Let me write you a poem.
A poem so great Bukowski would give me a hats off-
And hand me a beer.
A poem so well-written, John Mayer would play me a
Tribute song with his guitar.
Let me bring Shakespeare to shame-
Let me write you sonnets one and two,
Three, Four and maybe
Let the only alliteration be that of our laughter,
As we exchange puns and stories.
Let the words “I love you” be an understatement.
Let us be the Paradox – and let the popcorn munching crowd watch us with awe.
Let the touching of our lips write Concrete poems.
Let your embraces warm me with Haikus.
Chase me through Couplets where we are the only couple.
Let the only Dramatic Monologue be that within my palpitating heart.
Wrap me with imagery-
Shower me with smiles and similes.
Be the Free Verse,
Be the Epic poem,
Be the Ghazal poetry drunkards wrote to their loved ones…
Be the hero in my Heroic couplets,
Be the one.
Just let me write you a poem-
Where your name is the only repeated term.
Where the only irony is the twist of fate that brought us together.
Where the only onomatopoeia is the ROAR of your rusty car’s engine.
Where we stand like Oxymorons- contradictory but side by side.
Just let me write you a poem.
Or a novel
Or a play
Or a song-
Let me write you something.
Hounds from Hell take their toll on your soul
as you walk the mainstreet of mainstream
and watch Saturn and Neptune dance to a simple tone
of silence in the outer space.
As you sit in the middle of the world
free yourself from the sense of hopelessness,
only see yourself in the mirror of deception
as your reflection laughs at you and looks right through you,
and doesn't have remorse for what it says or does to you.
Hounds from Hell take your soul,
chock you, cut of your air,
the smog and fog blind you in the city of ash.
Hear the hounds from hell howl for your soul,
go now, barracade your soul behind sins and temptation,
Alone, listening to your soul die away,
watch love go away from you, with suitcase in hand,
picture frames broken and collect dust through the sands of time.
Till the cleaning lady comes on Monday, to clean the mess
that you left behind.
You are gone, without a trace of ever returning.
Looks of the Hounds of Hell came for you and stole you from
comfort and warmth,
till the sorrowed heart cracks and pain spills out
and you look at it all spill out over the floor.
The Hounds from Hell have paid a consumable harmage to you,
and your rich soul of sorrowness burns away... slowly.
Fear darkens souls,
innocent souls burn with a new day,
a slumber that has no end
with nightmares haunting every light of hope
there is left in this desolate Wasteland.
Fear and darkness tears a hole in the darkened universe
and we all go to hell to see the Hounds,
who come for us all.
The graveyards fill,
and death guards the tombstones of the dead,
and the flowers burn away on the feet of the dead.
Well what should I write about tonight?
Should I write about what I did today?
Should I write about my shoelaces?
Should I write about doing laundry?
Or Should I write about what I'd like for breakfast tomorrow?
Maybe I should ramble about how the school day went.
Maybe I should complain about my room being dirty.
Maybe I should name off the food in my kitchen.
Or Maybe I should just talk about my hair.
I wanna talk about what I'm learning on guitar.
I wanna speak out about my inner issues.
I wanna yell a crazy rant.
I just wanna blow off some steam.
I wish I could take a bath with a girl right now.
I wish I would've finished my homework.
I wish I could shoot ice from my finger tips
I just wish I had some soda to quench my thirst.
There are so many things I could say right now!
But I just can't seem to decide.
I'd probably get some pretty weird looks
If I told you what's all bottled up inside.
I'm everywhere and nowhere in my head
Ideas and thoughts bouncing left and right.
Too bad I can't seem to think of anything.
I was really wanting to get some feelings out tonight.
Do I need to shave in the morning?
Should I go to the music store after school?
Why didn't I grab matching socks?
What does the weekend have in store?
I wish I had something to write about.
Eh, I'll think of something tomorrow night.
