As the waves forever kiss the shore
One shot leaves you wanting more
My heart and soul, strong and true
With all the love they hold for you
Sometimes my life leaves me bored
Like a swordsman with no sword
These are the times that I write
Memories can be hard to fight
I write out my heart and soul
Controlling my mind is my goal
Each new word released by my pen
Is another spiritual battle I win
The war rages on day by day
Through the poem prayers I pray
It's a war that I will forever win
Long as there is ink up in my pen
In prison I had quite a collection
Each one held it's own reflection
I saved them after they ran dry
Baptized with the tears I cry
I just couldn't seem to let them go
Little memories of my heart and soul
Sometimes I like to take them out
Little memories of what I'm about
What I'm about angel on my shoulder
Making this world a little less colder
Don't go messin'
With my buddy Jack
He's cool people,
And I like him,
He writes well,
Yeah, this from Tom Bell,
You take him on,
You take on me,
Let me tell you,
Cut the crap and show
Or you might get
A poetic broken a__
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...
A supreme soldier walks truly alone in the depths of night
he is soft spoken from a life of being so hard that he was stoned until his eyes filled red bloodshot in his sight
he notices what he once thought to be? Was wrong and very far from right
So he asks God for forgiveness from his very own darkness that it may to like his Redemption be shone upon his lost light
He knows its no longer about the bullets in this battle for it is the words in his very own Mind that will matter most in this life among death upon a written soldier's fight.....
With every word, with every phrase,
You breathe, you come alive,
A tale of truth, mapped with reality,
Or a dream unlived for which you thrive,
You live through what is written,
Or you choose to hold your pens,
It doesn’t matter how it ends,
Because it’s the end where it all begins,
Broken hour glasses of the War,
Acting as the mirror to see through the past,
The good is victorious, and is glorified,
And evil is evil, because in the battle they did not last,
With their blood, is inked the war diary,
So winner takes it all, and is called as ‘good’, hence,
As it doesn’t matter how the war ends,
Because it’s the end where it all begins
And then there is Romeo, falling in love
And Juliet waiting for him in the Balcony,
They kill Romeo, and justify the murder,
But love is charged for an unforgivable felony,
Died, the felons leave the stage,
But love lives irrespective of the skins
As it doesn’t matter how the life ends,
Because it’s the end where it all begins
You pose the king of you story,
Or in their game, you are just a pawn,
Your story is written in this moment,
Larger than life; this moment is never gone,
So when they bury you as a ‘Sinner’,
Be the phoenix to rise from your sins,
As it doesn’t matter how the Story ends,
Because it’s the end where it all begins
Battling the page,
Writers block at the brink.
Hemorrhage colored ink.
Rivers of ink flow,
From a massacre of words.
Stanzas of pain, grace the page,
Like of flock of olden birds.
Ballpoint swords strike:
In written catastrophe.
A stained battlefield resides,
With bloody poetry.
Twenty long contemptuous years;
A myriad of monarchies
Bargained wickedly …
Bloody warriors ~
In crimson swells;
Soured proprietary wealth…
‘ Lord Alfred Tennyson … ’ (Classical-Tribute) 62nd Senryu
‘ The Charge Of The Light Brigade ’
Salutes … Six-Hundred
He was a new poet with the dew of youth
on his cheeks and childishness in his words.
He spoke of his God, of love and of truth
with a pony-tailed naïveté which implored.
Bicycles pedal through his posies chords.
He smiled when he spoke of A. Ginsberg, man..
nicotine stains the fingers of his hand.
thinking of the beat poets, Rexroth he'd read
tales of smoke ring round his brow garlanded
Dean resurrects in the cock of his head.
A new rooster was shy of twenty four
one ear ring, bow lips and shy of pretense
he wrote in a leather bound book of war.
He was all about peace, gentle innocence
yet the world, the world held troubles immense
A rebel of peace so like Siddhartha
to war he'd not go, not follow father..
