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Anger InsideWhat do I feel?
What do I see?
Deep in my heart,
All around me.
Why can I not
I cannot escape,
I cannot flee
The anger I feel,
All that I feel,
Making me bleed.
I cannot turn
Away from the storm.
I only know
What ways I am torn.
The anger inside,
All that I feel,
All that I see.
Why can't I feel?
Why can I see
Escape from the rage
That keeps numbing me?
Justification of StasisWho can tear themselves away
From nature's bright majesties?
The pharaohs still rest in their
Pyramid tombs, and your face
Is fairer than all of theirs
Together. How may I leave?
We speak of fortitude and
China's Great wall together,
But does your grace not longer
Endure than any stone or
Brick man may lay? I think thus:
Your greatness, so great, is to
Be assumed to endure for
All time. Wonder: the wall stands.
Men and women, boys and girls
Flock to Niagara, as if
The falling water were as
Splendid as your beauty.
How then may I ever
Be able to leave your side?
Decision of OccupationWhat
Devote my time
To, that I might
Spend my time well and
Profitably? What is worth
Effort and energy?
The ComersAges they stood
In their riverside village,
Frolicking and playing
With the beasts around them,
Touching the water on occasion,
Using it more often.
A great world they built
And all the world around them.
But didn't truly
Of the Comers.
The Comers were
Called many a thing:
The eldest preferred
Of the names to call
One fair noon,
The Comers came
One on a beast of steel,
The other on a lesser beast,
Of the forms of the villagers,
But not quite of their forms.
The villagers warned
When they heard the beasts,
But stood still for fright
When they passed by.
The Comer on
The lesser beast
To the elders,
Who had seen him
And another, quite often
Over many decades.
He often came, strong,
To take their kin away.
The lesser Comer
On the greater beast
Was new to all.
On his face
To many's awe.
With another machine
War PoolYou enter my domain,
Entered my being itself,
And now complain
Of my presence.
I will invade
Even the places I do not desire.
Your pockets of dry security
Will be mine,
As will your vital passages.
I will drive you away,
Until you decide
To do battle once more.
Just know what you've done:
You've declared war.
Discourse After a StormHow many jagged things
Rise above the vertical
Beast and bird
To gravity's new
I have weathered a distaster of the
And yet those
Dare to sing to
ComfortI note a sharp contrast
Between feelings expected and fulfilled.
The wreckage is before me,
The life of trees
And the strength of stone
Lay fitifully before my eyes,
I feel no remorse;
And fly, not about to die,
And life must continue on
Even for those
Encore?At last his terrible orchestra
Move to play elsewhere
And yet his bright sparkss
And great notes remain
In our heart a time
Longer. Will he return?
Change this lifeHiding in the shadows
Resisting in secrecy
Trying to find a way
To change this life of misery
The future is unknown
The past is to forget
The present is dull and boring
Is this what life has to offer?
I want to change
And I keep trying
Only to fail miserabily
Every single time
eight ways you've made me small1. I wish
this was for you.
2. my journal pages - the
brown one with all our monologues -
were jarred with hollow vows of
last poems of
letting you slip into a coma
of bad memories, watching you
fall to your death off
a cascading cliff of disease
and dis ease.
it was never
easy for me
3. there's a reason I ask
whether you're grey
(dark white, elusively black, in between)
or blue (behind the clouds, under wave-foam,
whateverthefuck runs through the back of my
palms); I'd rather have
than the arms
that once held you half-
heartedly. you had always been
my harmony and I
would have killed
to have been yours.
4. it could never have been just me, the way
it could never have been just
5. disasters are not beautiful,
but how is it that you
managed to make my inner linings
converge into bows
and explode into wings the very
night you decided to rebuild your walls
to a lower height?
6. I wish
on bradbury and table dancingYou are not a wordsmith
whatever you might like to think. ('Smith'
indicates precision and coldness and fire:
words are softer than that unless you mold them strong.)
It's a difficult road to follow, and not many
make it past the fork. Choose a path,
Janus says, whirligig keys spinning on his shoulders:
I am a wordworker, with my tools too crude, forming
rough-edged carvings painted with pretty imagery.
Notebooks scattered across the landscape
of a child's room, to be stumbled across,
read, red-penned, in the thick and choking breath of night.
When the bough breaks
a hanged man laughs. He carries typewriters
in his pockets, and cigarettes in the soles of his shoes.
I will never be a word mistress,
whoring myself to the speech of people I do not know and will never know me.
The oven is set to Fahrenheit 452, but the words were already aflame
before they ever took shape under your tongue.