Sometimes I watch the rhythm of the stars
to foretell things not present yet to come
like weather men predict rain, sleet, or snow
the skies send futurity through my thoughts
Im just a man; no more...
yawning dreams of yesterday...
before yesterday occurred
I sleep with time that tease thoughts of tomorrow
a pinch of fate sometimes is all it takes
to witness how the world will wield and break
with humble breath my heart conforms puzzles I preach
believe or not I write to you a theme
that came to me while yawning dreams of yesterday
before yesterday occurred
ill animals plague man to man
the floors of earth will shake beds as they sleep
our moon will tell the sun to low the fire
a scorching heat upon the heads of most...
to top it off the waters will devour souls that weep
without an arc the mystery cuts like a knife
untamed and innocent life
Doth thou light speakth more?
free countries greed with war!
believe or not I write to you a theme
with ink purchased in 1896.
Inside a shallow space I said hello
to me, myself and I and loneliness
secluded see the day does not exist
without a social kiss
with isolation my shape forms a shadow
that darkness only see..
Hibernating inside walls I hide my hands
friends of none my life a shelf of books that bend
I speak again with silent echoes
inside of walls that hide my hands
my ears hear sounds of company
as even birds place feathers of concern atop my released roof
sincerely, Herald Hermit
A void of Facebook
Creativity dies here...
Have you ever written anything without sub combing to tears ?
My Family portrait in my mind , 2 older sisters , 2 brothers
My Mother caring about all five in different ways
Just with Mom & Dad there having the best of Holidays
My sisters laying out on the deck of river bank for 4th of July ~
Listening to " Honkey Chateau " and all by Elton John.
music a great memory ~Disco , Donna summer , Grease ~ Jaws !
Dad's records to Tony Bennett , Hank W Sr. , Count Basie & Louis Armstrong.
The music takes me home in a wagon filled with children and a dog "Lucky "
My Older brother , athletic , always fishing & hunting.
My younger , my Rock , Swimming and netting for fish,
feeding our Fat cat Perch off the rocks patiently awaits her food
the yelling , slamming of doors , tempers Flare , passion
Our Parents , passionate love yet passionate Hate .
After being a Family of Seven , Divorcing their fate ..
Why did that show " Dallas " bring out the Divorce in all ?
Scottish ~ Irish ~ French Iroquois ~ Cherokee
No matter what the mix ..Our curse Alcohol ~
the Screaming , Drinking , this memory I wish to shut the door on .
Going to A & W or making Cheerleading ,The Bears of course~
Excited in Chicago ! seeing Elton John in the Summer of 1976 ~
Cubs , museum of Wax , Museum of science & History , Pizza !
Expeditions of discovery ,little brother & I finding arrowheads on the Shore.
Our Grandparents Faithful Celebrations ! Chiffon cake , Apple strudel `
Our Cousins on Holidays , going for ice cream cones ,
scent of wet rain on oak leaves ~Before Halloween was bought in stores.
~ That is the Family I Love ,
that is the Family I choose to miss ~
As I pull weeds from cracks in sidewalks
Yout sit on top of thrones made of solid gold
And I pay no mind to the women around me,
Only to your beauty do I hold an Ode.
I see my fair Spanish lady
my daring, sweet rose with thorns,
That run up and down her spine.
As she stops in the daily parade
Waving at the peasants,
She looks at me and summons her guards
Too take me away.
Her beauty is unbearable.
I cannot take not being with her
For a single moment in my life.
Black like coal,
Her smile is bright, as the first rays of the Red Sun
In the dawn.
Her lips painted with ruby lipstick,
her silk laced dress and shawl wrap around her,
Like a beautiful butterfly in her cocoon.
Her skin of olive, dark color and her green eyes.
My God, those sweet and piercing green eyes
Oh, how they hit my soul and make me shiver with excitment.
She is intoxicating and I am intoxicated in her beauty.
She is like an angel, a Latina beauty who walks the streets paved gold,
As I walk the cracked, cobblestone walkways.
She shines in the Spanish sun, like a dimoand in the ruff
As you blow the dust off her sweet brow,
she glows and sparkles with extordinary excellence.
She is beautiful and sweet and kind.
She loves me, but her father minds.