A poet primed a new man with a calling
trying yet again to call each man brother
trying yet again to stop mankind's falling.
It's been a long time since Saddam Hussein was executed by the Arab authorities and the U.S. Armed Forces (the U.S. Army, the U.S. Navy, the U.S. Coast Guard, and the U.S. Air Force). This guy had been terrorizing the entire Arabian nation since the Cold War and Operation: Desert Storm. Saddam had been torturing people for no reason and chopping up his victims limb by limb. The Arabians and the Americans are glad that Saddam Hussein's dead, especially for what he did to these people, even his wife. It seems that he had pure hatred toward other people, including us Americans. Saddam was responsible for the deaths of all innocent Iraqi's citizens. the loser was also responsible for starting the war games in Iraq and stuff. Mr. Hussein was the President of Iraq until he was captured by the U.S. Armed Forces and the then-President of the United States of America George W. Bush. Saddam Hussein was just like Osama Bin Laden, even when that guy killed all of the U.S. citizens in New York City on Tuesday, September 11, 2001. And because of Hussein and Bin Laden, the United States of America had lost its innocence, even since 9/11. Not only was Saddam Hussein a gutless coward, but on top of all that, he was also a womanizing cheater and a heartless assassin, too, as well. But now that this human-killing, soulless, heartless Neanderthal has been executed for starting war games, terrorizing unexpected citizens of Iraq, and killing the men because they couldn't get jobs, go to school, or whatever (good riddance), the Iraqis back in 2004 had moved on with their lives. and not only is Saddam Hussein dead, but Osama Bin Laden is also dead. And as far as the Iraqis, the U.S. Armed Forces, and the U.S. citizens are concerned, the giant Pit of Inferno is exactly where they belong. We all wish Saddam Hussein, Osama Bin Laden, and other terrorists had never been born.
I alone stand vigil over the memories of my past;
I alone feel the weight of them,
feel what it is to be
the man that past has created.
I stand, alone, beneath the stars and the moon,
contemplating all, as I ever have done;
it is only now that I've accepted
that's who I am meant to be;
the writer, the poet –
I stand with the rest of the dreamers.
I sit, alone, among the instruments of music,
playing on and on throughout my life;
music flows into and through my soul,
and I am now and will always be,
the musician and the bard –
I sit with the rest of the drummers.
I travel, alone, with the remembrances of love,
searching always for that one true other;
it is only now that I've accepted that even
without one such, I can live;
the romantic, the sentimental –
I travel with the rest of the passionate.
I escape, alone, in the pages of a good story,
reading for ever and anon;
books speak to me, engage me,
entertain me, release me;
the storyteller and the listener –
I escape with the rest of the readers.
I will fight, never alone, next to my brothers
and sisters in arms;
it is with all of myself that I've accepted
my duty, and who I will always be;
the soldier, the guardian –
I will fight with the rest of the Marines.
I dance, run, walk, laugh, alone, in the rain,
let loose my being in the deluge;
the storm's fury and glory
somehow become my own;
the drenched, the soaked –
I do all of this with the rest of the rain lovers.
It is only now that I've accepted
that I have become
who I was meant to be;
who I want myself to be.
I alone know what it is to be
myself, Andrew James Sprouse,
scion of the sea and of the past,
of the word and the sword.
But I do not alone know what it is to feel alive;
to be exactly who you are,
who you're meant to be.
I do not alone know the truth of pain.
None of us stands truly and utterly alone.
Every single one of us walks, arm in arm,
with those who share your experiences,
your beliefs, your thoughts and your lives.
But you, alone, know what makes your heart free,
what makes your fire ignite and your essence true;
you alone know the visage and touch of your soul.
I do not know?
Hard as Rock
My Brain seems Covered by a Smock
Wait Up You Something's Coming Thru
Hope it,s not, some Hullabaloo
Oh Snap's, Damn
How About Uncle Sam
When The Hell is He Getting Out of Afghanistan!