You love everything they've ever written, and carry
unabashed loathing for every syllabl
Whenever I hurt myselfI have a feeling
Someone is watching
So I look around
But there's no one to be found
when i stimulated the prayers of rib-beat
when i licked the temple of my teeth,
speed pushed my fingers shaped like confessionals
clasped holy, carved my throat to fixing-
lover; i did this for the anthem of your eyes,
the feel of strangled feet crushing the fame of stars
for the glow of streetlight worship, for the moons
of your crooning throat, for the halls of your arms,
the strayed revels of your arms,
lover: you manufactured a god out of the drugs i used
and had me addicted to the divine, to the dignity of music
you pressed in my direction: just what i am, hallelujah,
marijuana, day and night-
lover, i fell in love with your culture
that preached the real definition of dusked kneecaps,
the plea of closeted throats, the whisper of bless,
unlearning how to say please god in borrowed tongue,
i fell in love with your attention, with nervous grace
lover. i levied the rubble of my sins
ExpirationWith you I always feel like I’m
to break in the wrong size of shoes.
Sometimes I sit and stew
over how you’re seventeen and
you think I’m a princess
the trapped-in-a-tower kind
and how you wear suits and talk about politics
and think you know the world.
My throat interrupts with an affronted gurgling sound
sometimes when I think about you,
you deal out advice where it just isn’t called for
you quote science-fiction to justify war
and you’re seventeen years old and you think I’m a princess
and you just have no blooming idea.
Darling, one of these days I will tell you my mind
But until then we’ll never fit
I’m afraid –
that even after that day
you’ll still be trimmed hedges and
Even The City KnowsIs it at all easy?
Being by yourself, I mean.
Sitting in a car, on a train, on a bus--wherever you might be now, isn't it hard to be a drifter?
There are no men with newspapers, no women with strollers, no love-crazy teenagers, no annoying toddlers, no anybody.
You stare out the window, like there are people out there, calling your name. The trees are out there, and they've lost all their leaves, all their buds--they've lost everything, just like you.
The sky is out there, and it's gray and colorless, just like you.
The stars are out there, and they're so blown-out-of-proportion, and they're just like you, too.
But the trees, the skies, the stars, they're used to being left alone.
You lack the ebullience of your drink, but it, too, is fading.
Frost has gathered on windows, on the ground, on rivers, everywhere.
Frost comes and goes, just like you, when you finally melt away.
The city draws to darkness and quiet--it disappears, just like you.
But, even frost
Death to the LoversHe screamed,
He tore his hair from his scalp;
But it didn't bring her back.
The beautiful girl
With the gorgeous smile
And witty remarks
Would always lay six feet under.
She would lie in her death bed,
Her arms folded on her chest
And her face full of peace
Known only to the dead.
He would be the first to rot.
First his health,
Then his sanity.
She would forever feed on his emotions
Like a pretty little leech,
Sapping his well being
And happiness from her underground world.
And he would let her,
For a fool like him
Who allowed himself to love,
The Pubescent JokeGirl with the long black hair,
Will you ever know I care?
Youre never to be touched or held.
How can I with your heart meld?
Girl with unending smile,
Would you stay with me a while?
Of course, you never look my way,
And I cannot make you stay.
Girl with the wit so bold,
Oh what power oer me you hold.
But you say we both are kid,
And my affection thus stays hid.
Girl with beautiful voice,
How I wish I were your choice.
But your words are to my dismay,
Whenever that I look your way.
Girl with heart of gold,
No one else makes me so bold.
Alas, when we work together,
My wit seems weak, as a feather.
Girl with the long black hair,
Girl with unending smile,
Girl with wit so bold,
Girl with beautiful voice,
Girl with heart of gold,
These girls are not one,
So it seems to me,
That love is no fun
Vanguard, Chapter 1: DuncanDuncan's Journal: Day 1288
I consider myself a good man. I respect women, elders, my equals, and the dead. I say a morning prayer, and an evening one. Hell, I even thank the gods for a meal, instead of immediately chowing down in the voracious manner as the other soldiers here do. By all logical means, I should be in paradise. No really, not just because I'm a good man, but also because I should be dead by now. So I ask myself: why, oh gods up there, have I ended up in hell?
1288 days. 1288 days of my life have been spent in this misery, and I'm beginning to lose faith in the glory I was promised. Some of the rookies still live in their ignorant bliss, but I've lived long enough to realize that there's not much glory to find here. “Sing the songs of glory and march into battle—-join The Crusade today!”. Such were the words of the posters The Crusade has spread all over The Mortal Realm. Gullible fools practically stand in line for these songs of glory that th
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