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Harrison Packer Poem
My distraught, the thought, has lost a battle unforgot.
I take, I give, the very words I live.
I've done, The sun, outrunning the only one.
My actions are not my own, a story, I've stitched, I've sewn.
I wait, I learn, my destiny turning to fate, I cannot see in my current state.
The pain is neigh, a calder or a bite, my fatigue outweighs my might.
Crowned, sound, the darkness reaks no havok. And atop I take the stand.
Demand, reprimand, the status of your rendzevous.
The story's conclusion, I cannot seem...
to find the tragic end to...
Copyright © Harrison Packer | Year Posted 2011
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Harrison Packer Poem
How can one fathom the most curious emotion of love?
Some ride the very idea of romance their entire existence. Straddling along the
bareback spine of annoyance and tyrannical and zealous possessiveness.
To allow one's self to derive hope and idealistic success, from an originally prescribed
placebo- concocting happiness. Or so we think, as mind-blocked as we are from
voracious persistence. Blocked upon block, upon block.
Tempting the sheer catastrophic gal of aggravated ignorance. We play the fall game
upon a field of cacti, and this emotion seems to captivate our consciousness at a
hallucinogenic level allowing us to drop. Drop. Drop...effortlessly.
It appears to be so minute in a realistic importance, love, but in actuality, it weighs
down more than half of our humanistic ideology -consequently, a cataclysmic downpour
of unfathomable preponderance. Fathomable by the most blissful of minds..
Copyright © Harrison Packer | Year Posted 2011
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Harrison Packer Poem
An embodiment of passion, the warmth-the touch.
The blood of the heart, the silence-the hush.
Dripping in a canal of blossoming existance, the exitement-the rush.
It need not be pushed upon another but shared between a two.
A gift of trust, and benevolent emotion, a divination if true.
Two halves become a whole, manefistation of love as a brew.
Cast away the truth by the modern time.
Twisted and deformed by contemporary rhyme.
It is not yet gone, but fluttering away by the ones we trust,
Do it for love, not lust.
Copyright © Harrison Packer | Year Posted 2011
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Harrison Packer Poem
I concur, this is in fact, my death bed.
Petrified glass of a stained chapel, the eyes of the saint's a hellish red.
My coffin sits atop a corpse or two, the blitz of blood I had wandered through.
The skull had split and ruptured my heart, leaving me alive, to feel the dead.
Without a divine grace, a sanction or chance, I'm left alone in this cosmic dance.
Time be but, a grasp upon reality. But the truth be nothing more than due fatality.
Kill me now, kill me forever. For the pain alone, I cannot endeavor.
Copyright © Harrison Packer | Year Posted 2011
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