Mire not yourselves in pain and sorrow
Your pen must see beyond all these
Yes, life is pain but it will cease
Joy has a price, wrapped in tomorrow
Why would we write just of despair?
Our repertoire is not complete
To love AND hate is quite a feat
To laugh AND cry is mankind's fare
So squelch your angst and train your muse
To sing if she does not want to
Lady Lazarus, I hate and rue -
your blinding angst has left a bruise
on our poets' brow
For now we think
Death is something we must drink
but life, oh life! But then... no! NOW!
So I will not defend one way
A poet must have more to say
This love of death - it must be slayed.
Somehow still here, and we must stay.
24 March, 2004
dec. 18, 2003
Did I mention:
I like the little games we play
skin to skin
it's only air between us
And me, not naked, but wanting to be
I like the little games we play
skin to skin
it's only air between us
And me, not naked, but wanting to be
At times of drunken solitude
he wanders into realms of humiliation.
Strength of soul?
This derelict dignity is apparent to anyone
who would shut their mouth long enough to see
Lonely? ... no,
but the ice clanks welcomingly on the dewy glass
while his liver wails
Sad? ... no,
still any subjective observer judges aloud but silently
He died, he died so swiftly and it startled me
He is me, why this poetic pretense?
I wander into realms of humiliation
but guarded, and no one can see - much.
STOP
but wait
his soul aches weakly, vaguely, not really knowing why
this boy is lucky
he sees his own silly star, like a spotlight
and as the years pass, more dead souls wait for absolution
in the murky waters of abandoned regret
He'll be old and faded, stained with tears
rented by capitalists and
with all this, the knowing
that we, so mired in our conceived misfortunes
make the world hate us with our imagined discontent.
he wanders into realms of humiliation.
Strength of soul?
This derelict dignity is apparent to anyone
who would shut their mouth long enough to see
Lonely? ... no,
but the ice clanks welcomingly on the dewy glass
while his liver wails
Sad? ... no,
still any subjective observer judges aloud but silently
He died, he died so swiftly and it startled me
He is me, why this poetic pretense?
I wander into realms of humiliation
but guarded, and no one can see - much.
STOP
but wait
his soul aches weakly, vaguely, not really knowing why
this boy is lucky
he sees his own silly star, like a spotlight
and as the years pass, more dead souls wait for absolution
in the murky waters of abandoned regret
He'll be old and faded, stained with tears
rented by capitalists and
with all this, the knowing
that we, so mired in our conceived misfortunes
make the world hate us with our imagined discontent.
lost! all of it!
I can't find the disk with all my writing on it. I'm freaking out! I know it's here somewhere and, to be quite honest, it's mostly utter shit... but these are memories that I don't want to lose! Stupid, trivial scraps of idiocy from age 18 on. And I don't know where it is...
I'm going to post the few things I do still have, just to safeguard against fire or other un/natural disasters.
I'm going to post the few things I do still have, just to safeguard against fire or other un/natural disasters.
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