The Colors of Fall
Lovers and loathing
going to the edge
meeting cowards and crows
experiencing vertigo
with timeless and timing
going together like
growing old.
We’re overlooking
and never ending
a stones throw from home.
Lovers and loathing
going together
looking over the edge
unafraid to loose control
and letting gravity
become a stones clone.
Defying geology
and never growing old.
Loosing telemetry
like cowards and crows.
Finding an enemy
by throwing some stones.
Lovers and loathing
coming together
igniting a spark
saying I love her
and blowing apart.
Suffocating the connection,
introducing some disorder.
Age is all becoming
but time is no matter.
Corruption and destruction
just the foreplay of disaster.
My love and their loathing
born connected at the heart
neutral enemies from the start
now drowning in their blood
and all the dirty words of lust
dying but still trying
crawling to the edge
guided by their cowards
and their crows
inside them where they grow
weak and vulnerable
just a stones throw
I think I know.
My love
the edge
two emotions
no corruption
just the wind
and the mist
and the sky
and the thin air
and the rocks
and the birds
and my memory
and my pain
and my love
and I don’t care
and I’m not lying
because it’s come this far
and leaping over the edge
with her in my heart
would be a beautiful depart.
Watercolor Imagination
The sky turns pink sometimes.
It’s because they know we’re feeling a bit blue too.
So they shake things up a little
just to show they can sometimes loose the truth.
Like as humans we sometimes do.
But hanging all their colors out to dry is so rude…
The sun blushes red.
like us humans, when we’re shown the truth.
I bet you think this is about you.
Less than three
It’s not easy to describe
how hard it is to find
the right kind of heart
with enough invigoration
to power the imagination
enough to envision
a canvas that stretches
across all the land masses.
I still cannot believe
that so much time is spent
searching for a map
that may or may not lead
to another puzzle piece
to build upon an ever growing picture
of what we’re supposed to feel and see
because it doesn’t really matter
if you can’t even fathom
the simple rule of fate
and the power that it creates.
It’s difficult to grasp
a concept so vast
as the ability to see
something coming to me.
but if you can truly feel
the mysterious vibrations
and delusional situations
chances are you can also see
with your eyes covered in light.
And it’s in that blinded state
that I think I may be in
and I don’t know where I am
but the ground feels real
and the old pictures in my mind
seem to have gone missing.
I don’t know what’s coming next
but I do know I can’t wait
And I don’t think I’m alone.
Two moons rising at once
I am at my wits end. All of this has got to come to some kind of conclusion. I don’t even know if it will help, but every day I don’t sleep is one more that I regret. So much regret pilled upon the sleeping agony is just going to awake a more disturbing, disgusting being than anything I have been able to describe thus far. I am sick of it. It’s making me sick. It feels like something has to be destroyed in order for the beauty we all once shone to come back to us again. It just feels like something has to break.
but
I’m probably the only one feeling the tension. In which case, I’m the one whose going to have to shatter.
I’ve read so many letters
that tell me I’ve got no clue
how do gray skies become blue?
can I draw a pastel night
paint a constellation right there
in plain sight?
Could we compare the epic feeling
to clawing the thin ice?
One of these days
It’s going to be true
I’m going to cut right through
explode into a billion tiny pieces
bend backward against all the creases
show you it’s not so blue
and when the sky becomes blood
you’ll see me come crashing down around you
so many parts of this puzzle
the jagged edges of truth
are going to stab right through.
Six months worth of advice could be summed up into a footnote with only one phrase. That text is what I want engraved on my tombstone, my epitaph. It would be my final bow to the power of the creative womb that we all find ourselves yearning for when we’re feeling so poor. But I would like to be buried facing west, so that if I’m dead when the final sun sets, perhaps I could have a view. I’m sure it would be beautiful.
I believe god
oddly enough, in love
and doves of beasts
as beautiful releases.
But adorn the sky
the color of lust
red on black
I saw jesus.
Leaves us behind
instead, loves some kind..
of monster that’s craving,
starving for flowers
to devour.
So confusing
I could care
but it’s so much less.
All I want
singing soft lullaby’s
so I can rest
to dream of it all
in jest.
It’s just hard for me to see. Someone should tell me. Maybe it’s not so difficult, maybe I’m just being ridiculous. But for ever contradiction, there’s a man waiting in an unemployment line. A boy outside an office waiting for his mother. A nervous teenage girl driving to the doctor. A middle aged woman declining slowly into insanity, and a father hiding from his ghosts. Karma has us all by the throat.
I don’t know.
Every single letter you utter turns a hellish red.
Mainstream tides collide with massive minds.
They call this the end with a soft beginning.
They say you should travel, and see what’s to be said.
Softer than a feather the streamline train
caries your thoughts far far away.
To a place I call home
and just for now, I’m all alone.
I call it the reckoning,
of all there is today.
Softer than a feather
my mellow heart beats.
The strum of an acoustic
aristocrats autistic.
A genius in disguise
questions just whats behind those
deep blue eyes.
Although I rarely understand,
I can tell you what they see.
in the dark black sea
where the imagination is scared to be
the mothers child awakes
and sings cryptophic keys.
bellowing from the depth
the beginning of an aftermath
vibrating psychopaths
are born to ground the seeds
of another apple tree.
our minds hard fought thoughts
are fighting toward the surface
searching for an escape
to begin their midnight tare.
we try to scour away
but it’s always in vain.
They are always our shadow
grasping our lungs for air.
and even though we sometimes fight,
Our breath always becomes theirs.
Amazing pictographs
of a world not so plain to see
is what lies behind these
deep blue seas.
Scary thoughts of disgusting imagery.
They are what we think
when the sound you make
doesn’t match the worlds beautiful landscape.
