video Game
You Work Hard
You Earn
Something
And Unlock
Something
And Possibly
Become A Leader
One Day
But,
An Expert
Was Once
A Beginner
A Follower
Which Lead
Him To
Determination
Hard workmanship
Commitment
And Like
A Chain
He Could
Have Stayed There
In The Chains
But,
He Left His Demise
And Found A Key
Way Out Of
Death
Or Maybe Regret
~Paris Styron~
You May Have
A Script
But,
That Does Not
Mean You Know
How To Use
It
~Paris Styron~
Do Not Love
Me
Because My Love
Is A Star That
Will Always Be
Wished Upon
My Love Is So Strong
You Will Turn Into Stone
If You Were To
Break My Heart
That Star Will Turn
Into Scars
That Will Shine Alone
That You Will
Later Realize
You Wish You Had Me
And, Still
Would Wish Upon
That Star
~Paris Styron~
Pain Is
A Gain
Of Progress
~Paris Styron~
Humiliation
Is A Form Of
Unitity
In Ones Self
One Step Closer
Of A Human Being
~Paris Styron~
Let The Writing
Talk, And Your Thoughts
Express
Let The Tears
Run Down
Your Face
That Covered
Pain
Now Tears Drop
To The Floor
Behind Doors
That Whats
Keep The Floors
Crying
~Paris Styron~
Loneliness
Is A Tool
Which Can Turn Into
Solitude
Thus A Piece Of Mind
~Paris Styron~
Music Is A Thing
Trapped Inside
A Man World
~Paris Styron~
I Will Be A Scar
That Is A Star
In Your Eyes
You Will Wish Upon
~Paris Styron~
Night Of The Coolness
Moon Of The Light
Carry My Sadness Away
Everyday
Every Night
From This Day On
~Paris Styron~
Carry Your
Sorrows With
Kindness
Not Anger,
Rage
Not Slaughter
~Paris Styron~
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 12:06 PM UTC
styles change,
in everything,
can no longer
catch your passing fancy
I am Gap,
says the sign of the four,
no interest no more
for what's behind the door,
just samo samo variations
on a four note theme,
been there, done that,
khaki is just so blah
you're H&M;,
four weeks, in store,
then gone,
no more, no returns,
ever,
edgy, trendy, and usually
quickly, careless made,
with haste cheap manufacture
words are like clothes,
patterns, cut, style,
oft looking ridiculous
a season later,
it's the readers taste,
ever seeking out the newest face
the man's words,
reversed alchemy, ha!
golden-into-leaden,
potpourri of variable seasonings
from gardens of ancient seasons,
lol, stale, lacking efficacy,
now ready for a burial permanent,
deserving a small museum exhibition
too long, too long,
so wrong, so wrong,
for quick and the digital attention spanners
the easy riders of today
these words, these words,
so wrung, so wrung, so earned,
from a life's stories reservoir
an accumulated dictionary,
now shared with
modulated crafted care
labelled by the new zoo review
archaic, obsolete, old fashioned,
worse curse,
too **** long,
hot ****
if that's
exactly not,
how the man feels
his days, these days,
exacting and extracting,
*too **** long*
so drips and drops,
will yet be
canvas spotted and plotted,
for those among us
who
taste the music,
tingling skin with words,
cherish the artistry of
caring, workmanship,
buying the best of
what didn't come cheap,
stuff that can't be bought
in any store,
in any style,
the slow pleasure
of taking care...
gotta go,
new store in town
UNIQLO,
hope there is in that name,
maybe a chance, something unique,
something that will glow
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 6:18 AM UTC
it is something that has
made me once laugh.
and now that it is something
that is done to perpetuate
a divinity of its savoir faire,
or unfurl the evocativeness of
sartorial workmanship,
it is something that inhabits
me like an imagined pit
that a body should plummet into
and crash, having fallen off
from the boughs of a bottomless dream.
like snow or silence, drops onto its vastness and fastens in it such felicitous rigor greeting it
like an old companion, reminding
me of these unimpeachable occurrences: as a wrinkled log is petrified, where mosses pullulate to archipelagic green, where wild ivies sprawl like children in the high-afternoon, or clandestine Paraneoptera ensconced somewhere within the triviality
of demarcated stones in
the dark's cunning edge,
my body knows its peace,
all borderless without flounce
flourishing in its still life.
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 1:58 AM UTC
Yes, I'm hurting.
Yes, It hurts.
You took my sadness and carved a knife.
You took my sorrow and made a blade.
Pushing it into my chest,
I watched you as you plunged it in.
Breaking bones along the way.
As you twisted it deeper;
You smiled.
That beautiful smile,
How could I hate you?
You're everything.
You took my happiness and created life.
You took my laughter and designed a future.
All while the knife was still there,
And you looked at me.
With those beautiful eyes.
How could I hate you?
You're everything.
I bled red love for you,
Yet, this wound still stings.
I bled purple jealousy too.
Yet, you do these things.
I bled yellow hope for you.
Yet, the pain grows.
I bled pink passion too.
Yet, my feelings you dispose.
As you pull the knife out,
Satisfied with your workmanship,
The blade is covered in blood.
You laugh, amused even,
It's your favorite color.
I bleed orange for you.
Just to please you one last time.
May 23, 2019
May 23, 2019 at 5:10 PM UTC