I am only a peasant, and she royalty.
Can our love ever be together in one holy matrimony?
I pray to the Lord, of all that is good,
Please give me a sign that she loves me.
Soon a storm came over,
blowing me down to the ground
And a cloud of dust swallowed me whole.
A great Conquistador on a great white stallion
pulled me up and told me that she wanted to see me.
I shacked with nervous of joy as I followed the warrior.
She was there, under a palm tree
Near a beautiful beach in Barcelona.
She smiled and a glow covered me with passion.
I hugged her and kissed her upon her sweet lips.
I tasted virginity and she tasted loyalty.
We both tasted beauty and harmony.
As the warrior left us,
We made love upon a vigin white sheet,
Soon covered with a flowing river of red.
She moaned with exticy and love was in the air.
The Ode to my sweet Spaniad, Mi Corazon!
We lay there in each others arms
Looking up at a clear night sky
The twilight glimmered ever so softly
And a shooting star blazed across the sky
I kissed her and she kissed me.
I whispered in her, "My love forever"
And she pushed me back upon the sheets
and we made sweet and ever lasting love again.
As we looked in each other's almond colored eyes.
I said to her, in a soft voice, Mi Corazon.
Dating a beautiful redhead girl will be the greatest moment of my life. She’s like an Irish princess, even better. Her hair is so red, it’s as if she’s on fire. Her beautiful eyes are like a pair of emerald gems when I look at them. And her pale skin is as beautiful as pure, white snow. It seems to me that all attractive redheads are amazing, and most of all, they’re down to Earth. This redhead is also like a beautiful, Irish Princess, even from the Emerald Isle (Ireland). I never dated an attractive redheaded girl before, but it’s about time that I did. Plus, there are other beautiful redheads who are famous, like Kay and Danielle Panabaker, Emma Stone, Hayley Williams, Lindsay Lohan, Lily Cole, and others. Not to mention Julienne Moore, even though she’s happily married. I wouldn’t mind dating a beautiful redhead, but she has to be from the U.S. or Ireland. She’s like that redheaded warrior from Brave. She’ll be my Irish Princess one day (Irish girlfriend), and I’ll be her American prince (American beau). I say, if I were to get into a serious relationship with this attractive redhead, I won’t break her heart; I’d also be honest and truthful to her. I know that female redheads are sensitive and I also know that she doesn’t want to be brokenhearted. All I know is that if I fall in love with a redhead girl and I become infatuated with her, there’s just no telling.
From the Gardens of Babylon,
to the walkways of Palestina,
to the grand temples of Jerusalism,
to the sandy beaches of Syria and Cyprus.
Went my Persian Queen riding,
upon her golden, firery chariot.
Her black hair, like silk long and flowing.
Her royal robes white and purple, bare and pure.
Her sword by her side, ready to strike.
Her spear fastened, ready to stab the dreeded heart
of the Fire Dragon.
On the firery chariot, riding with her armies,
Went my Perisan Queen.
O, how my arimes fight your armies,
in the midst of night fall, under a full moon.
Let us stop this foolish fighting.
And have fellow brother, love fellow brother.
And so we can fall in love forever.
And don't act like you don't show love for me.
I see you in the dawns, standing upon the sand covered battlefields.
Standing proud behind your armies.
With your black hair flowing.
You almost making me want not to fight the battle of the Day,
for if you were killed, what victory would that be then?
You pull your armies back at the last minute, before I am slayed
by your fellow brother in arms.
You retreat your arimes back over the hills, not in fear of losing the day,
but in fear of losing me.
You and your armies had plenty of chances to kill me, yet you do not.
My Persian Queen, O come now.
Come down from your firery chariot
and into my restless arms.
I know you are tired
and wanting to sleep.
Listen to the nightingale
sing her love song.
Drinking the sweet necture,
from the gardens, in your vase Persian Empire.
Come now, and kiss me,
Hold me, let us ride,
far from the simple minds of the Old World
and fall in love in a New.
My Persian Queen
O how I love you so much.
I cannot bare to see you in a life you don't want to live.
