"yelps" poems
Mythical Bird, show me your secret
Hatch forth from your shell
Plumage of orange and scarlet
Emerge glorious from whence you dwell
Fiery Bird, you must reveal
Your astounding, magical ways
Where from these lives you steal
Forever reincarnating well into your days
Aflamed Bird, you must teach
How you reinvent yourself anew
With no help within reach
Without aid, effortlessly you flew
Majestic Bird, take me in
Blanket me with your wing
Listen and acknowledge my sins
With all your wisdom and heart could bring
Magical Bird, will you impart?
What knowledge you keep
Only then, I may start
To make my way out from the deep
Enchanted Bird, you have to help
I'm desperate to rise like you
**** your head and hear my yelps
Of all the things I'm trying to undo
Celestial Bird, if only you could know
Intricate workings of this unfounded fixation
Why I seem to always wallow
An eternal target of sorrow's attention
Imaginary Bird, will you demonstrate
Your amazing fantastical flight
Dipping, gliding, in the air you gyrate
Aggressive dance with gravity you fight
Mystical Bird, won't you display
For unworthy eyes, would you give?
Seemingly easy, aloft you stay
Even when you know you'd die before you'd live
Wondrous Bird, oh how perfect you are
I am in awe, I am swooning
How you become one with the stars
Making the best of the short time you're living
Secretive Bird, is it time?
Reducing yourself down to ashes
Ready to absolve your stint of crimes
Reborn perfect, free from previous gashes
Ensorcelled Bird, please don't retreat
Back into your familiar cocoon
I'm uncertain if again we'd meet
Just afraid I might be gone too soon
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 8:50 AM UTC
In the dimly lit chamber, we set the scene.
An owner and his pet, a game of primal and prey.
She kneels like an eager dog, a collar around her neck.
He stomps his feet and keeps her obedience at play.
The owner, like a magician, keeps tricks up his sleeve.
He wants his pet to learn— to be his student and please.
Commanding her to crawl, to fetch and beg.
Waiting for him to call her a good little pet.
She barks and whimpers, a puppy in passion.
Spins three times and licks her master’s feet without a whine.
The pet surrenders to her master’s might.
She delivers his sturdy leather boots in a straight line.
With a flick of the whip, the pet curls in elation.
Her master chuckles at her sounds of temptation.
Submitting to the cynicism of ******* and discipline.
She is flogged like a plebeian, forgetting she’s a citizen.
Pet and master, a bond so strong.
The two are bound by zeal, craving one another.
She wallows in the comfort of her belly rubs and treats.
And runs around with a rush of red in color.
She goes through treacherous training.
And yelps if she’s ever caught complaining.
Waiting for a tasteful gift: the eternity collar.
When she is ready, he puts it on with honor.
Jun 16, 2024
Jun 16, 2024 at 6:25 PM UTC
Right now, as we speak, there's a little boy, aged five
Pushed aside on the corner of his mat, where he naps
His fingers are clenched onto shredded crumbs of bread
He managed to get his hands on this morning despite his mother's constant nags
About having to save the last few bits for his new born sister
Ashes and rubble are his best friends ever since he can remember
Disturbance aches him no more
For everything he's ever known are dents
He wouldn't know what the other side of the rainbow looks like, let alone both
For he's never encountered a rainbow during his yelps of pain
Pressure, abundance of destruction, humiliation
His innocent weeps never reach aid
He is now used to it
No more room to present emotion
For everything he's encountered will forever be frozen in time
He wouldn't know what peace is, ever
For contrarily that would be foreign to him
Therefore, somewhere in this world, silence takes over
This little boy whose whole life has been built on lies and disruption
Aug 20, 2016
Aug 20, 2016 at 4:57 PM UTC
Gripping ***** locks
knotted to his scalp,
she kicks him to the road.
Glass bottle bits scrabbling
under his fingernails;
he yelps, dragging away.
Their pressed flower daughter
clings to the soot-stained wall.
She tiptoes his nape
into the pavement,
drawing a gag and gurgle
bubbling out of his throat.
Two fingers pull his nose,
resting his teeth on the curb.
An incisor plinks to the girl’s feet.
She hugs it as close as a home.
