black & blue as the scissor handles on a hospital desk outside the x-ray room where a scared boy waits for his best friend to emerge safely six sickly pink as the sutures outlining her kneecap and the pale as anesthesia filling up her irises black and blue as the waterfall of markings cascading down sheer breastbone to pool in my belly-button brown as the split blue moon on ice, and darker as the curls still unable to rival the vehemence of your stare black and blue as the smeared ink of broken contracts bound to my skin in sheets lacking hue as the morning after and the murmured reminder to forget all about it seeping from your pores, as tainted honey from bees beaten blue and black into blindness
I am a quill pen dipped in soul-black pitch. You are my notebook. I open you and begin to inscribe your pages. Fuc k love....... We make poetry. I kiss memories from your forehead and swallow them whole, smoothing the lines that housed them. We make each other younger. Our bodies grind together like clock gears to turn back time because what we're doing is timeless, ancient and futuristic, holy, our lips and tongues clasped like hands in prayer, flesh bitten and held like communion wafers, your fluids wine to my tongue. I smell salvation in your sweat. You taste like autumn, your body exploding in bursts of fire and gold as my tongue searches your curves, seeking renewal as I penetrate you in an act of gentle violence, and each thrust is Excalibur extracted from the stone. King me. Let's roll around in the dirt until we make it clean, transform our spinning bodies into drills aimed for the heat of the earth's core just to make it seem cool by comparison. Let's shave the moon's pussy and go down on her together, stick our tongues through stars to make them numb just to feel the pins and needles when we kiss each other back to life, our lips double stitched with iron twine. Let me be the lightning that splits your clouds, your rain pouring out to a standing ovation of thunderclaps. Let me drown in your flood, my lungs full to bursting with just a fraction of your beauty. Let me inhale you. Let me be Oedipus to your Mother Earth. I swear I'll be the brightest son. Nestled in my arms for shelter, you whisper, "No more metaphors, baby.........Ē
Dear Friend..I wish for you.. Comfort on difficult days Smiles wehn sadness intrudes Rainbows to follow the clouds Laughter to kiss your lips Sunset to warm your heart Gentle Hugs when your spirit sags Friendships to brighten your being Beauty for your eyes to see Confidence when you are in doubt Faith so that you can believe Patience to know yourself Courage to accept the truth and Love to complete your life. I wish for you all these things and many many more...God bless all of you..
Trundling through the Room of Word, The crude remarks and the young absurd, They come an go, no valedictory speech, Just to and fro, a vestige for each. So I sit and I stare, with a nihilist prayer, And I screw my heart to the sticking place, Left alone in the quietude, left alone in a private mood, No crude remarks for a tired face. So I sit and I stare, yes, I sit and I stare, screen boring me holes for eyes, I wait and I dare, my words in the air, The atmosphere sets and dries - The atmosphere sets and it dies. I'll wait there,'do something, accompany me' I'll wait there, like waiting for a train. But once I've waited, no latened, loving response belated, I tire of this melancholy station, I'm alone in the Room 'o' Words, my company split to fifths and thirds, It's time for another, emotional vacation.
You know it just dawned on me ... I like those that don't preach to others. Yes, that's it. Badboys aren't known to preach to others and even if they were to ... they know we wouldn't take them all that serious. Haha
May God's opinion matter a whole lot more to you than man's opinion.May his dreams for you speak louder than your fears.May his forgiveness wash over every sin from your past,and may you rise up in the knowledge that hes made your branch new,through and through.No spot or stain on you.Rest well tonight...
But oh that time kept moving, And though my truth was not forsaken, Still by that sleight of hand from me, My first true love was taken. And so the tides then turned, And on my broken bloodstained path, Truth became necessity, As my sadness turned to wrath. Each step to love a testament, I searched to find its missing beauty, But it was only in that darkness now, That Iíd fulfill this primal duty. So when I came upon the crossroads, As humans do from time to time, I knew which path to choose, Despite the riddles in the rhyme. And there I stood all by myself, Nothing but a flame of hope inside, And then I stepped into the darkness, To save the truth from evilís lies.
Yo AZZDRAIN...WHO"S poem did ya swipe this TIME???
