#passion #poetry #art #my words #soapbox
That guy holding the gun
That guy isn’t me
That guy sitting alone
Slouching over in the back corner booth
No that guy isn’t me
Licking his lips
Remember the taste
Blackpowder and gun oil
Life going around
Tracing circles at the end of the trap line
Start to finish
Angel wings flutter above and devils claw up from below
No tomorrow just today
Raging hard on testosterone
Anger and adrenaline addiction
I’m that great friend who you always feel happy to see. That one you can always depend on to give you his last dollar. The one who listens to your story and helps you remember where you left off in case your mind goes off topic. I remember you and I can tell if you are sick or have something you’re wanting to hide but really need to talk about.
I sincerely care. Prefer giving a compassionate and manly hug. The kind that can be disarming but reassuring. The strength of which has soaked up more snot flowing tears throughout the years than Kleenex and Brawny combined.
I honestly love you for your own weakness and fears. I also am more proud than any parent when I see you conquer those unseen hurdles we all find in life.
You are beautiful. It is the greatest thing in my life to know you. You know I mean it.
I just have one thing that has bothered me. I know it’s bothering you as well because every time we make eye contact you have to guiltily glance away into some awkward place. I see the sides of your cheeks become pulled in as you grind the soft flesh between your teeth. I hear how your breathing pauses and then is released in a low nasal breath. It’s like the scent of the air about you suddenly stagnates.
I suppose it has.
Don’t invite me to a wedding. As much as I love them. I know there are two lists; One is your friends, the other is his or hers. Quite honestly I don’t ever make both. It’s great. I understand. I don’t justify the extra cost of setting a place at the reception. Just don’t lie to yourself and think I didn’t notice the lack of the formal invitation.
We both know when the service was. Get over it.
Just remember that because you didn’t stand up for what you wanted from the beginning chances are your marriage isn’t going to be all peaches and cream.
Your sacrifices are just beginning, and I get to hear all about them.
Love was king and Pleasure his queen
Back in the days I thought I knew something
Like the coming of the summer rain
with thunder rattling the window seal
And the lightenings flash crisp and bright
Burning the sky with white streaks of light
Now I’m just a wasted old man
Lost in an age I can’t understand
I’m a lonesome beggar in a foreign land
No dreams of the future
Only nightmares from my past
What ever happened to chivalry and the age of high romance
Of living life truthful and roaming free
With a gallant heart overflowing with beauty and poetry
But that was back in the days I thought I knew a thing
When Love was king
And Pleasure his queen
Before the sky was a Persian blue
A time before I watched the nights bloom
With missiles and rockets and white plume trails
I long for life before the devil knew my name
Before in blood I signed my life away Odd that in youth the thought didn’t matter as much
Early morning light trickles in. It’s magic how the rays of light bend around the heavy curtains. They press their way in between hard plaster wall and the softer weave of cloth.
I watch the silence. Slow lines form into faded shapes. I wait. Eventually from the broken gray and dappled shades the day outside will find your picture set upon the shelf. Then your voice will call to me.
Past and future find me here. Lost alone with you, my love. A ghost upon the shelf.
War wounds open up again. Flag draped coffins carried out as gently as a baker’s dozen for display.
Strong shoulders bend beneath the reality of their death.
Impudent, impotent old crow in a hurry to pick clean the bones of other kills ruffles his feathers and stares at the sun checking the time.
I would hurl a stone at his head in the hope to do harm but the gore crow smells a meal and wouldn’t let go no matter.
People seem to take pride of their choice. They praise the theft of life as the murder flocks to the feast.
I say string each croaking feather from tall white pillars and let wind and gravity bear witness to the crime.
Just a few more days. If I can hold out for just a few more days then the minutes carrying me up to that moment will be forgotten.
I keep telling myself that. I don’t believe it. I can’t believe it.
I’ve been here before, sat in this very same chair. I’ve watched and witnessed an eternity of failed attempt’s pass by.
Nothing ever changes. Not even the name.
The Traveller sat dumbfounded. How was it he had managed to become lost in such a familiar world. The directions and landmarks had been worn like an old cow trail into his brain. Yet for some reason he had managed to make a misstep. The Traveller had become lost.
Standing in one place and waiting for a rescue was not an option. Panic wasn’t an option either but it was going to be.
“What the fuck…”
Pat sat disinterested in the menu before him. The choices were many but the flavors they offered bland. The same old thing with the the same old spices.
Pat was sick of the choices. Pat was ready to go somewhere new even if new was some greasy meal wagon in the slum side of town.
“Change would be worth a case of the shit’s’.
The Sage sat tensely in his seat. His body rigid, head bowed, forehead covered in sweat. On occasion the old scholar would let out a low groan, then catching himself making the noise, he would shift uneasily in his seat and clench his hands in pain.
Before him sat a book opened to a grotesque drawing of the large intestine. A bookmark dutifully protecting his place.
From one of the dark and disembodied corners of the room a familiar voice was muttering.
“You get what you pay for. Change sucks dick.”
In the shadows lay a daemon
Lurking quiet beneath the trees
Stalking silent amongst the leaves
Until opportunity came to be
Then the devil stole from me
Stole in a whisper a love so dear
Left of her no trace to see
None would ever hold again
The soft shape and elegant line
Of her beauty so devine
Lost to the living
For all time
Except in memory
Shared in rhyme
False Promises Nouveau 