Come let I, your Knight in shinning armour liberate you.
Take you by the hand, run through the great bazzare in Old Istanbul
running away from the Janissaries of your father's Imperial armies.
Let us leave this place of hate and sorrow.
To start our lives a new.
My Persian Queen,
Now dressed in silk lace,
with golden jewlery hanging
from your beautiful and tender neck.
Along with the silver pattened belt around your harmonial waist.
It is time for you, to come with me.
No more shall we act like we dispise one another.
As Romeo and Juliet's love failed,
shall our love take course, and we shall love
till the oceans swallow the earth, the mountains crumble,
and the Sun engulf the sweet Earth.
And on and on shall our love go on,
My adorable and lovely Persian Queen.
A sweet flower's funeral
displayed in the cold months
of snowy weather and bone chilling shivers.
A sweet flower burned away, dried up;
buried six feet under.
Oh, my sweet flower,
how you once bloomed with no remorse,
like a madman blooming with beauty
and a glorious halo over your head
shinned with such power and blinding glory.
Oh my sweet flower how you have gone now,
resting in peace in the land of paradise.
Oh, my heart it is weak when I see your face,
of once beautiful smiles and warm embraces.
I can hear your crying out to be free.
Snowing and bone chilling cold ripes at my soul
and feelings of sorrow rage through my blood,
boiling my hatred to the world, for losing your
sweet and ever glorious beauty.
What I would give away, if I could be with you
one last night, one last night together
to hold you in my arms, to smell your sweet perfume
that brings back sweet memories of you and I.
What I would do to be with you,
such romance travels through my heart in the highways
of my veins in my body, love is all throughout me,
and my heart breaks when pictures of you start to collect dust.
My love for you, my sweet flower,
is still ingering through the air,
as I travel and look upon a tombstone
which shows your beautiful name.
Come to me my dear flower,
when spring comes,
come to me my dear, sweet flower.
And bloom once again,
twice as large as last year,
and ten times more beautiful then last year.
Come to me in the first months of spring
in my dreams, so I could sit and talk with you.
I miss you already,
and my heart crys,
my eyes flood with tears of sorrow.
I miss our love we shared.
warm cuddling embraces
and beautiful displayed in a picture frame.
Now I hear the tapping of raindrops on my window pane.
That is all that keeps me company,
that and the rose you gave to me
and a picture of you and me.
Love is endless, even when blue eyed Death comes to visit
and play a game of chess with us,
we all play our game, my love.
I shall go tonight
in my sleepy slumber
and dream of you in the times of our height in our love for each other.
My lost love, you are gone, resting in paradise,
but never forgotten my sweet flower.
Probably not real
I slip my headphones on, and I begin dreaming,
my desk is my alter, and the Heavens is what I'm seeing.
My pen is the bridge, and this paper is the gate,
writer's block is the pad lock, the only thing in the way.
I click open my pen, and begin to release from within,
my blood runs as deep the ink, and washes away my sins.
My thoughts are the cross, and my burdens act like a wreath.
Razor sharp thorns cut me, as I'm trying to catch my breath.
My enemies are the whips, hitting me in the back,
tying me down with chains, just to get a little laugh.
My lyrics are my message, what got me here in the first place.
My mind is my shovel, digging the hole to bury my scarred face.
Then the beat stops, and I wake up from my trance,
I hit replay and try again, I only got one chance.
I'm giving it my all, but at least I'll always know one thing,
The track starts again, and I slip back into my sleep.
My pen is my gun and the paper is my enemies.
Writers block is my holding cell, and the key is my mind,
my mind is the problem, because it locks itself up all the time.
The beat is my pulse, slowing down before it drops,
then picking up the pace, while adrenaline does it's job.
My words are the bullets, penetrating your skin,
your body is still intact, but you're shattered within.
The lead is the streets, giving me countless ways to go,
the eraser gives me the ability, to never leave my home.
Every word is a stray bullet, it'll connect it won't.
My enemies are my targets, I either hit 'em or I don't.
