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When you think of love you imagine a kiss,
Or some long lost person you dearly miss,
And the heart holds time and goes like this:
A stranger in the rain holds a note and it's for you.
The words are muddled, and the truth is true.
Then you fall on tracks and hurt your back.
You curse the rain, the train, and the love you lack.
That's what happens when you love and they don't love back.
The person you are thinking of is not quite the person you are thinking of, but close.
Thoughts arrive and they fail to meet the image.
That person is as vibrant and as changing as you are.
Are you a set thing?
Habit gives way to summaries. It's easy that way.
So into your outlook the other is an easy piece of time.
And into yourself a load of confusion.
Outside its cold,
My bones feel old
This bed is fine
But its time...:(
I'm not all that stunned nor astounded by the crazy antics of others.
I see them in myself.
Oh, I see them. The people and the antics.
I see a world of ignorance, and self-absorption.
Contained in this is a sad lack of awareness.
Intelligence is so rare but we have it.
Mostly though we are chasing a fantasy.
Each passing thought has its place I suppose, in this unread diary of self.
How dull it is.
It lacks acuity, sharpness.
You will pass from one frivolity to another, daily, hourly, within minutes.
This just happens, though we pay little heed. It's not poetry, it lacks beauty.
It's life, the daily encumbrances, the withdrawal and the satisfaction.
You will fade, and habit will have its way.
With this, you and I will commingle. There need not be separation.
The seething consciousness will see that there is no division.
Whatever you are, I will never know, as sure as I have no awareness
Of all the stuff that goes on in the restless outlook.
Everything is ordinary.
Everything is blessed.
Everything sings out for joy
When through the heart it's pressed.
Winter leaves like a bad roommate. Takes its sweet time.
Pick up your stuff, and go, you jerk.
Nah, I was here for months, what's another month?
The crows are there, noisy, stupid, and hungry.
The crow of winter will not go just because you want it to.
It will take its time, you know what crows are like.
Not feeling fine and I haven't seen dandy,
people walking on the colder side of the window,
and I'm here sipping on coffee and over-worked
hands which touched the beans I'm digesting.
What team do I belong to, and why is it so hard
to puzzle this world together? We don't need politics,
but three steps ahead, and one roll of a dice,
we'll pick it up again to start carving up what we can never
let go.
We love chalk boards and blue papers filled with promising
numbers, lines, and shape. We will want them
when we are older.
We don't need clothes, we don't need paper, and we don't
need morals. We don't need peace, we don't need war,
we need to be told what we need and what we don't.
We can learn to draw and learn to piece,
but in the end, haha, it does not mean a dick,
even if you want to invert the sand clock,
stop faking - you still learned to draw from someone else.
Even if you learned to draw all by yourself, you would not
learn to love your art, but simply see it as a need.
I don't know what to make of all this greed
but I feel guilty for enjoying my coffee
and looking out the coffee shop window.
My meaning and feeling is not pushing boulders
up hills or making rocks, no,
it is to look out of coffee shops.
What are simple lines dispensed
in mellow stanzas? yeatsian beauty.
and those pessimism that whitens
every poem like clay?
larkin's shining head with a hollow stare.
more than that,we have laureates who
summarized that the night is wide
despite lingering on a narrow bed
for either cave or snake.
what if,all of them died of famine(the living ones)
because the poetry industry is giving way
to lyrics and songs;
will some one write a poem as sad,as narrow
as though straight from the womb;
fresh baby
coming to birth to witness the dead?
- Majesty
All you got you deserved
All the roadways down
and the fickle light you fell for
When the butcher came down hard and slashed
You cried but you asked for it
And when you forgot that in the pocket of thought
all the things you imagined and forgot
wherein you yourself was the observer and the observed
You ended up all chopped
Cut in slices and back into the butcher shop
A hungry slab of meat
He spoke of possibility and for that little flash that happens, was it even a full second?
When there was nothing going on, that great emptiness that has no word.
Until the funnel of thought returned and bastardized the whole thing.
Then he made an idea of it. And that ruined it.
He wanted to keep it. That was the problem.
You don't keep these things. They come and go.
So you return to the old and the known.
These are what you are.
Except, occasionally, you will disappear.
When you're aware, the other will fade.
That's beauty.
The contest for who had the hardest time was not well attended.
The winner couldn't make it.
The ones who showed up to brag about how rotten things were and had been got tomatoes thrown at them.
The audience was sure they belonged on the stage.
Ultimately the event was cancelled. The host was not feeling well.
humble makes me think about
life
I realise an action has a reason
and a reason has a heart
so I treat it
and it gives back
time
spend less
and I get the rest
I guess it is for the best.
what remains impress.
I think I'm on the spot.
So whatever I write is
To the point or on point,
Or is that only on radio?
I think I finally found the spot
Upon which I can write.
I'll sit and sit and sit and sit
And then I'll think a lot
And when I'm finally sick of it
I'll write what I have got.