My baseball cap is my helmet and my Nike's are my boots,
My country is my hood and my colors on my flag are niether red white or blue,
My weapon of choice is my two hands,
sometimes it can be whatever when I am threatened with a great fall from my stand,
I have no general or soldiers but I have family and above all I got heart.
My battlegrounds remain in my own home and sometimes even in the local Wal-Mart.
Every inch of my hood is up for friendly fire,
Violence remains apart of life around here searching for peace is far from desire,
Everyday remains but another day someone will die,
but more importantly is that another mother, brother, sister or father will cry.
But I am a street soldier so I am prepared for anothers or worse yet my own demise,
And as a street soldier I must keep the battle in check, no not with what I see with my two eyes, but what war is really going on inside the mind,
My battles dont come from without but from within......I am a street soldier fighting through time.....
Walking away might be the most hardest things for a man to do,
you cant even imagine what that feeling can do to you.
Falling flat on your face would be better than to look shameful,
even walking around naked around the streets would be cool.
But like any story in life goes, there is always that one person that will help you get back on your feet and walk again.
No matter how much you fall, no matter how much you stumble upon a struggle, that person will be there with you till the end.
Give love and thanks to this person who never leaves your side and helps you put a smile on your face everyday.
When the day comes to an end and you know that the person has to go, all you can wish is for your special person to stay.
Mine has walked away on me,
I was so blind that i couldn't see.
She wanted everything for her self, for me to change and be what she wanted me to be,
but i had to let her go and never see this person again, cause it would only be worse in the end.
Writing this is more painful than getting your body tattooed,
writing this is more painful than getting over screwed.
Writing this is more painful than words,
writing this is more painful than razor sharp swords.
No matter how much you try to let it out it just wouldn't come out,
the pain is way to deep and its almost like its tattooed on your bodies gout.
haven't i been hurt enough in this world, i just don't understand why i am being treated like this,
is it cause i am better than you and have nothing to look forward too but my blue and black handkerchief?
The cut was way to deep my dear, you just cant imagine,
i have been cut and bruised for the last time, i can promise you that.
No one will ever touch this body or hurt this soul ever again,
if you wish to try so, go ahead and check it, but before that go ahead and get yourself a casket.
We are sullenly mourning
For security from the demoralizing night
I am despairingly probing
For mercy to carry us back to our divine flight
We are all wishing for infinite freedom
We are all seeking for an abundant kingdom
If we are living in pure happiness, why are we so emotional inside and out?
Why are we painstakingly tracking down a getaway away from this mystifying dilemma? What is all this venturing about?
If we are swaying in the rhythm of faultless jolliness, why are we vexing about the departure of our best friend?
It isn’t in our control…so get a grip or we'll fall!
If we build up our friendship, we'll have wounds to mend
So stop your blaming and cursing or we'll be in appall
If we are all leaders, why are we panicking?
We are all leaders…we aren’t senseless pleaders!
So face your phobias and get out of the deserted state!
We are all leaders…we will not give in, vile deceivers!
Saunter out of sight, so we won’t meet our unsettling fate!
You meddled with our cries
So don't point fingers, you insidious devil
And forced us to believe your jaded lies
SHUT YOUR MOUTH! I don't want to consider your excuses, for our truth stands still
If we are living in pure happiness, why are we not meant to be?
If we are living in pure happiness, why are we battered and bent?
If I am living in pure happiness, why am I not free?
Could we ever discard this horrifying dilemma that pounds on us like cement?
We must act like a leader—tough and vigilant
Striving to survive!
We must mimic like a leader—buff and independent
Struggling to stay alive!
Disregard the mourning state;
Drive out the defiant enemies and make them face their damnations
So we can joyfully integrate and negotiate
You’d do me a favor to cease your supplications!
The author of the bible must have been god
for Jesus himself never wrote it
and i wonder if Jesus truly existed
then why are we not studying timeless works of art written by the first people
that learned how to read and write?