But I'll keep shooting, until this lead goes dull,
I'm giving it my all, but at least I'll always know one thing,
Yet he lets bad things happen
How can he exist?
I'm far too busy can't you see
Too busy to write poetry
So please forgive this silly rhyme
I really do not have the time
To write an epic verse or three
I'm far too busy can't you see
So many things I have to do
And all by yesterday, it's true
Then as the day comes to a close
I collapse into a chair and doze
And if I dream more poetry
I'll place it here for you to see
Before this day comes to it's end
I'll give you some advice my friend
Use every moment that's the key
I'm far too busy can't you see?
Thanks for the inspiration - you know who you are :)
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.
The city has everything anyone can dream of: public transportation (city buses, trains/subways, and taxi cabs), theaters, parks, hotels, and restaurants; not to mention downtown apartments. All of the cities are the largest metropolitan areas that never sleep. Living in the city is like being a part of the essence of urban living. And when he or she's in the city for a concert or another event, they won't want to leave it behind; they just want to stay there. It looks like I'm not the only one who's a city person; it's everyone else, too. The U.S. has multiple cities, and so does the rest of the world (Beijing, Rome, Paris, Toronto, or wherever). No mater what city are these people from, they're all part of the urban society. To be honest, I've always wanted to reside in the city: New York City, Seattle, Washington, Atlanta, Georgia, Kansas City, Missouri, London, U.K., Los Angeles, California, or Toronto, Ontario, Canada. I see all cities with brand new buildings in the year 2065, and I also see aliens or any other life form interacting with the humans in the futuristic city, as well. If the city's ready for me and I plan on residing in one of them for a long time, that would be great.
God made all people
But some better than others?
Stop being silly.
Love cannot bloom,
love cannot go on,
love cannot persue it dreams,
love cannot be what it is meant to be,
love cannot be where it is supposed to be,
if love doesn't have two hearts.
Love needs two hearts to be true,
Like water to a dried rose
makes it bloom in spring weather
with such glory and beauty.
Love cannot be true if one heart
doesn't love the other.
Care, trust, honesty and loyalty
in love it has no boundaries,
it has no color, it has no age,
like a fine wine or an aged whiskey
it grows better with time.
But love cannot fullfill without the other half.
If a woman loves man,
let her love him,
if you love me,
than love me, but if my heart is gone
and cannot be found in such relation with you
then I must halt, till my heart comes around.
If it never does show with the first light of morning,
then it wasn't meant to be with thee.
Come now, do not shed a tear for me,
a simple heathin, who cries havoc
when something doesn't go his way.
Do not cry, do not shed your one of a kind tears
for a souless man, for a heartless man like I,
but do not blame me,
if my heart cannot be found.
Love needs two hearts,
not one or the other can survive
without each other.
Love is patient, love is kind,
but with ever lover comes another.
And we will all fall in great and deep love,
be intoxicated with each other,
and our sweet kisses that God himself would shed a tear
for such beauty that still exisits.
Love needs two hearts,
you cannot have one, without the other.
The body: sacred
We’re all made in God’s image
A single kiss from thy lovely lips,
so sweet and so divine,
yet I taste posion upon your tongue.
Your beauty so glorious,
like a blooming rose so beautiful,
yet, why do mine eyes go blind
in the sight that you walk along with another?
Yes you, walk with another,
arm under arm,
lips touching lips in romantic kisses,
it makes my blood boil,
for mine lips are dry.
For mine eyes have seen your glory,
yet no one here listens to my story.
You are evil, yes you are,
don't try to deny,
Listen to a man of experience,
you might as well save some expense.
I write of our long romantic walks
we took together, under the shade of olive trees,
how we went apple picking in autumn time,
and made love in the foyer.
Nomore of that sweet and passionate love,
nomore silent kisses in the night,
when the wind blows hard against the branches,
that tape violently on my windowpane.
Nomore somber tears shed, when you got sick,
and nomore warm embraces when you shed tears of betrayal.
Betrayal now is a game played by a fool,
such as I,
to think I'd have a happy life with you?