Dec 6, 2012
Dec 6, 2012 at 4:58 PM UTC
I just hugged Zoe and I saw her hickies and wanted
to kiss her lips over and over just like the day
we got high and danced underneath moving lights
and she was in my tutu and her blonde hair
felt right tickling my face and the boy
who is supposed to love her didn't notice
and it made us laugh and laugh because
if we didn’t laugh; we would have cried.
Why do we love to leave behind bruises
on lips and necks and arms and eyes
and teeth? It hurts but no matter what, no
matter how much I crush my teeth together to
hide my yelps, it always turns into this
beautiful, beautiful mark that doesn't want
pressure and looks like a sunset borrowed
it it’s colors because *no one, not even
a bruise, wants to be ugly*.
Oct 23, 2012
Oct 23, 2012 at 8:51 PM UTC
i saw the greater part of creation succumb to the piracy of numbness-
the nimbus rage of torpedo cigars blowing blue-grey smoke into the dark lashes of love-struck little *****
thirsty angels with tangled curls of hair bashing their heads against bathroom walls
screaming under their breath, not enough.
i saw the green plastic- and her orange eyes
and the soap-bubbles on the sidewalk
and the soap frothing all over the sidewalk
and the glass that took off like pristine bullets in every direction
and-
blood running over the cum-covered lip of the curb, flowing into the street-
down to the drain, dripping into the hungry orifices of the big metal grate
into sewer pipe salvation-
destination unhindered by your humanity.
god, this must be insanity
and not even the good kind.
but
let's go watch the fire-works up on the roof-
crawl out the attic window
i let you go first to watch the electric calico
trickle down your legs like a promise.
i like the birds that fly in and out of your hair-
the handkerchief at your hip,
i like the crazy and the cool-
the too cute for comfort
and the fake angsty danger of your darkside.
like morphine-
the band or the drug?
you're ironically detached
with your semi-satanic languidity-
and overdue serenity
[i got a few overdue books at the library.]
[they closed the library a long time ago.]
i like to play catch with your presence-
our eyes with the back-and-forth,
the half-sent glances when we think the other isn't looking.
but we were always looking-
or at least i was always looking at you.
i could see half inside of you.
you were always half-naked-
in the scanty rags of the latest fashion.
when you breathed it was like nectarine noises-
and muffled yelps of love.
i watched your shirt move up and down on your chest
and told you about "never knows best"
it seems
i've seen the greater part of creation succumb to the supreme softness
and the best laid plans of motorcycles and mini-vans fall to pieces in my palms.
and you were the greatest creation i saw on the roof that day.
don't bat another pretty little eyelash at those tiny flashing pieces that go past like ricochets
it's just one more night of strangeness
and then you can be free again.
Jul 11, 2012
Jul 11, 2012 at 1:34 AM UTC
are feelings of love felt alone, feelings of love at all?
or selfish yelps for attention borne
of boredom & a sense we only hold on our own
of childish
- - - - idleness.
singularity less; more independence from a whole
the only company he keeps is furniture
together with the furniture of the house he sits,
with seven seats left empty,
the curtains tales appear to grin
without validation from another he feels
like a child standing
the school's final bells rung
the bustle of the day has droned
now dissipated
the bustle of the day irritated
when it droned, he longed for home
for the bus
as he waits for the bus the quiet surrounds hold tight
but hold cold
like a fridge door keeps, it clutches, encloses
the school yard empty
he stands; singular; out of place in the surrounds
the school bleeds terror when empty
The laughs & shouts & jeers & footsteps
keep the wholesomeness whole
empty of shouts
a graveyard now
the ghosts of the day linger
& they finger
your buttons they push
your tenderness they kneed out
they **** (with their cold digits they ****
just like the furniture does.
just like the furniture in the house laughs
when uninhabited
it silently jeers
'Why so many seats mate?' it pokes with its linen digit; fuzzy but cold
as it continues
'you're alone
waiting for someone
to come by and pick u up
& take u back to home
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 9:01 AM UTC
so many loud yelps
barking voices
clacking at each other
believing that their ignorance
and unabashed rudeness
will get results
hurray for the strong shouldered
head held high
who ignore such brazen brashness
of the moronic
bravo to you
that can stop an imbecile
dead in his tracks
by a stone cold
even gazed
eye meet eye
stare
stopping the foolish without uttering a word.
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 6:31 PM UTC
1
Screams in the night,
Sleeping all day.