<quoted text> Chick, We fear death, we shudder at lifeís instability, we grieve to see the flowers wilt again and again, and the leaves fall, and in our hearts we know that we, too, are transitory and will soon disappear. When artists create poetry and thinkers search for laws and formulate thoughts, it is in order to salvage something from the great dance of death, to make something that lasts longer than we do. It is not my purpose to become each other; it is to recognize each other, to learn to see the other and honour him or her for what he/she is: each the otherís opposite and complement. All existence seemed to be based on duality, on contrast. Either one was a man or one was a woman, either a wanderer or sedentary burgher, either a thinking person or a feeling person-no one could breathe in at the same time as he breathed out, be a man as well as a woman, experience freedom as well as order, combine instinct and mind. One always had to pay for one with the loss of the other, and one thing was always just as important and desirable as the other. Just how mysterious this life was, how deep and muddy its waters ran, yet how clear and noble what emerged from them. One thing, however, did become clear to me Ė why so many perfect works of art did not please me at all, why they were almost hateful and boring to me, in spite of a certain undeniable beauty. Workshops, churches, and palaces were full of these fatal works of art; I had even helped with posting some of these here myself. They were once deeply disappointing because they aroused the desire for the highest and did not fulfill it. They once lacked the most essential thing Ė mystery. That was what dreams and truly great works of art had in common: mystery.
You declare you see me dimly through a glass which will not shine, though I stand before you boldly, trim in rank and making time. You do own to hear me faintly as a whisper out of range, while my drums beat out the message and the rhythms never change. Equality, and I will be free. You announce my ways are wanton, that I fly from woman to woman, but if Iím just a shadow to you, could you ever understand? We have lived a painful history, we know the shameful past, but I keep on marching forward, and you keep on coming last. Take the blinders from your vision, take the padding from your ears, and confess youíve heard me crying, and admit youíve seen my tears. Hear the tempo so compelling, hear the blood throb through my veins. Yes, my drums are beating nightly, and the rhythms never change. Equality, and I will be free.
<quoted text> * * * * "WELL, WHOSE POEM IS THIS ?" This poemís about whatís in between, this partís the piece got left out. Crawled up to the roof where calmness is. A galís up there, kind and cool, soft and warm and vague ó didnít trust me. In my room: dump trucks heave along, dragging dreams through potholes. Oil-burning ďsteam shovelsĒ unearth me at devilish dawn, pound the 8 X 12-foot ground, pluck me from the floorboards, with crooked steel teeth ó and fling. This dream lives life in secret; rectangled in a cupboard; a thing pretzel-bawdy, its mouth at its crotch and a scald-pipe collars the throat. This poemís about whatís in between, the bit unmentioned, put neat-to-the-side. On the table: an eaves trough-vase holds sculpture of tough-skin-slicing weeds ó rumex crispus L.ó grew in a dry oasis beneath the expressway. These weeds proclaim the Dot. And a bricked-in, coal-chunked, wall-eyed cot railroads fright from me, in a roomís as trusted, big-busted, nut-clamped and break-necked as within is the rattled world without. This poem canít take the hint. Ignored, dropped, still itís self-propelled on a head of fumes. At last, this poem describes the face in shadow, turned toward an ancient painted place, filthy t-shirt stretched across cave-bound eyes like tissue of silk. This poemís whatís behind the shrapnel mask, it records the dear loss of the fake and you the fool. This poem wrote itself,........ and now it gladly ends.
We, unaccustomed to courage exiles from delight live coiled in shells of loneliness until love leaves its high holy temple and comes into our sight to liberate us into life. Love arrives and in its train come ecstasies old memories of pleasure ancient histories of pain. Yet if we are bold, love strikes away the chains of fear from our souls. We are weaned from our timidity In the flush of loveís light we dare be brave And suddenly we see that love costs all we are and will ever be. Yet it is only love which sets us free. - Maya Angelou.
<quoted text> You are a weirdo and look more psycho that the poet does. You are here day and night and the only decent thing you have to offer is music. No original thoughts and when we do witness them you look like a small minded man playing little games everywhere you go. You are a trollscumbag! You appear to need a life. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v =e8UJ9vD3dX4XX
Who cares Pie???
As long as the women know you're out to get them...I'm good..