Huh, only a fool would think such a thing,
but now I sit, looking at the foyer,
where we once made sweet, passionate love,
nomore will that foyer be filled with exotic pleasure.
Nomore will you be filled with smiles and exotic pleasure.
I've done my job, as a good man shall do,
now pack your things and get of my stage,
the spotlight yawns for anew,
and the audience grows tired and restless of you.
Now I live life anew,
you too shall see life in new eyes,
walking hand and hand with the blond, blue eyed devil
you call your own.
Shall he take one kiss from your lips,
and die of the posion he tastes on your tongue,
shall he go blind, when he sees your true, black beauty?
He will see the ugly soul, covered up by white rags,
and cheap makeup,
and then he will come to me,
and shake my hand in condolence
and say, "You were right!"
Now you are all alone,
looking for another, as you did many times before,
Now you are alone, walking an open road,
spying on another,
fear of being alone.
Now, you see when you play games with a good man's emotions,
don't try it,
because a good man is not meant to be toyed with.
Why! I write because it helps to release some of my feelings,
It's a way of me attending to my heart which is healing.
I write because it comes naturally especially when I'm stressed,
I think its at that time i write at my best.
I write to feel free and to be strong so i can fight ,
to find my place in this world and overcome lonely nights.
I write because i want to prevent this pain,
to help my mind from going insane.
Why i write, because of you.
Your looking at your self because you don't have a clue.
Right now i can tell your mind is way pass the clouds and lost in the blue.
Why i write, because i want you to see things in my life,
how its hurt when i got stabbed by a knife.
Why i write, not because i want you to only read and look out for rhymes,
because reading and understanding is important at times.
Why i write, to help tell about mine and other love tales,
to show you how easy a strong relationship fails.
Why i write, not to be in this spot light,
but its because i am RYO the Poem "Black Knight".
So i really careless what people might think.
I am the poet putting words don't with the ink.
I am out of your league also your range.
I am not surprised cause this isn't strange.
Don't ask this question again ' Why i Write'.
If I write a lie then my whole life has been like an entire lie/
I can't do what must be done if one doesn't give it a try/
Im living what I write until my breath of words in my body die/
You see my rhymes grounded until they finally set forth in flight/
Paragraphs blinded until words give them sight/
If I write what was wrong I can still make that mistake right/
Im trying to live in peace yet at times I won't live if I don't fight/
I shouldn't be thinking like two because I am only but one/
You see working on verses late into the night until the early morning sun/
I fight with sophisticated verses upon many losses until my spoken fight is finally won/
Lost into thoughts so deep until they no longer seem fun/
Thinking out the day worried every night that I sleep with a gun/
If I am not to your standards I dont give a **** if I am shunned/
Im doing what I do until the day that my purpose in life is finally done/
At one point in my life i was an artist
I used to paint and draw
Covering a piece of paper
In beautiful colors
And my art told a story
The sort of story you couldn't talk about
I used to go to school every day
Showing up late
Wasn't something I'd do
But i dropped out
Leaving my education behind
I played the bass guitar
In a band called
My fingers ran against that bass
The sound of the gods
Setting out to destroy the world
Pure Punk straight from Seattle
At one point i was clean
Sober and pure like a new born baby
Falling further into
What you now call
Screwing up my veins
with every shot of herion
Killing my brain cells
With every joint i smoked
Clogging up my nose
With every pill you could have known
I used to write lyrics
About my life
I used to write journals
The ones you read in the book
that was published of me
I got up on that stage every night
As i was
Only a few scars
One shot of heroin
Come as you are
The words only speak for
As the sun sets
and the twilight comes out,
as the birds and squrriels are no where in sight.
As the whores and pimps sit on street corners,
waiting for street lights to turn from green to red.
As cadillacs stop and roll their windows down.
I can her the faint cry deep in the darkness,
of dirty gutters and dark, dead end alleyways,
I hear the faint tears fall and hit concrete pavement.
I feel the faint cries of whores,
I hear the sound of backhand hitting face
and brused tissue and broken noses are everywhere.
