The Love of a Writer
If you are seeking it, do not pray for love, Pray for the love of a writer. A musician may compose you a song, Something trite, with terrible rhyme. A painter may paint your portrait, Something that will fade over time. But a writer’s words, they’re immortal, They’ll echo throughout memory. And the sweetest words you’ll see about you, Will be known throughout...
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Wake up to the day, That you would prefer to face, Under the covers.
On People and Thinking
People don’t think these days. They really don’t look inward and think “how do I feel about this,” they just let someone else tell them. I fear robots will become self-aware long before we do.
Haiku of Enlightenment
When you are Awake, You expect to find a friend, Not an enemy.
Sinfully Salicious Sentiment
Smile you sublime thing, It brightens up the world. Let me lose myself in your eyes, In your hair, so whipped and whirled. You feel a gentle caress, Of my hand on your thigh. Don’t struggle, don’t fight the feeling, And your own nature, deny. Unveil yourself, don’t be afraid, Reveal yourself to the night sky, And let me see your divine grace, Let me know how lucky am I. ...
A Mocking Little Monkey Once Sang This To Me
It seems to me, The fool to be, Is one that’s so despised. For in his doubt, He has no clout, And suspicions still arise. The secret supposed, Now traveled and goes, Affection shines like peridot. But still he tries, And for that he cries, A broken hearted idiot.
Little Imps In My Brain
Like an old, decrepit house, My brain is plagued with an infestation. By tiny little imps. They love to meddle in my affairs, And whisper worries to me. My misery is a joy of theirs, My humiliation, they love to see. The trouble is, I listen to them, I have to, they’re in my head. They wreck my mind with their mayhem, They’d prefer it if I were dead. When other’s are around,...
She cleaved me in two, With her steel cutting mind, Left me a wreck for a bit. She cut me so deep, She left a gash on my soul. And frankly, I loved it in a way.
I call upon the incoming storm, To break my bones and me reforge. I call upon the turbulent tide, To wash over and cleanse my mind. I call upon the majestic mountain, To remember me to those who’ve forgotten. I call upon the raging wildfire, To help me claim what I desire. I call upon the nature of soul, To give of my self, full control.
A Storm Is Brewing
The wind is a mighty force, One capable of withering the mightiest mountain, But when one is merely is a zephyr, One can barely move a kite. But a bit of darkness, Can cause anything to to become turbulent. And pressure and power begin to build. And bolsters the spirit, making it anew. With a minor taint in mind, One rises up, reborn, Watch out those who have crossed me, Because a devastating...
The most terrifying thing a person can do is...
And because I have nowhere else to go, I constantly reside there. I am braver than most in this way.
Song of the Forlorn Wind
My god has forsaken me, I’m forced to live a shadow’s life. And a sad song floats upon the wind, And misfortune is purely rife. Ink, has stained me head to toe, Trying, to write a better world, Rain falls, and destroys all I have done, Ink bleeds on the warped wood, so curled. A cry, goes out, carried by the wind, A desperate plea, to only be heard, And it’s always mistook...
The Much Fought About Box
I’m quite proud of the metaphors and symbolism here. I hope you all catch on. A mysterious man in mysterious clothes awoke from his bed in a countryside inn due to the sound of squabbling coming from outside. He normally wasn’t the type to inject himself into other people’s petty arguments, but when they interrupted his sleeping habits, well, that is a call for intervention. He...
Temporary Template of Desire
I’ve long since accepted, That there will never be a me or you, But I’m stuck in a situation, And I don’t know what to do. For you I used to hold, Such a terribly large affection. But thanks to time and reason, I’m now over that mental infection. But I have no one else in my life, No new influx of people, With no one else to occupy my mind, My thoughts may soon turn...
No Love For Poets
Today I unfortunately woke up, In a world with no love for poets. No time for weavers of heart and soul, But plenty for the pundits. We try and survive on scraps, These days all we’re given. We try to become stronger from it all, But from starvation you can hardly strengthen. We’ll write, we’ll craft, we’ try to go on, Hands shaking, but thoroughly inked, If this...
There was a smell of hot metal in the air as the the clank of small parts echoed all over the ramshackle house. The dwelling, made of old scrap pieces of metal, was like an oven in the constant glow of the sun, and the dirty orange light that shone through small holes that littered the patchwork shack was more of a nuisance than a blessing. A dirty thermometer hung in the corner above a pile of...
Roses are roses, And sweet things are sweet. Our love is like the two of us being in love. And this poem of mine, Is a lot like when I write poems.
Another day without sun, Makes you beg for one, Who can hope to understand you. There’s only a forelorn cry, It’s like you’ve been bled, With how many times you’ve said, “Who would want me, And who would even care? Who would want me, When I have so much pain?” There’s a small break in the clouds, With lingering doubt, There’s a storm to let out. ...
Whilst sitting at my computer today, An odd thing happened to me. I was accosted by a person, But that wasn’t the sight to see. The person that attacked me, Was a future version of myself. And it’s indeed quite a sensation, To be struck by oneself. He strode through the door, And punched me square in the face. Muttered “Wanker,” under his breath, And left in a poof of...
Do You Get The Metaphor?
The tides of desire, Have nowhere to go, They’re slowly, painfully building up. And there’s no one willing to work the controls, No one willing to open the floodgates, For fear of getting their feet wet. And while they prance about in their dry shoes, The retaining walls are beginning to crack, And soon will cause a major catastrophe.
Stare at your hand, And keep at it for a long time, Watch your flesh begin to peel away. Will your mind begin to rend, As you become more and more skeletal, And find yourself sleeping in bloodied crypt? Don’t be afraid to lose your mind, In the architecture of someone’s insanity, Because odds are, you’re boring enough to need it. And when a little crazy, Could be an...
“Are you sure you want to do this?” “Yes, I’m sure.” “But alone?” “Honey, he’s not a mental patient, he’s my friend. Nothing bad is going to happen.” “He hasn’t left his home in weeks. God only knows what he’s doing in there.” Richard turned to look at his his wife, Kara, “Look, I’ve known...
Juice Flavored Beverage Cocktail
I woke up this morning, With the most insatiable thirst. I wanted a tall cold glass, Of the juice from a ripe pommegranite, So sweet, yet tart, So fufiling, To every fiber of my being. I rushed to my refrigerator, One the size of the planet, And looked inside. I suppose to a parched man, Kool-Aid is just as satisfying.
The Picture of Dorian Gray
So while sick, I was too unwell to write any, so I had an effort to at least pick up on my reading. I wanted a classic, and I’m an Oscar Wilde fan, so I started reading The Picture of Dorian Gray. I have to say, I love it. Merely one chapter in and I found a passage that rang so true, I feel I must share it with you fine folks. “‘He likes me,’ he answered after a pause; ...
The Gifts of The Arts
This was intended to be the grand finale of my national poetry month challenge. Illness incapacitated me, so I am posting it now. An oh so long time ago, It was decided by The Arts, To impart a certain select few, With gifts to touch our hearts. To some the gift of The Brush, To shape to the visual eye, Be it with paint, ink, or graphite dust, From portrait to surrealist sky. To some the gift...