Yelps of pain,
And cries of anger.
****** torture,
Mind disruption,
Soul disappearance
Tears in the light
Screams in the night.
2
Terror through and through,
Scared thoughts of pain.
Living in sadness,
Then despair,
Life drained.
Dark appears.
Nothing left.
All taken and blue,
Terror through and through.
Sep 20, 2018
Sep 20, 2018 at 11:33 AM UTC
a beaten man bleeds, but lives boldly
trees, leaves and ****** skin diseases : before we bleed, we scream
i’ve screamed; we bleed; i’ve done it all and we’re here together
in sickness, i have seen the wall of sound that frightens me
in health, i’ve heard the yelps of a beautiful young dog with coins for eyes and golden silk for a coat
in insanity, i’ve found myself, twisted, i know, but i am lying there; content
in life, i am everything all of the time
in death, i’ve seen the truth
in venice, my gondola has spilled over into a stream of consciousness which i have not known of
in paris, i’ve slept at the bottom of the seine
in corfu, i’ve basked in warmth and love
in moscow, i’ve seen a man’s heart and a woman’s soul be married
in the church, i have loved, bled and screamed
my hunger has not been satiated; bolder now, i’ve been louder
in a quiet field; i’ll lie with you; i’ll bleed you dry; i’ll replenish you; i’ll love you; i’ll write our life stories on the surrounding woods
i’m beginning again; i’m burning fuel to start the end of my consumptive nature
i digress, i digress, i aggresively digress
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 5:56 PM UTC
Let's talk about this jazz club
that lives in my cellphone
in 1950 something with Chet Baker
back from the dead.
Let's toast to random notes taking flight
into the city in the middle of nothing nights we've known or been familiar with.
Let's shake hands cordially with the unfamiliar as in "deal", or "peace be with you" as if in church, tipping hats at that stranger passing by at the crosswalk some late evening in spring alongside dandelions sprouting forth from the pavement. Let's read between breaks of beats Kerouac must have hit in 1950 something San Francisco in yelps into the moonlit stages of the balcony of his boxcar boxcar boxcar gone by in a mad blur with whatever graffiti'd message of hope it bore on its sides. Let's hitch into the unknowingly infinite by way of the pen's mighty point. Let's unlearn the way syllable by syllable and demolish languaged signs like hurricane force candor blowing down fact-ory made terms and political decorum as smoke from the pages of their corporate handbook joins the Chet Baker solo note pilgrmage into the holy skyline. Let's move side by side unspoken as those jazz notes he forgot to play. Let's fill in those blanks with uninformed confidence beyond our abilities and grasp the unsayable names of our dreams remmebered. Let's see in seconds passing like bums inebriated with the holy moments gone too soon. Let's talk about nothing but this sacred second at hand on this clock unseen pointing overhead to the face of the moon gone full and hungry for attention. Let this happen only now. Only then will we talk about where it's going.
Apr 14, 2018
Apr 14, 2018 at 12:44 AM UTC
This morning breakfast was two coconut macaroons
and a novelty- sized pecan pie.
All from the cafeteria.
When you’re going it alone, it’s the small things.
I can still hear the echoes of sleep as it recedes,
8AM, throaty yelps - panic -
and it slurps down the drain.
**** I’d give anything for a drain snake.
**** I’d give anything for black coffee
and a hood on this ******* coat.
Just above the below and below the upper,
I’m hovering somewhere in midfield.
But we didn’t cover this coordinate system in geography,
or what to do when you’re drowning
in waves of self-righteousness and the desire to be hip.
I need that hood. And probably new shoes.
When your roommate is an egg-shaped vampire
optimism can be hard to come by.
Her munching marks the stroke of midnight,
and I reach for the sleeping pills.
Oh for the perfumed winds of personal space.
Oh for the prairies of carpet and private bathrooms.
Oh to have hot water at 9PM.
Sing sweetly of home ye golden-thighed youths.