And the somber tears fall onto pillow cases,
and white motel bedsheets run red with blood
and cheap Italian wine.
And you can her the poet over the radio,
reading his own work for the one millionth time
and you can hear his soul slowly wanting to die.
He drowns himself in smoke and alcohol
the whore takes her pay, or spends a night in a jail cell,
the pimp nowhere to be found,
with a shiny blade stuck deep in his gut.
And the somber tears fall gently on the concrete pavement,
the floors of a jail cell,
tears on the pillow case and tears on a lonesome stage.
Tears never present, but are seen by many,
pain aches and pain takes away,
and I pour one more drink for the whore.
She takes me away,
and I caught her salty, somber tear,
and she crawled into my warm embrace.
I was the one who stuck the blade in the gut of that pimp,
who broke her nose and made her bleed,
with a cowardess and souless backhand.
I walk into the moonlight,
hearing the somber tears all around me,
crash violently to the concrete pavement.
The Earth rumbles and erupts with these tears,
that are shead for fellow Men, and Women and Children,
but we all look at ourselves and smile.
Happy we don't pay rent,
happy we don't have cancer,
happy we aren't six feet under;
But we still all cry,
Somber tears all fall in one big wave
crashing violently on the concrete pavement.
Now the red light turns green,
and the traffic moves along,
the whore is still at her corner,
the pimp still with the blade in his gut.
Stimulating ideas pop into your head
You need a pen…you need a piece of lined paper
It looks like you’re outtah luck…no wonder you’re drowning in dread
You need a shoulder to lie your head down for a moment’s rest…
You need a helper…to aid you while you struggle emotionally…
I’m not trying to irritate you purposely
Try with all your might…try your best
To stay optimistic and fervent
I believe that you’ll pass the test
Be upbeat, kindhearted and jubilant
I appreciate the words you wrote on my notebook…
Sometimes, I feel like leftovers left on the counter…
I’m a rotten mess – you’re leaving me as if I’m an uninteresting book
Sometimes, I feel like a coward – I don’t mean to bother…
But, you’re like no other . . .
You’re like a mat – you’re constantly stepped on…
I’m like YOUR unwanted tool –
I stepped on you and
Pushed your buttons
I accused you of being the fool
When, in fact, I’m the fool by your side…
You’re drifting…pushing me aside…
I’m writing words of truth though –
Expressing how much I’m fond of you
I esteem your presence
Glowing with glee
At times, you do say things without thinking
I’m the god of distress –
You’re leaving me breathless
Cutting me down like I’m some decaying tree
You don’t see how much you make me…
Guilty for your crimes
Taking the blame about the hundredth time
At times, I feel that I’m awkward when I’m around you
You’re like a backpack – you carry everyone’s weight…
You’re like a sponge – soaking in our stress
I’m a distraction to you – you’re wasting valuable time…but don’t hesitate
I’m writing words of self-centered feelings – logic doesn’t exist…
But these feelings aren’t as bad as committing a crime
These feelings come and go – I just had to confess
I didn’t mean to screw up your progress…
Hey, if you need a few sheets of paper to right on,
Use me like a notebook instead…and write with all your might
It seems as if you read me…like a book that drags on and on
Use me as your tool of relaxation… and read me all night
When you wrote those words on my notebook…
It made my day…you’re such a delight
Like reading a fascinating, classic book
I am dead without my love.
It is simple as that.
I cannot breath without her,
I cannot eat without her,
I cannot write without her.
I cannot live without my love,
I am dead without my love.
I cannot prosper without her warm embrace,
I cannot think without her by my side.
always thinking of her, sharing her love I once had,
My heart breaks,
and my mind is gone.
I weap... I weap...
I cannot handle the betrayal of my once love.
I am stuck, sitting in dark corners of dark rooms,
staring at blank walls, thinking of what once was.
the laughs shared, and the tears we weaped together.
Holding hands, you and I, walking down sandy beaches,
and beautiful highways, full of love.
How we sat on park benches and kissed the night away.
I cannot believe you are gone, with another.
