Laughing Flowers, Smiling Villains

I wonder who still follows this….

Someday will be the bestday,

Covered in longheld wishes

Of a few weeks time:

Someday is coming soon.

Waking up is just like falling asleep

(In the proper state of mind, at least)

Death is more glorious than this life

However wondrous it may have been.

Death’s sting has broken off in my back

He’s just another bee gone to rest

Dreaming of olden milk/honey days:

Then, there were monsters.

How strange the passing of my soul will seem,

How infinitely foolish I shall appear;

Trapped in archaic forms of former thought:

These we still hold timeless

And give away as memories,

Wrapped in a final gesture of silence.

Exhaled dreams pass through me

As twisted tongues of smoke

Mingling with celebratory fog

Sunshine’s day has gone away

And left us with a bag

Of empty bottles broken into

The ideas they were comprised of

(not a thought was taken for consumption)

So drink and imbibe the

Shifting essence of clouds,

Their pictures loping wide across the sky

Like dust puffed up with it’s own importance

Wishing to be like no others.

And then probably vanish again. Ah well, c’est la vie. (my apologies to any French speakers if I spelled that wrong)

Caring is a two way street

Undermined by our petty attempts at

Self indulgence.

So I’ll let the chaos-determined pattern

Of freshly sharpened falling pencils

Determine the route:

Surely the school knows where it’s going.

Surely our blindness isn’t shared universally.

Yet I’m still wandering through these woods;

Left grasping at palm trees for answers.

Tonight, dream of candy sweet memories

A treat that’s fit for any King

(excise any portions pertaining to joy)

Tonight, dream of joys denied for a good cause

And reward me far better than Salieri

(Again, any pleasures must not be allowed to remain)

Tonight, dream off into desperate oblivion/freedom

Until every feeling except love has been extinguished

(Ah, now he’s got it.)

As the unfortunate offspring

Of American pride

Swelled into hot air balloons

And died,

Indigestion was indicated

Prior to their demise.

Stuffed full of arrogance and hate

Disguised as irony, they

Were consumed

By their own voracious appetites.

Peter prepared to perish

For misdeeds perceived

Only potentially in dreams

Devised some days ago

By devil’s devices and by demons

Dwelling in deep, dark dens

Of iniquity indwelt in all

Indications of such indiscretions:

These were called truth (not lies)

Rhythm is the key

To a new appreciation of melody

Tenderly conceited columns

Contain ink congealed with water

Mixed with our blood

(Shed both accidentally and purposely)

Mediums determine so much

But only grant a passing clarity

That I could have lived without

A patchwork quilt does not

Retain continuity throughout:

It flows like the rivers in our veins

And the fires in our souls

(Which when combined created

conflagrations most chaotic)

Red is the color of blood and love:

The beautiful intersections of passion

That we embrace daily

I am a Composite Personality

To claim any differently would be sheer hypocrisy

Cast off bits from passing souls

Have wandered through the holes

That they left in my heart

(The pursuance of grief was once my highest art)

I am a Swiss Cheese Soul

Filled up with American, Cheddar, and Mold

No laughing, blinking, nodding slumbers

Any second chances were torn asunder

(Last night, with stares through a vacant window)

All you could see was the clouds, not the rainbow.

I am a Prism Character

Written with diverse reflections

Taken from various sources of envy

A love, a hate, a quirk, an obsession

Stolen and dispatched to find happiness

(or love or hate)

Gladness, sadness….any difference between them

Merely lies in perception

As flawed as any ideals of beauty.

Four minutes to live and die

And to make love to the

Virgin page whose beauty I

Besmirch daily (to my great regret)

Three minutes to pluck out a poignant

Song to tug at overwrought heartstrings

Stretched beyond their limit.

Two minutes to decipher smudged scrawls

Meant to contain some beauty.

One minute to show you how

I love you…a thousand years

Would be too little.

Fin.

flawsstitchedwithgoodintentions:

Speckles of dust, captured,

Frozen by the warmth of

Summer’s brightened rays.

 

Beyond them is where my

Focus lay (though I could

never admit it), upon you.

 

There you were, sitting

Behind your Baroque

Styled oak wood desk.

 

Embodying the ivory

Inlays, your skin glistened,

Holding my gaze, just as

You held your leather-bound

Dickens novel.

  

It was in that instant,

You glanced at me,

The specks began to move

The warmth instead freezing me.

Ignorance was attempted

But not feigned, though it

Didn’t matter, for your novel

Held you once more.

And all I could think was,

Please, miss, may I have some more?

 

My interpretation of ichosetheredpill/singerofsights’ poetry

flawsstitchedwithgoodintentions’s poetic impersonation of my work….wow. Phenomenal. It really is.

This isn’t a haiku.

I do not write to please you:

I write to survive.

I am still alive,

With the best of intentions

An intervention

Carried on with poise

Lacks the charm possessed by boys

Or girlish sweetness.

You see my meekness?

It waits under wooden porches.

Find it with torches

Hunt it with foxes

Who hide in rotting boxes

Made by simpletons

Understanding exceeds arbitrary values

Set by feeble minds

Locked in garden sheds

For excessive periods of time

Until their melons turned to water

And shifted into the 73rd percentile.

ENJOY THE SHOW.