NothingEverything is so messed updon't ask me, I don't want to talk.Nothing has ever been less rightbut I won't cry, I just want to write.
This Poem is Extremely LongThis is the introSo read this firstI hope it will quenchYour poetry thirstLet me point this outFirst of allWe are artistsSo stand up tallThis is the partWhere the poem beginsBut this is just the startYou should see how it endsIn a world filledWith fame and mediocrityWe are the true starsWith talent and creativityUnlike those celebritiesThey think they’re big and bossBut we all know they’re bumpkinsNothing more than social flossYou call this shit art?Miley Cyrus shaking her assI don’t think it’s classified as talentIt sure as hell doesn’t have classHow about its impactOn today’s generation?You getting bored of this poem?Then I’ll switch to personificationWhat the fluffDoes a wrecking ball symbolise?Does it dangle over our heads and fallBefore we look up and realiseAnd gasp in shock and surpriseThat this 99999 pound ballOf useless informationIs about to crush our nogginsAnd we’re supposed to show fascinat
Empty NestSilent as the bird-less treeBranches borne their capsid fawnA wind take themBlanket for the generationTo be set so unprepared uponShawls to face the blizzard's hemWith the quiet of the winged freeHoly by a timeless justThe valour pressed between the stonesAnd shattered fairChanged without a pauseOf growing flesh and bonesExtend a now poorly fitted wearLike down to the winter lustFabric in a feathered leafMultiplied by coming daysWhen helicopters still their beatsAnd eagle eyes denote a nestSew a tuque every which wayA breathing wool as soft as bleatsFrom cooing babes new to the reefCrossbar hold the sway of darkGround take precedenceCradled on the crook of tuneHeard through the sheets of paper greensSpawning germs have time to senseA wind and how to open woundThe myriad will leave its markElements beneath the trunkVariety hath wormed to frontBut strive the will notTo imprint what is now for alwaysA striding race still has the jauntFrom icicles to bliste
*Choral Practice*Stirring rendition in windHarmonized voices singChoral practice taking placeChoir achieved state of grace.Voices soar and surroundNo constraints they're not boundPerfectly magical healing powerMusical reflection, melodious hour.Delice194121.11.14
Neglected. Final Warning.Wow, you stand there.Expectant and powerful.Waiting for me to fall to my knees and kiss your feet.But I am not.I am not going to be neglected kissing your palm, while you barely glance at mine!No! I shall not become your debt collector. Never.
Pain.Is it odd that the title judges the piece?With one simple word, a whole piece can be destroyed.With one simple meaning, a piece can be praised.What about those that are hiding millions of meanings?Are they worshipped and held highly?Or just thrown aside as a headache?What is truly the meaning of a title?To summarize the content?What the dictionary says it is?A thought?Something deep?Or another part of the piece?Pain.The title.Why is it there?What is its meaning?Is this going to be another We are all sick?Or does it have no significance?To answer all these questions though..We will need to look at my mind.We will have to find out who I am.What I live for.Who I live for..Or I can just say what the meaning of this poem is.But where is the fun in that?
Garden SlakedSkirted crux still tyrant loomA wash to cleanse the earthen peatCling deadened neat as twining doomDancing rose in gallows hangA fealty prayed with whisperingAnd sing come severed tolling rangRocky shoal conspired to daleA task impartial of its barsTo let its mars cascade to paleFingers in a holding stanceThe text invite a deceased mindTo share the kind of dying chanceDress in sequence has no threadsAnd blended ties sway with the linesAs does the fine and roughened bledSombre on the bruising cheeksFlush see its waters cast awayTo ending day the noose will seekA flower floating on a tideHave weakness for its will to leaveBelieve it made its choice to dieCrown gone weightless burden passedAnd rule and regulations giveThe ceaseless last to let one liveWounds unhealed fresh as eyesSee existence for all its bearsAnd share the moment left behindOutside on the cusp still oneImpacted in a shifting clothEnd willing done to send one offArms fallen in flesh of ageSt
Love will writehiding in the shadowsintently out of viewnear enough to watchme and youpurest intentionscalculating timeto capture conversationperfectly by designrequiring a mere heartbeatthe smallest pause or lookwith swift pounce upon the momentLove will write its book
90 butelekDziewięćdziesiąt butelekDziewięćdziesiąt butelek stoi rzędem przy ścianie,Spadnie pierwsza i druga i kolejna już głowa,W sieci nocą splecione snem anielskim splątane,Wpadną wszystkie ludzkości wiatrem niesione słowa.I nic dalej nie będzie i zapadnie już cisza,Ostra niczym krzyk źrenic rozszerzonych do granic,Melodyjką z pudełka znów do snu ukołysze,Dziewięćdziesiąt butelek znowu stanie przy ścianie.
#2: LoveTo love you like the Moon loves the Earth,Together through Hell, those places of hurt,And to give my life away in a daze.To live for Your love, wild fire that burns,'Til the end of days when the clock stops its turns,And eternity within my sight I gaze.This love of mine, a dusty haze,This love of Yours with mine it stays.
Just another complaintI haven't understood the basis of my nature,I haven't understood the meaning of my life.I don't have an extended sight far towards my future,I'm just always feeling that I'm running out of time...