I did what I could,
I loved you endless time on my hand.
Our time spent together was special and near to the heart.
Do not expect for that happiness to come again.
For that has sailed, to far East, to the rising of the new day.
But, I cannot live one more day without my love.
For what I had with her is unexplainable and beautiful beyond definition.
I have seen the wayward signs point me to the direction of you.
But when we see each other, you don't spare a passing glance,
as if I was a ghost, an invisible man, like air.
That is when my heart breaks, torn in two, I cannot see me without you.
Walk with another, shall I go, now this without you.
For she is my everything, beauty and nature.
She is my rose, my violet, my nightingale singing her songs, in the twilight.
She is the sky, the sun, the moon, the trees, the grass.
She is everything to me.
She is even the summer storms and Winter blizzards that roll in and destroy,
beauty and harmony.
I cannot live without my love, for she is my one and only.
I do not like to beg, but love me once again and live with me forever.
For you know and I know, and the world knows,
That I cannot live without you,
I cannot live without my love,
For I am dead without my love.
Nothing more than
Than it is gone out of hand
No winds to flow to grow in land
Given bright stars in darkness
Nothing more than
Light years rose hope
Back flush riddles in game
Only hope once to face to face
As seen bleeding in tears
As a writer always writing about my life everyday, I have to write this when I say that this is the only way that I know I know how to speak and write about "My" life before I "Die" in these reservation cold streets like many of my own people.
I have hope for something better and bigger beyond our cold rez life streets here in money rich America.
I'm trying not to be another victim or just another number and I'm especially not trying to become just another "Rest in Piece" or just another "In Loving Memory Of".
I'm trying to leave something behind for my people but especially for my "yet to understand daugher", and this is the only way I know how to leave my very own one of a kind unique individual thoughts behind is through paper, but now what make's it even better now days for us is the "Internet", and my Internet crowd and across sea's internet crowd will listen to my words more than my "family" or "friends" ever will, and this is the only way I can truly be there for my family, my friends, my people and my daughter is in these words that I write, in this words in which I speak, and I have to be careful about what I write because it can help, but more often than not I can make them hurt, but I got to be careful about whom these words I write and speak about.
I got to be more about helping than hurt as a True Lone Poet Speaking Life as "A Writer Always Writing".
Drunk in the lost city,
lost in the vase beauty of the angels
drunk, smoking on park benches.
Freaks, trannys, whores and pimps,
looking at me;
a one of a kind.
No one has ever seen me on the streets of L.A.,
beacause I am a one of a kind,
a gentleman, a drunken buffoon.
I hurl myself at the bars,
and the whores look at me and smile,
and I wave them over, and they come.
40 bucks for a night a good fun,
a night of exotic pleasure,
in the heart of the sleeping angels.
two in the morning,
police stop me, sleeping on a park bench.
Warm always warm,
the city that is lost.
A city known as the city of angels,
yet how many devils I have counted.
How much evil I have seen,
how much temptation rules in the gutters.
Walking drunk on madness,
in this dirty city,
as I look for a bar before last call.
I find one,
I go in,
order a beer.
I drink with pleasure
I start to write,
I light a cigarette and smoke.
A grey cloud forms around me,
"Last call for alcohol," the barkeep shouts.
I raise my hand, he comes over.
"What will yah have?" he asks,
"Another beer and my check."
On the house, free drinks, on the house.
After a night in the city of angels,
I find myself a cosy park bench,
and fall asleep, dreaming of the angels I had never seen.
A rose that is at full bloom
and the color is pure and the pettles are calm
and dance along with the blowing of the wind
they have a smell, that is divine,
but doesn't bring back no special memory.
Now a dead rose,
that has a smell
that has no definition
that has no pain
it is just there
and it doesn't cry
and it doesn't sigh
it just sits there,
burning away when the sun hits it,
without blinding courage.
The dead rose just sits there,
and the smell is so sweet
it brings back memories
that make you cry
smile a little.
Sometimes the dead things
are more beautiful
than the living,
but that is just my opinion,
what do you think?