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 11:44 PM UTC
have I not held a fruit
in so long?
one that is this organic and whole
an apple
a good grip, a solid fit
like a hand
another hand to hold
that I had not held
but had wished to hold
more longingly than a piece
of fruit;
which speaks directly to
my orthorexia
in loud blows of
chicken-bone-in-my-throat
yelps and laments
it screams:
**I WOULD RATHER HOLD AN ICE CREAM CONE
IN ONE HAND IF I GOT TO HOLD YOUR HAND
WITH MY OTHER HAND THAN HOLD A DUMB
APPLE IN MY HAND WITH THE OTHER EMPTY**
an apple
a good grip, a solid fit
my eyes watch the bulb in your throat bounce
up and down
when you laugh
(you laugh more than most people do
and I love that about you);
when you silently swallow
after nodding and listening, engaging
my eyes with
the rings of your deep brown irises;
when you gulp down a gin & tonic or Stella
or horrid spiced wine gone luke warm from the cold rain;
I watch the apple bounce
up and down;
a good grip, a solid fit,
I’d throw it away (any day)
to curl my fingers around an ice cream cone
Oct 18, 2012
Oct 18, 2012 at 12:00 AM UTC
The Winter Feast
In the
Glass forest
Snow falls
And trees
Stand
Darkly visible
Beneath
Ancient crowns of
Snow and ice
In these creaking limbs
Nothing changes -
The slow viscosity of time
Drapes the boughs in
Delicate shards that
Swallow light
But
Over here
In dark stains
Beneath old eaves
Famined eyes slide among
Rivers of shadow
Pursuing the warm glow of life -
In an instant
They absorb the warm hapless thing
Whose bright shrieks tear
At the fabric of shadows
The beasts feed -
Their crippled little yelps
Resonate
Death through the
Forest where
Time shivers and breaks -
From dark boughs
Gleaming
Thorns of ice whisper
To earth
In the silent thunder of snow
Satisfied
The beasts leave -
A sacrifice of blood
And bone
Is made -
Crimson tears bloom
In the snow -
Time gathers the vibrant colour in its
Crystal embrace
High above
Winter winds
Caress the old boughs
That lovingly
Creak and whisper
In the
Glass forest
Dec 2, 2009
Dec 2, 2009 at 6:19 PM UTC
Chatter
she. what are u listening to?
me. melancholy song writers broken love tunes
she. ugh. why?
me. wanted to see how deep into the bed
I could sink,
till you came a looking to
play with me, my spirits to raise,
a game of capture the flag
indoors
--—————
Aural vs. Oral
her night dress rides up,
I awake to an undressed
waist and thigh,
take advantage of the pomp
& circumstance,
cause i believe
whole heartedly in
waiste not, want more
as tongue performs its
repertoire of magic tricks,
i.e. reciting poems,
to the standard whelps
and yelps of “oh its just you,”
keep hearing little tiny whispers
but not those accustomed
sweet nothings?
turns out she is
listening to her book,
quite the mesmerizer,
on her new cordless earbuds
which are tablecloth covered
by her blondini tresses
upset?
nah. applauded her
multimedia tasking,
but took it as a challenge,
my efforts redoubled
she didn't seem to mind
now she wakes me up to show me,
Surprise!
her cordless earbuds, in place
sigh.
--——————-
Ordering Coffee
weekends, get coffee in bed
in my 19 oz. porcelain
cup from Toronto,
standing order is:
fill it to the rim,
extra cream
she says.
isn't ironic!
that is exactly
what I
charge for my coffee
payable in advance
Oct 7, 2017
Oct 7, 2017 at 11:08 AM UTC
she was a peregrine
& appeared to me
shimmering in the
primordial morning
between purgatory & hell
talons like a crucial valve-handle
carrying me outside the gaudy dream
my heart's vagrancy
the latent tendency i had
of putting chemicals into my body
despite the ugly consequences
one man's poison
another man's high
now sunlight fractures into spectra
wind blows thru century-old oaks
becomes tangled in my
nipple-length blond hair
as we march hand-in-hand thru
these narrow streets
the pinched labyrinth
the last dusk light
this swamp
she was a peregrine
the hungarian turul
genteel brown eyes watching me
howl at the midnight moon
& yip like a fox at the first dawn light
now she shares her own
breathy yelps with the pillow
like fumes of lavender
sprayed in a strand of oaks
i know for a fact she has claws
she swore she'd never use them to hurt me
but sometimes i let her anyway
i need to feel those
dead fingernails buried
in my living shoulder-blades
propelling me into a new kind of manhood
redeeming my weaknesses
weaseling into my shorts
pains & insecurities
melting like cloud's spit down the windowpane
lazy & safe on a warm sunday
morning wrapped together in the skin
of this gyrating palace
this is no longer casual desire:
joni mitchell sound-tracked
our first makeout sesh
as stars bloomed fat
behind a surly multitude of clouds
over a tar-colored lake
so if you think i'm ever letting her go
you're a *******
pants-on-fire
Aug 21, 2016
Aug 21, 2016 at 3:48 PM UTC
My toes
Are frozen
From the harsh
November chill
Cheeks flushed and
I had to hold back
Panting
Breaths
And
SCREAMS
In the darkness of the woods
Yellow beam of the
Flashlight
My lantern and
Faint clicking of
Dog's tags and
Leaf crunching
My guide.
