Poetry
we’re all the people
Apr 28th
i bore my soul like a hole to the core of the earth where i was born
i was born on the third day of man i was born of the dirt and the sand
we’re both made from clay but he’ll possess a soul on that day
i asked for less, eternal life for my land
so externally i am same as man, internally i’m just organs
a mind of my own, a heart and bones, a carbon skull
i am a man, i am a golem, i am a man, i have no problems
i understand the way the world works, i’ll live forever
until the world’s burnt up our ties severed
with the galaxy, we’re all family, and on jupiter
they laugh at me, and on saturn, they laugh at me
and on mars, they laugh at me, and in the sun
well they’re ok, because, they’re the same way, we’re just
immortals, so immortal, so immortal, so immortal
we’re walking graves, our saving grace
we know the way armageddon goes
we’re the talking dead, our saving grace
we speak in riddle we speak in poem
Freak of nature i’m a Judas i’m among the students
and the scholars of the parlors and the gardens of forgotten
and the confines of the common man are awful and rotten
and the packages and slabs of meat
and baggage and cracks in seats
and packs of people and tragedies
and drag the needle, and drag the needle and drag the needle and
don’t drag your feet
and purity and insecurity are so close
and purity and insecurity are so close
and i’m closer
and i’m closer
for the people that tore the steeple down
that burn the building that burn the church
and we’re all fleeting a bit disturbed
a bit of victims a pinch of earth
a pinch of salt and a pincher
a pair of needles
a pair of needles
a pair of eyes
i’m paralyzed
with the fear of a vengeful god
and with the tears of a vengeful god
and with the fear of a vengeful god
and with the fear of a temple lost
and i’m lost in ego, caught between those
awkward people that are so see-through
and are so eager to often please you
and drop the needle and drop the needle and drop the needle and
drop the needle in
drop
we’re walking graves, our saving grace
we know the way armageddon goes
we’re the talking dead, our saving grace
we speak in riddle we speak in poem
i’m a shell of a man, my round is spent
i’m intelligent and, so down to earth
i’m a poor excuse for drinking
a poor excuse for wine
a good time to be had
by all those aligned
by all those benign
by all those malign
by all those that i’m
forfeit
accounts closed, people far
away from here
the balance remains, a bit bizarre
get away from here
If I Bury my self Today
Dec 18th
If I bury my self, today where would I lie?
On a hill over looking a younger me, when I was held up high.
When I was cherished by my mother more than me;
By the father for the fact that I was what he used to be.
If I bury my self, today where would I lie?
In a field where a younger me would lay with womankind.
When I was loved for what I did. I acted when I was young.
For all the potential that I had. For what I might become.
If I could meet that younger me, perchance before I die,
I might tell him all I’ve learned. Would he ask me, ‘why?
Why spoil all the pain for me, everything I’ll endure?’
I was much wiser when I was younger, of this I am sure.
If I had to bury my self, today where would I lie?
Hopefully alone with no one else to cry.
Please don’t shed any tears for me; those I don’t deserve.
Don’t celebrate my being; act as if I never were.
For when I bury my self on the day before I die,
I’ll dig my grave in a riverbed, long since gone to dry.
Baked in unforgiving sun, where waters rarely rise,
I’ll bury me in cracking earth deep enough to hide.
And when the waters return, for surely as they’ll leave,
It’ll wash away the memories, what few you’ve had of me.
