generic minds listen to generic music
have generic thoughts that are unknowingly abusive
watch generic things talk about generic things
gee this generic *****is spreading like a disease
better get your flu shot
thats what they said to me
a suicidal vaccine
a subliminal killing spree
its contagious and the outrageous
thing about it is that the people are blind in an eye
that they didn't even know they had
it's sickening to watch these clueless civilians
inside the looking glass
with nightmares of being free
without a key to their mind
for it is trapped in the frequency
in the illusion of time
bathed in our universe
killing all that refuse to see
those that admit to hypocracy
or see the message in hip hop
how cant you see
the message in the lyrics that
bring adolescents to their knees
from bullet wounds conflicting their flesh
contradicting that they're the best
but the songs keep telling them that they dont need no rest
that they dont wanna go home
that they should ride alone
with the gat as their only companion
and so the only path they choose is the one that they're told
until they grow old and hope turns to a window pane
inside a window pane, until all they feel is pain
they realize that the music itself is ashamed
so whats to look up to
when you cant even speak when you cant even walk because you look so bleak
your eyes are sunken from the tv you're infested with the dee zees
now its too late to turn around and live for your conscious
so when youre screaming oh please
close your eyes and bring your mind to life
open your eyes for the first time
and never wonder why
since the answer this entire time
has been inside
and you better find it before you die
you dont want your soul to be in a pool with all the others
a buncha brothers missing their mothers
but only seeing strangers
only feeling the haters
wishing they would have used their minds when they had them
and now its too late,
now it's time for another new born fate to grab them
A void of Facebook
Creativity dies here...
Beauty of nature
Why condense it down to God?
Isn’t life enough?
There was a young poet named Ben
Whose poetry never did win,
Then his talent, I’m told,
Began to take hold,
Now Ben’s awards never end.
Written By John Posey
I stand solo, aloof in the snow, a precipitation
of words cascading from a nebulous eye
Fathoms wide, forever dripping like wax onto
a punctured paper serving a Sanskrit sky,
and spreading into sibilant sentences swiftly
sliding from syllable sorcery to soulful serenades
so silent in the shunting shout of white. Poetry
fills a churning void where novels cannot wade,
Phrases solidifying into idolisation of emotion
itself, isolation of the isometric individuality that so
Crushes my keeling cavern of thought, ever
careering from caustic career path to another new low,
Which so seems to crumble into crazy paving’s
counterpart. In this first freeze-frame we can all grasp
A fraction of the familiar, oh so fractured by the
fumbling nature of enforced form. Freed by the gasp
Of a photo-opportunity glowing phosphorescent
with firsts, I am no longer framed by the festering
Constraints of non-fiction, and folding my fond
farewells carefully, I hesitantly face a vision pestering
Me, fearing the fiend that would open maw and
gnaw beneath my feet, evoking an avalanche of the
Vernacular, but I am further past this unfed
existence now, loosened from the fickle friendship of a
Winter thaw. Focus not your gaze on the grinding
gauze of the greats, for the pressing pestilence of
Perishable poetry is elsewhere pondering its parallels
in posturing and post-modern pining for forlorn love.
Praise no other; I am poetry.
of all metals to win the clay:
My constant reader, you are my only muse for clear views;
I`m happy to amuse,
But sad enough, if inspired clerihews
Have no other use.
Stop writing haikus
They don’t even make sense now
Something something cake
What is it to see the soil of home again?
A welcome, snow-struck and a return
To cold; sharp white contrasts sunburn.
We converse in broken tongues to men
We know, hooked on holiday language
Comprised of wandering hand signs.
Collect the car and pay parking fines,
Drive through towns and over a bridge
Until we reach the Western gateway.
Oh when will we arrive at our house?
No camels there, only field mouse
Which are eaten by our cat anyway.
The plane flies for an age, slyly yawning
Through the stretching, pealing sky,
A knife through air; what it is to fly.
Our travels over; a new day is dawning.
To Dine, To Die;
While thunderous eyes
Grasp concepts to recycle.
Constant debt crisis
A political paradox
Grating social devices
Over the sorting of socks.
An endless groan
The debate grants no throne.
Over a roast
Potatoes won't listen
To who talks the most.
"That point is so interesting"
The floor is open for chat
"What is real?" not a thing
"Meow" adds the cat.
A light will fall on me,
This will make me shine like the sun.
All dreams of mine will meet their ends,
I will get one what I have dreamt of.
Now I am very close to success,
As dream is needed first before we act for those.
I have dreamt it, that what I want.
Action is the next step that I have to take.
My patients will support me through all pains,
My dreams will give me courage to struggle all fails.
I should keep on trying the same,
Unless I get the one that I need to fame.
This or that, but it was only the way I thought about,
The success and way of living.
But believe me, now;
As my mom explained me the real success,
And she gave mystery of getting it.
I should not kill the peace in me for my own sake,
Otherwise; humanity will die which rest in me.
In being man of value rather than of success,
And, my success resides in keeping myself kind and considerate to others.
BE KIND, BE HUMANE, BE CONSIDERATE – THEY ARE REAL SUCCESS OF HAVING PART OF THIS WORLD
(Written this poem when inspired by my mother, love you mamma for making me a valuable person.)
I do not know?
I'm lost, in empty hallways, with no way to go,
I'm endangered, and my legacy lives through the way that I flow,
But I'm not intimidated, the more you tell me to stop, the faster I'll go,
My heart has frozen over, so no emotion is what I'll show
If the streets were as deep as the ocean, then I would drown in disgrace,
My words, are the Titanic, breaking the structure, of my paper and drowning my sorrow away,
I'm not dreaming, I'm succeeding, because reality is fake,
And the future is getting closer, I taste of it everyday
I live for the feeling, that I get when I got my hand on a pen,
And all the pent up thoughts, are released when I leak the ink that's within,
But through all the rythm and the beats, that I hear all the time,
Nothing beats the feeling when I expose through a ryhme
So I'm gonna put together syllables until my brain goes dead,
Or until I'm riding in a hearse because of the things I said,
I'm gonna climb this mountain, nothing can make me stop,
because the reality of it is, my resting place is at the top
That verse still lives.
We forgot His Words
Aren`t we the real verses ?
I used to harbor lofty dreams
Of winning wealth and fame.
I vainly dreamed about a time
When the world would know my name.
But time and those rejection slips
Have tempered my wild dreams.
The ceaseless grind of passing years
Has mellowed me, it seems.
So now I breathe, create, and write
Simply because I must.
No longer do I crave those things
For which I used to lust.
The rhythm of these words
I am praying
When I say it
You will play it
Over & over
Until you learn it
& not fear it
When you hear it
It will appear as
If you understand the meaning
That's behind it
But your blinded
Of the lyrical content
In which I comment
This is my system
Not a victim
When I'm on the throne
& in the zone
You can't condone
How I feel
You cannot seal
This is real
So am I
This is my high
In my poems I tell no lie
This here is my waiver
I'm just doing you all a favor
Here's my substance
You can trust this
This is my Poetic Justice