Crunch
Crunch
Crunch
Go the fallen leaves
And what if
I die out here
Or get
Lost
Huddling in the darkness
As the
Beam
Fades
Oh God
The sounds
And what if
What
What
Was
That
A bobbing shadow on a tree trunk
No more, no less
It's the flashlight
Distorted images
I don't
KNOW
But I know I need to get home
With
Or
Without
The stupid
BEAGLE
With the injured
Shoulder
So hurt
He yelps
If you look at it
I don't know
That I
Can trust
Him out there
In that dark night
But I can't
Trust myself
Not to
Panic
Nov 13, 2013
Nov 13, 2013 at 1:38 AM UTC
arms spread way out,
head down, head up--the line toed.
tearing screams and yelps...
bloodied moon and dry land,
the fine lines of this phenomenal
world cut like clenched teeth.
chanting pregnant clouds.
tongue's ties to thirst, opening land and
pounding drum...creature crawl
of delirium.
birds of prey drawing large blue
eyes that will not blink when their
talons seize.
rain the dance, dance the rain...down,
down, down!
i had such visions of water girl, now i
want to drink your mouth.
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 1:25 PM UTC
Those greasy, slimy, whickered faces. The raunchy day old grubby look. Face of a torn up werewolf and body of a useless human. The filthy high stench of pickle and sour croute odor rising, the dreadful slump walks of the unloving creatures. The way they look puts chills on your bones that crawl up to the center of your brain. That one eyed loose tooth taunt that stares at you every night is a sin. The gruesome body that makes a horror in a child’s eye is evil. With the stained, tattered, grump and lump, deep dished in sewer and horrifying clothes that aged rapidly, theres no way you’ll live a week or so. Their screeching scary moan that’s deadful to any. Its mind and body yelps for the organs of a live one. Cold and empty; the once lived corpse that haunts and attacks like no other. No way in mind it can tell you’re there, but it can sense your frightful fear. It rises from its ground to seek out flesh. Be aware, awakened, cautious, wise, and high up from the ground onto your precious feet. These kinds of reckless thieves can steal any living soul without a care. It’s there to do its time. It’s a zombie.
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 6:44 PM UTC
Little whimpers escape your lips as your fingers reach toward the moon
Your wrists are gripped and forced against brick
Breaths coming and going quickly
Yelps from your throat leave you raw
Teeth in your neck leave you rigid
Aching, eyes drooping
Cold and heavy
You drop
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 11:20 AM UTC
*And it's not a cry that you hear at night
It's not somebody who's seen the light
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah*
a cry you hear at night (my nighttime vocabulary), the same repertoire as the daytime residents, yelps and screeches, groans and screams, bleating whelps and yelps, grunts and curdling silent low moans and pierced wails, crues du cœur, (cries from the heart) but at night when these orchestral sounds are released without modification, freed from the governor of self-consciousness, the embarrassment of waking mirrored witnesses, atonalities as raw as a violin string snapping, the terrible sounds, twice as harsh as the scrape roughened roaring sound of the hoarse word, raw, when spoken out loud but I count them all as friends, these then my nighttime vocabulary companions.
each deed, each sin, committed, lifelong repetition, dances in a chorus line, across my eyelashes, each demanding my punishment with a different matching sound; the reciprocal noises of the lives I shed, the lives I've taken, the forsaken forsakings, the blatant ones done with no excuse, no pretend rationale, these are my very own
songs of the night, conductor, musician, audience, one for all,
all for me, my torment of endless and relentless unforgiving sonality
Oct 5, 2017
Oct 5, 2017 at 2:27 PM UTC
clean in the filth where the spectre yelps and bleeds
my wrists; bound to betray my hand -
i gather gods, too weak to be
unloved completely -
without vanishing
into blue
what?
