Old Crappy Poems - Volume One
Chasing a dead dream.
Am I chasing a dead dream?
A burnt out candle of Joy.
Am I chasing a dead dream?
A beautiful wonder crushed into roadkill.
A dream so far gone even the purest of angels wince from sheer pity.
A dream so rotted and torn not even the raccoons of the night stop to feast on its remains.
So ugly and broken nobody cares to fix it all up again.
I think i've made up my mind, i'm chasing a dead dream.
A Perfect Being.
I stare at the perfect being.
My eyes show light.
Looking at the being, I forget about my blight.
This perfect being, it makes my eyes glow.
I look up to it’s hair, although my head hangs low.
This perfect being, makes me want to forget,
This perfect being… Is my light.
Why am I alive.
Why am I alive?
I ask this everyday.
Why am I alive?
That's all I can think about.
It's all I can suffer from.
All I want to do is figure out why,
Why I'm alive.
Tours.
I lived here, I went there.
Tours; They're not permanent,
Like the happiness of the place that I've left behind.
Am I gone…?
Are the others gone..?
I hope they miss me.
They probably will forget, as I will.
Are my feelings genuine..?
As long as I have memories, is the feeling valid..?
All I want to have is validation for my feelings.
Orange Band.
There's an orange band.
They tour around our Land.
There's an orange band.
Some of their songs are bland.
There's an orange band.
The bassist and drummer like to hold hands.
In the band, rumors start to rise.
Could they be in disguise..?
In the band, it's all downhill.
That's sad, isn't it..?
no more band, it's all gone.
It's your fault, or… has fate drawn..?
Guilty Pleasures.
Why do we exist again…?
Why..?
Is it to please..?
To be pleased??
What am I, what are you?
Do we feel love..?
Or is it all worthless?
I wonder,
I love to wonder..
Why do we wonder?
Do we deserve to wander?
Or should we succumb to the chains of hell?
I wonder, I wander, I want hell.
Poetry.
What is poetry,
it’s what I'm writing,
it is something you can write.
Why do we write it?
Why?
What’s the point of writing, when we can talk, what am I?
What is worth?
All I am is words, all I am is temporary.
Temporary.
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