More fool me
For hoping you would change,
You promised me the world
Yet everything’s the same.
I’ve told you that I’m broken
And I can barely cope,
You said you’d make more effort
Filling me with hope.
Actions speak louder
Than your words can ever say,
I’ve already waited forever
So I won’t wait another day.
I’m not sorry that we’re over
I’m sorry that you lied,
I’m sorry that I listened
I’m sorry you never tried.
I’m sorry that our child
Will come from a broken home,
I’m sorry for the thoughts he’ll have
And for him feeling all alone.
But it’s you that should be sorry
Sorrier than most ,
Treating me like a stranger
Making me feel like I’m a ghost.
Treating me like an outcast
Who’s not worthy of your time,
And when your world comes crumbling down
I’ll already be rebuilding mine.
You could have changed this outcome
I know we could have been so good,
But you just left me hanging around
Just like I knew you always would….
Young man, just try a glass of sangria,
Now, we all can see you are angrier.
Audience is not a ‘a must’ for Town Criers;
Their job can now be discharged by flyers...
One cries too long and one lips get drier,
More pacing about the legs look sorrier.
In some circles you become a pariah,
For being of all things Hollow Wood Carrier.
Yes, you keep that in mind, Prepared Crier:
A town crier’s voice might go higher
But to his critics “A Hopeless Liar”
Or in short, he is the no more needed,
His colleagues in other towns fast weeded.
What kind of a pig is it? I asked.
A starving pig? Are you trying to kill it?
It is not a pig at all, he told me.
It is a she, and she is a dog.
Now I felt sorrier for the creature than before.
A dog should never be fur-less; she seemed more ridiculous now.
Methinks all antediluvian Love was
Whiter than snows atop higher tors;
And with more troth dudes did kiss
Purer maidens for pleasanter bliss.
I deem Art shortly after Noah’s Ark
To have been of better-spun spark;
And bards of far more sublime quill
Did indite with stouter metered skill.
Niftier lines which Columbus hymned,
On virgin voyages to terrains deemed
By soil-tilling mortals uninhabited yet;
Such ditties do dim both fear and fret.
Tighter Calvary Faith as Bunyans
Prisoners fell in Hades' vile plans,
Wet-toweling martyrs' spirits bold,
Felt saltier with truer saints of old.
Daintier Oratory and Polemics alike
Did with indeed finer Lincolns spike;
Notches less finessed minions today,
Such steadily sorrier contrasts betray.
Call "It" and "It" will Come
Imagine "It" and "It" Becomes
All the horrible thoughts Create
Be the Sorrier when it's too Late
Invoke "It" and "It" Appears
A Grotesque DEMON from Hell declares
Cursing the "MOON" the Sky cried stars
Killer Zombies crawl out of backyards
Know "It" and "It" you'll be
A rope around your neck hanging from a tree
While Dark Shadows whisper come to me
What you Most Fear Happens INSTANTLY
Fear "It", FEAR "It" Well
A Scare crow's beside you only YOU can tell
A hideous creature's stalking and you're the prey
Tonight your Demons are coming to take you away...
Soul poured out wild and bitter malice
Wants nobody to visit a hospitable palace
Who will appreciate the sincere heart?
Find yourself in solitude is a great art
Without companions for the battle goes warrior
And in case of death, he'll not be sorrier.
Wherever you find Mankind, two plagues follow Him: War and poverty, both preventable but
impossible to eradicate. The reason: greed. The sorrier of the two is poverty; war
sometimes is a necessity, poverty never is.
Man is forever looking for more but always that pursuit is misdirected. He never includes
his fellow human beings, only his narrow clique’s self-interests. The rest are left to
fend for themselves. Often an impossible task to achieve, the result is poverty.
Once a victim of this state of being, what is left is hope- worthless hope.
The poorest are the ones who hope
They hope against (all) hope it seems.
They pray to god to help them cope
Yet fruitless as their faded dreams
They hope someday for better stead
A worthless virtue I suspect
Adding to misery instead
That propagates in that respect.
Look to the past to see their plight:
Dreaming of castles in the sky;
But that isn't all, not by a long sight:
The chance it will happen? In a pigs eye!
The “haves” are a self-centered breed
Who rarely help people in need.
I'm sorry if I seem crazy to you
And my mind's not working too well
But there are things I'm going through
And I'm in my own personal hell.
I'm sorry if you don't understand all this
And even sorrier if you do
But my thoughts are all a jumbled hiss
And so very hard to get through.
I'm sorry if I've failed you
In some important way
But these are things I have to get through
To turn my night into day.
I'm sorry if you just can't handle it
My brief dance with instability
But maybe if you could just wait a bit
I'll remember what it is to be me.