The poets wept
The drinkers drank
The stars bled
And the rest fled
What’s left here in the end
Is simply the best of the worst
The unknown dreams of the ones who didn’t care
And the ghosts of the dead
All the bridges have burned
With no hope no religion
All money and only fame
Everyone else elated on the med
Stuck in a loop of a neo revolution 9
Making sense of rubbish in gibberish
A doped up generation coddled under mother’s care
Taking in everything that they are spoon fed
It was always going to end like this
Ashen skies and blood red seas
Walking skeletons and fat pigs
Divided by cracks created in dread
The dread of what was always to come
but no one listened to what the fools said
Because the poets just wept
The drinkers just drank
The stars just bled
And the rest just fled.
I fallen in love with every book I’ve read.
I’ve fallen in love with every girl I’ve seen.
I’ll never know if I’m a good writer, I don’t think anyone ever does. I just want to write prose and have people think I wrote down words with purpose – intent. Interest in one’s self is a characteristic a writer needs to have to find importance in their writings; I’m far from interested – or interesting for that matter. I think a good prose comes from a clear mind, not excluding a drunk or drugged mind, but a clear mind in the sense of just knowing at least the next ten words you want to write before you write them. This allows you to think twenty words ahead and begin to plan for the next thirty. I’m at fifty now.
A good writer writes poems for years and switches to prose to try and prove something to himself. Or vice-versa, impossible to say. Chances are he’ll turn back to poetry (or prose), become a critic, an advertiser, a wino, a bum – whatever. He’ll write. Hopeful something might happen tomorrow.
That was fifty.
This is America, with liberty and justice for all.
I’d be happy writing if I just actually could write when I want and not just when my head is too full of words to allow for proper thought anymore and I just have to write to keep from having to carry around a bag of nouns and verbs behind me everywhere I go. Imagine if an accountant could only add numbers when he had thought of so many numbers he literally spewed abstract decimals to his friends while convulsing on his dinning room floor.
The first two lines are the best part of this piece.
I need too practice more.
I’m a long way from the road I want to be on but I’m closer than I ever have been before.
You walk alongside me day in and day out
Stout and tall like I am
Both knowing and being the darkest part of me
What would you say to me?
Would you judge me for my every action?
Tell me things I am afraid to speak of?
You would be the median to my arrogance or cowardliness at the time
The Yang to my Yin
If only you were able to speak…
The knowledge you probably possess is profound
You have great abilities, such as projecting yourself in more than one direction
Being able to stretch varying distances
Yet you only exist if I do, so I feel like a hindrance
We share the same life but you are the better half in my opinion
Maybe I envy your peaceful existence, and you deserve mine so you can live out life
At times I feel like the shadow of myself, while you were meant to be…the part of me which strong and true.
starring the beast right
in the eyes, heart pounding hard,
you’re mouth is dry, he
leaps, you let out a cry, now
another man dies
gasping for air, you
have to rest, killing the beast
is your last chance, wait
for the beast in a stance, now
it starts to advance
you’re running, you’re scared,
and you’re being followed, all
you hear are footsteps
and howls, lurking nearby, a
fucking werewolf prowls
out of the darkness,
the full moon appears, no one
around you, you can
only feel fear, deep in the
woods, death may be near