Another question plagues me
why are there legacies of family traditions of stories in families talked about
handed down from generation from generation
that yes your gret great grandmother was a witch burnt at the stake
or your great great grandfather was a black slave
but why I ask do we never hear those who brag
through the testimonies of legacies of stories around campfires
that did you know your ancestor touched the hand of christ?
and this story of those days has been in our family for generations?
no one using logic how the world works?
true how quickly we forget
even war veterans pass down terrors of war tortures and terrors of such things
so why did we stop passing down the story of a god?
Is it because the author of the bible was god?
and he knew everthing that happened with jesus and Job
cain and Abel?
or was it just that one day there was a belief
and it was accepted
replaced an old belief
and murdered the old
and we praise it now?
Is this proof we are brainwashed?
the fact that the old religion has more stories handed down in generations
than this supposed god
who taught us all how to read or write?
I'm sure if i was there to be the first people to learn how to read and write
id write down some stories of the lessons i was taught
tell everyone i knew
of the man i had met who taught me
if the bible is true
and there were that many witnesses
I know id pass it down to my children
and my grandchildren
nieces and nephews
‘At play with words’
Cork thine eyes
Cloaking lucent verbose halls
Surely binding shutting tight
Cork thine eyes
Clutching goblet sipping falls
Drunk seduction bending sight
Prose mine prys
Gather up my scrolling drawls
Paging through the spite
Prose mine prys
Splitting metaphors with mauls
Swindle word codle the blight
This poem explained
Shut your eyes
Shade your bright and wordy thoughts
Absolutely shut off your mind
Shut your eyes
Drink from the fountain of lies of the rich
Allow yourself to be seduced and become blind
My ordinary words chip away
Read what I have written
They are memorable moments of contempt
My ordinary words chip away
I chop up what I write with metaphors
The negative meanings of what I write deceives with tenderness
Stick to the pen, not to the sword
this is the oath, long ago sworn
by the writers, who became the ignitors
of the free thinkers revolution
Now that I'm a soldier
don't cry on my shoulder
for I know its never right
I'm like you, imprisoned
in this War of Attrition
we are the seekers of the light
Wrongness is winning
in this, the beginning
jaded as it seems
the hope has not faded
for someday we'll make it
grow as a beanstalk from a seed
Yes this tiny hope, forever shall float
the same way it has carried me thus
through the street of desire
fly over the liars
and the evil that swallows them up
I'll stick to the pen, like my old dearest friend
as tyrants cut us down with their blade
I shall get back up, and come back with such
fury as ink fills the page
exposing the lies, I shall have mine
for the pen is almighty, and forever in time
‘ A Poet Goes To War … ’ ( Josh. 23: 10, 11 )
A Gentle-Poet … Goes To War
Oh … How Far … How Far … How Far …
Did You Push A Tender Heart
before Poet Finishes, What You Start ?
Just Like That Musician, Shepherd – Boy
whom a Lion and Bear, Dared Annoy ------ 1 Sam. 17: 37
Trying to Steal Some of His Precious Sheep
Poet, Showed Them … What’s His … He Keeps !
And That Same, Brave-Poet Went To War
Against Goliath’s Insulting, Roar ! ------ 1 Sam. 17: 45 – 51
… But With just One Pebble Fling
That Poet’s, Sling, Thru All Of Time … Rings !
And If A Wise-Poet Goes To War …
That Poet … May Wound and Scar ------- Acts 7: 54, 57
For Words, Gouge Deeper Than Stones
Pen’s Mightier Than Sword … Cuts Clean To The Bone !
But, You made Poet … ‘your’ Foe, with Mock-Chimes
The First Thought … Just Give Them, Calm-Down-Time
But, Know … This Poet Thrives … Behind Enemy Lines
Forgiving and Wishing, God-Giving, Words-Divine !
