Shiny Shoes, you stomp on me A soul, a helpless road Your heart a heavy burden My back a strongman's load Cursive Hands, you draw me well In bed near death once over My heart on canvas midnight black My dove a wretched lover Cherry Smile, you dance with me Near fire and mighty cliffs I sold my ships to grapple Your deadly siren's kiss Curly Hair, you blinded me My eyes I cannot give You want to learn my story I feel I have not lived
Author: -
(POETRY) Red Eyes
Red Eyes, come closer near I see what they cannot You blinded them with grace Their view- your malice blot You lift your legs and dance Like ashen rose near wildfire They light the limbs and raze To burn the child they sire Oh shed a tear and cry And damn the world once over To death and blackened Hell One deafened note all over Now press your lungs and sing Give birth to joyous tones Of how you love the chaos And fight the world alone You breathe and give me life Your vice is all but mine Your lips and smile are toxic But toxic like red wine You give me strength to stand And look upon the mirror I dream upon a foggy hill With you the haze grows clearer I wish the world to glare at me And beat me to the ground I hope the wind shall guide my way And lead me to your sound Red Eyes, your words are soft And I shall know your name They never look behind the mask You're smiling all the same
(SHORT STORY) The Fog
Both time and love had left the young boy, sitting in his room, Friday evening. He sat alone, his mother fast asleep, his father gone on a journey that lasted forever. He wondered what to do, his homework was done and the allure of his stories had faded.
The phone had wrung just two minutes ago. It was his friend Samuel. He probably wanted to play a board game or two, but really why bother? Samuel was draining to be around. He loved being around Samuel, but the time at school was more than enough.
A rough, damaged voice squeaked from the other room. It was the young boy’s mother, screaming at him to go to bed. He turned off the light and didn’t make a noise. He did not fall asleep though. Too much to think about.
He always felt guilty that he hadn’t spent more time with his poor mother. He knew that she loved him very much, and that his mother must be worried about him. He hadn’t left his room in 6 hours. He hadn’t played the piano in months. But he was too tired to do anything about it. It was either tired, or sad. He couldn’t decide.
His room was a mess, and he hated himself because of it. It always bothered him when things were not right or when things had not gone to plan. Plans were in the hatching everyday in his juvenile brain on how to fix it all. He would go to the gym, he would save some money, he would make more friends. But every night it knocked on the window, he would let it in.
It was the Fog, his dearest friend in life. It made the young boy feel important, like he had a purpose, like all life would be dull without it. All they would do- all they would ever do, on stormy nights and rainy days, is sit together, in their room, and enjoy eachother’s company. The young boy would open the window, and it would fill the room. He would open his mouth, and the Fog would fall into his head. His eyes rolled back, his muscles stiffened, his problems were fixed. All the knowledge he ever needed, all the pleasure he would ever need to obtain, the Fog provided.
Today he decided he’d float away with the Fog, never to the return. With a gust of fateful wind, the young boy rose to eternity and died never living.
(POETRY) To Kassandra
Your hazel eyes They woo me Remind me of a Thousand lost dreams Of love and mountain-tops Your tumbling hair It moves me Lifts me to a Heaven so wide Longing deeply for you Your pleasing smile It calls to me Draws me in closer To in your arms Sharing your needed warmth The way you speak It carries me Captivates me Through sleepless nights To share a word with you-
(POETRY) I’m sure I’ll live to see the day
I'm sure I'll live to see the day Of slashing waves and fields of grey Our world will turn a brand new leaf Of chaos wild and rampant grief The sun will turn and heat our stove We can't escape, our fated cove The men in white, they check the stars And all they see are jailor's bars It will be bright, that fated noon Too hot for plants, it's coming soon I hope you like, the realms of fire To sell your coal, there is no buyer The birds will die, a roasted duck The cats will fry, all out of luck The dogs will sing, their masters dead The bells will ring, with all that said
(POETRY) In fleeting, plotting crowds
Come with me, to trials unknown Your like is of the kind I wish to know so well Your skin is smooth of nurture Of all I care to breathe I soak in sweet pearly sweat- An accursed cure for lonely days Your swift hands and gentle touch Has sent me pains of needed hurt I read of books and tales of love You write the rosy, compelling words Of my lifelong battle-sonnet A song so coarse I sing Verse so cold and damning Warmed up by youthful vigor Of all that see the world unbound You give me cheerful eyesore On realms of rape and murder I want to need a curse like you Days spent unwhole have diseased My brain, my eyes, my soul The savior of my soul has come Yet body I must but see In fleeting, plotting crowds
(POETRY) Come roll, the chaotic thunder
A tempest of doves asunder Come roll, the chaotic thunder They ring and they clash Respect they did slash A flashy, red and blue wonder To live and see the madness To burn, the country of fatness Flags they did raise A maze that true pays To leave, a feeling of sadness A treaty is never in sight My head, a vacuum of blight Its corrupted my brain Aesthetics insane This land, a circus of might
Jog man: Volume two
The man who jogs He sat for a while He pondered and wandered About how his life About how his wife Was sold for a dream The man who collects stamps He left for the states Left him in ruin And left him in chains For now he had a job A job slicing meat The man who jogs Now stands near the line He chops at the tenders He thinks of his wife And one fated day That man with the stamps Came by his butchery debauchery And whispered in his ear This fated verse 'You cannot jog from what Ails you in time, I can only send you This endearing rhyme You work for the meatman You sell off your soul My bars do come swiftly My tongue, they do roll Our love was for real My heart you did take Imagine how much money My rapping could make Good luck with your slicing My condolences too Drive up on my lambo Their rhymes will not do.'
(POETRY) The pulsing fog
The pulsing fog, it sends me deeper Quickly to a place I'd rather not be The rise of life, it's growing steeper It strips my eyes so I cannot see The pulsing fog, I'm yet to escape Hanging in prison for crimes of lust The rapture of screens, the cult of rape My time in here is due and just The pulsing fog, it's killed my meter Ensemble of nine, to hell with all And I'll just hope and pray that I rhyme And hope the worms, remember my time
(One page stories) An elderly mugging
On Monroe Street, Jason waits patiently for his next victim. A procession of wood workers, linemen and other inscrutable tradesmen parade by his alley, but his net is not hoisted for them. He has a certain breed of fish to catch today; aged, flopping carp. He had established his trade many years ago on Elm, forcefully taking dollar and dime from any man, woman, or dog with loose hanging currency. After many unfruitful days on Elm Street, as well as constant police intervention, the business was moved to greener pastures, to Monroe Street, where he mugs old women every day.
An ancient woman passes his corner. It strikes him odd, as the woman did not move with fleeting pace, as so many do while in the neighborhood. This woman moves throughout the detested street as if a thousand eyes were watching her and she cared not one bit. Perfect prey, perfect surroundings. He pounces.
Jason springs from his alley with his beating stick in hand, and a hungry conviction, to harass the woman into submission. He forcibly taps her knees, sending her to the ground at once. He mutters his words of business; his threats, his insults, his leverage on her money. But she responds not with her wallet, nor with her lips, but with a line of sight. Her eyes posses less fear than a king in a castle, as if her mugger had fell flat on the biggest joke in the world; and this violates him, and his eyes inflame with fear she failed to possess. And the joke produces a crowd.
Out from the tributary streets comes a militia of elders, equipped with nothing less than handbags and walking sticks. A storm brews and torments the solitary criminal. Strength came in numbers as countless old timers bludgeon the salesmen with their respective wares. His whole is bruised and broken, but still they batter on in unyielding camaraderie. His cheek fills with sour blood as business carries on late into the night.
alexander_timothy 