spotless in the hell of my blot
in the chambers of my open wound...
i glue glaciers to the sun's heel
and mark time
with shadows -
i cast into other moons
for lack of a reason
to do otherwise.
in a world
so otherworldly
to love me less
than snails
in clarified
butter
is to play god.
but
you have to be
God's Fool
or the Devil's
yes-man
saying no.
you remark and i flinch in the breeze fantastic.
i blast past it, and return; not unscathed
but ungathered
in the Harvest of our
Misadventures.
I'm an indentured surgeon
cleaving the cancer
from the polyp
of our necessary
illusion.
in this Ocean
I'm not waving...
only drowning
in the wishful.
i barricade tsunamis
to tide-pool
the fathoms of our
fumes.
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 3:51 PM UTC
You tell me one thing one day
and another thing the next.
What takes the cake is
you turn around and wonder
why is it that I'm perplexed.
Even the ugly has its place,
what is ugly to one
is beautiful to another,
that is , once you get past the face.
A silent psalm does surround
a starry angles glow,
wiping the tears of fears. Stand tall when you can.
And see that it is you that has you bound.
While here, in the mechanics of the mind,
as it matters. Some of us just aren't
mechanically inclined.
So while many move forward, hordes are left behind.
A Book talks about this big war of Spirit,
and its stress is that it is no game.
No politics physical or not can steer it,
there will be no passing the buck, no pointing the finger in blame.
No longer am I walking with my head in the stars,
my feet are flat, right on the ground.
I put my ear to the track and hear
that heavy chunk of metal, with its painful mournful sound.
I can say that there are other planes,
yes, I can think that if I please,
though every breath that I breathe,
I'd rather announce to my world that I'm just not out to feed.
Like it has a pain or purpose that arose out of some need
of something that just had to be said.
That sleeping dog that you kicked only had a snack of grass
before he laid down to take his bed.
You had been nudging him with your boot and now
he is awake and he yelps and then vomits on your shoes
before he commences to growl.. and that godawful Hell will be back,
and it's going to extract One Blood Curdling Howl!
The Universe is saying in no so uncertain terms
That I had better hold back, that I had better take heed.
It isn't just me that gets cut,
no it isn't, no, all others bleed.
All those ****** good loving deeds
that hath spawned better life that I don't know about.
On the other shoe, all those hurtful, hostile things,
those things that gave Hell for many to carry... hell for many to tell.
Never is it one cause, one reaction,
and oh, my thoughts and actions,
and the shame that comes,
coming in fractions of degrees.
Then, a breeze broke the solid heat
and quelled the sweat and quenched the thirst.
You can toast the twisted souls
or you can have them cursed.
Oct 31, 2014
Oct 31, 2014 at 9:23 AM UTC
POEM 42
*Kokopelli blows his flute
and the wind chases coyote’s tail
around the moon
tickling him into yelps
and leaps
and other hilarious displays.
From high on Chaco Mesa
the Trickster’s music is heard;
from Chinle
to Yah-Ta-Hey and
all the way to Four Corners.
It is the Hopi Yei
making fun of those
who have lost their balance
in the world today.*
Aztec Warrior 9.6.15
youtu.be/XPd9be8R5bA
youtu.be/ID-hZ3pVx7w
*(Note: first song is called ‘Yeha Noha’ and means “Wishes of Happiness and Prosperity’second song is called ‘Ly-O-Lay-Ale Loya, “The Counterclock Wise Circle Dance”
May you find your balance)*
Sep 5, 2015
Sep 5, 2015 at 8:18 PM UTC
The more you seek the more you know
Whether it be in an upstate penthouse
Or a lavender tree surrounded bungalow
The mind, an unfathomable garden of planted scriptures, undefined.
The heart yelps, the voices blow
Initiative galore of intriguing canvases follow
One does not see, one does not hear
But sense is beyond the limits of sorrow
I would like to see, I would like to hear
Albeit constant delusions of fear
Created to seek what's beyond the border
I rest in assurance, one day the tendency of denial won't wander
Aug 19, 2017
Aug 19, 2017 at 11:57 AM UTC