‘Cause When Peace-Loving-Poets… Go To War …
‘We’ … Must Travel by: The Bright Morning Star --- Rev. 22: 16
and Wait on His Orders … His Way
and I’m Cautious … Like ‘The Commander’ Says … -- Matt. 10:16
So, Before you feel The Need To Spar ---- Zeph. 2: 2, 3
Before… Big Poets … Have To Go To War ---- Genesis thru Revelation
… Know That Such Poets … Are Word–Warriors
… Don’t Make ‘em Go Off … on ya’ !
‘Cause you Won’t Survive … The Tongues of Fire ---- Acts 2: 3, 4
( or The ‘ Lake ’ Either … If You Live Like A Liar … ) --- Rev. 21: 7, 8
Gon’ Wind Up, Locked Behind Abyss’ Bars
… For Making ‘ Poor-Poets ’ … Go To Wars ! ---- Matt. 18: 6
I do not know?
(This poem is partially fictional)
I'm over here fighting in Iraq.
I watch my fellow soldiers backs.
I've seen some good people get killed.
When I see them die, it makes me ill.
We've been here too long, we should go home now.
But that is something that George Bush won't allow.
It's pitiful to see these soldiers suffer and bleed.
Their families aren't getting the love they need.
My fellow soldiers are brave but they still feel fear.
I want myself and the rest of us taken out of here.
I do not know?
Staring at the blank page before me,
Millions of ideas pulse through my brain,
Yet none seem to make it to complete thoughts.
They are merely shades and tints of the nigh subconscious,
That fine line between dream and reality.
Minutes pass by like seconds,
Hours like minutes, and still here before me,
Contempt, smirking up at me is this blank page,
Which I have yet to stain.
My pride will not allow my surrender
To this formidable foe.
Though retreat may be wise,
I would sacrifice my demise by my own dignity
Rather than give in.
I'm at war with a typewriter,
Or perhaps with myself.
Or maybe the clock,
Laughing, mocking me from its perch upon the wall.
My head begins to spin as I attempt to type
All of these ideas flying slightly out of my reach.
I thrash my arms helplessly about,
Wishing for anything to grasp on to.
And I see the page there,
Staring now with amusement.
This kindles my already raging inferno
Of hate, confusion, and swarming ideas.
I begin violently, blindly punching away at the keys,
Typing anything to cover the blank page,
Needing to find escape from its cruel glares.
I was then at war with the typewriter,
Or perhaps with myself.
Knowing I could not allow defeat,
I gave all I had
To slay this pugilistic foe,
Allowing my emotion to guide me,
Rather than my logic.
Hours ago I had merely planned to write a poem,
And now I am waging war
Against my own mind and my own typewriter.
In the process of creation,
I have destroyed myself.
Steel that fills the skies,
Steel that supplants the mighty ocean
Steel casted hearts of bravery...
These are our guardians,
Our navy, which sets a new standard,
That can cover the skies
of any spot on earth...
Our men, stout of heart,
Gun at the ready....
Their buddies reason enough...
To face any odds, to take
any risk...to face any death...
So their buddies survive...
This is a small sampling of the Steel
We take our time...
We try so hard...
Not to hurt innocents...
Some take this for weakness...
But that is their's...
This country is ringed by steel,
It exports its steel bite
Whereever, and whenever,
It should choose...
Save a foolish,
Should show you,
And those you love,
The valley of death
Is where you have wandered.
Here I am,
Too many words
Bad boy, you'll
have to pay,
Cause we counted
how much you had to say,
And it is illegal
to write more!
You Poetry Soup Whore!!!
I do not know?
Honor is a word we use
for all that have a heart that bruised,
along with that he has a scar.
the war had taken him much to far.
Skill was his best friend.
We thought the war would never end.
Victory he had won
Because you brought our country honor my son.
The merits that you wear are beyond our share.
Life here is all for you .
because you kept our country true.
Our Freedom flys on because of all you have done.