The Next OneHere it comesMy heart starts poundingNot with insecurityAn excitement feelingHis beautiful brown hairThe white pearly smileThe hazel coloring eyes of hisEvery Love Story I listen toHe is thereIn my imaginationIn my heartWho is he?He's the next oneHere I go again
Ode To The Special SnowflakeIf I'm without a heartWhy am I still living,Still breathing steadily?Can you tell me that?Seems like your wiresAre crossed, they're tightlyKnotted around your neck.No wonder you're suffocating.Don't expect an apology.I'll never admit to somethingI'm not guilty of in the first place.So why don't you grow up?If there's anyone you shouldBlame for your insecuritiesIt's yourself, not anyone else.The likes of you showNo signs of intelligence.So quick to judge, you blowThings out of proportion.You're a pathetic brat trappedIn an adult's body; how canYou be taken seriously whenYour attitude is obnoxious?You really believe you're theOnly one with issues? Take a wideLook around, princess, becauseEveryone has troubles of their own.Your lack of basic comprehensionIs something I find very laughable.Either you're stupid or immature.
The Graveyard ShiftMy bones are sore and cracky,this coffee goes right through me,this schedule makes me whacky,and it’s much too dark to see!My friends, they all are buried,But I work all through the night!I have no time to be scarybecause I work when there’s no light!I miss the days when I was young and nighttime was for haunting,A good kid-scaring in the dark is all that I’ve been wanting.But I have to work the Graveyard Shift before I can rest my bones,to pay the debt that I am due for taking out those loans.
white noisethis is not a love poemrather,a quiet reminderscribbled in the spacesbetween dreams and wakingthat the reasons I love youare still inked on my skin.my heart has four chambers -one of them is probably a radio station.love songs don't come as easilyas anthem rock and afternoon blues,but transatlantic static never stopped my poetry.humans aren't quite made for long drives, we likepit stops and motels clean as they come,and switching in between stationsbut once in a while we like to make road tripsto that place where the crickets can sing.and in these moments I rememberthat screaming at satellitesonly brings me back to echoes -you arethe white noise in my life,quiet and constant,filling in my empty spaces.
The Girl Who Waitedshe waits patiently at the farthest edge of the pier and wonders, "kind world, how long is long enough and to what end do we begin?"she studies and appreciates the ethereal dreamscape,nature's magic dancing before her eyes in such proud displaywith violet skies and waves never betraying her reflection.she waits patiently at the farthest edge of the pier and wonders, "when will the sun make up its mind on whether it will set or sleep?"as her feet coolly bathe amidst the ocean's loyal embrace,she glimpses the vista that her heart would gladly fall into,but who is to provide comfort if she is to fall too deep?she waits patiently at the farthest edge of the pier and wonders, "laden with worship of glory, does nature not deserve to rest?"she ext
One nightA Man walking down the streetsaw someone down on his luckHe looked to the shivering bumand said "My friend, you look stuck"The dirty man looked up and said"I'm cold but thank you very much."Confused he replied "I haven't donea thing, no money no food or such""You acknowledged my existence,and called me a friend" he started to say"You took the time to stop,looked me in the eye and asked if I was ok""Not many people do these thingsit's like I'm not even here,""Their heads in technology or ear to phonethough those who notice, leer""If you have time, this sidewalk's freecome have a little sit.""I'll tell you the storyof how I ended up in a ditch."The man looked around, not sure...then thought what could it hurt.He dusted the sidewalk with his hatand said "Hello my name is Kurt""Kurt my friend, when I was youngI was strong and lived my life""I was someone back then,not this pathetic looking sight""I've had regrets but did you knowregrets pile up with age""The t
31. FlowerYou, my love, are like a flower:Delicate petals in heavy galeFacing shower after showerOf icy rain, snow and hail.Delicate petals in heavy galeCaught in winter's deadly clingOf icy rain, snow and hailStill you'll bloom in spring again.Caught in winter's deadly clingFacing shower after showerStill you'll bloom in spring again:You, my love, are like a flower.
You Think You're LuckyYou think you're lucky.So happy to have me.But I don't understand,What it is you see.You're so smart,And funny and sweet.Compliments and smilesEvery time we meet.Don't you see I'm crazy.Parts I can't control.You'll never have my heart,At least not in full.I've already hurt you.It won't be the last.If I were you I'd leave.Run away fast.Why aren't you leaving?Saying goodbye?I just don't getThat look in your eye.Why you feel this way,I don't understand.But I'll make sure to keep itAnyway I can.
On the Unsuitability of Fairytales for AdultsMy dear Lucy,I wrote this story for you, but when I began it I had not realized that girls grow quicker than books. As a result you are already too old for fairy tales, and by the time it is printed and bound you will be older still. But some day you will be old enough to start reading fairy tales again. You can then take it down from some upper shelf, dust it, and tell me what you think of it. I shall probably be too deaf to hear, and too old to understand a word you say, but I shall still beyour affectionate Godfather,C.S. Lewis– Dedication of The Lion, The Witch, and the WardrobeSome time ago I wrote an open letter on the supposed unsuitability of fairytales for children, criticizing the notion that children should be sheltered from fairytales. Another view, even more prevalent, is that fairytales are an exclusively children's literature, the rightful
Vertebraewe dressed oursalt burns;purloined ribbons& bone crownsspitting static throughour buzzing t.v. teethyou're a silent migraine:blue-blooded, honey-soaked[& i want to be somethingtoo pristine totouch]
come inShe is a rain-soakedneon sign at eight o’clockon a Thursday night.Her light is too cold,pipes twisted, full of fluid,I’m open, she says.The door is always openIsn’t that what I’m here for?Isn’t that my job?Hollow, dim, dull,there’s not much else she can do.Come in here, she says.At 1AM ona Sunday, she’s still open.Chemicals buzzing.
Head WoundThe world at large spins and soars around the sunIt’s all red to me, peering at it beneath a bloody ragI drove my bicycle into a brick wall todayStrange things leaked from the cracks in my skullTiny spider-monsters, oven cleaner, crumpled pagesAshes and diamonds, pieces of eight, stardust, milkI lay behind a dumpster leaking for years and yearsBelow the ‘No Exit’ neon sign, before it was replacedWith a Wal-Mart, where I was a Valued CustomerThey bandaged me up, gave me a shot of morphineAnd one of those little carts so I could continue shoppingI bought a gun
In northern landsIn northern lands sometimes the leaves whisper when they fall Saying "We'll see you in the spring again" But the trees always wave hello I stay awhile We talk of things we've seen and done how good it's always been We promise never to say goodbye as long as we remember I really like talking to trees They have such long sweet memories.Lancelot Price 2013 September 16
midnights always last longer than they should.i spend sleepless nights in my roomstaring at your picture on my mirrorand wondering why on earth someone as beautiful as youwould ever love someone like me,but then i rememberyou don't.
whispers.i was so hesitantto take your hand,because when you said you loved mei knew you meant itand that scared the hell out of me.
rain.i still have buckets in my roomfrom when you poured your heart out.plastic pails full of pain and loveand lust and tears and names and smiles.i don't know why i keep them...maybe i hope one day you'll come backto claim them.or when i'm being really dumbi let myself hope that you'll come back anywayfor me.
i think most people would call you a regret.you're the mistake i'd gladly makefor the rest of my life.but i'm just a few saturday nightsback in november.
Oh np, would you like to read a poem I made?