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Literature Text
Every night,
Down this road I walk,
Clairvoyant in perpetual insomnia,
Pencil etches of truth and fantasy,
Criss-cross my vision,
Fourteen cups of 5am coffee,
Still no closer to reality,
A solitary car passes me,
Like consciousness,
Through my net like mind,
It escapes me,
Streetlights of piteous constraint,
Revealing nothing more,
Yet revel in what they supposedly divulge,
Like pretentious picture frames
Puddles coat the road in truth,
Like any other mirror,
Mocking,
Criticizing the insecure,
Haunting the Vain,
Yet my only friend,
Hides the false and only speaks fact
The joy of truth,
Revealed from a fragile mind,
Solitude
Down this road I walk,
Clairvoyant in perpetual insomnia,
Pencil etches of truth and fantasy,
Criss-cross my vision,
Fourteen cups of 5am coffee,
Still no closer to reality,
A solitary car passes me,
Like consciousness,
Through my net like mind,
It escapes me,
Streetlights of piteous constraint,
Revealing nothing more,
Yet revel in what they supposedly divulge,
Like pretentious picture frames
Puddles coat the road in truth,
Like any other mirror,
Mocking,
Criticizing the insecure,
Haunting the Vain,
Yet my only friend,
Hides the false and only speaks fact
The joy of truth,
Revealed from a fragile mind,
Solitude
Literature
A Poem Unwritten -Revised 2010
"a poem unwritten" -alternate version
this is a poem unwritten
told by a father who still exists
it's about a boy no longer
and a town that fell asleep
the boy broke the cycle
and ended the piercing silence
he fought with his life
so the people may live longer
but the father was left alone
and now he has a body to bury
this never should have happened
but this is a poem unwritten
told by a father who still exists
that day in class
the boy didn't pay attention
as wrote a poem unwritten
when the boy raised his head
looking for an audience
he found a violent silence
when he raised his hand
to show and tell his poem unwritten
Literature
kaleidoscope.
Even though it is said that the human eye can see about 16.8 million different colors, we're all pretty much color blind in the end.
Today, I am blue, and you are red; today the fear begins again.
The sky is a milky white and your eyes are an empty grey, but you somehow still manage a smile: this is the first thing I notice. The second is that your shoes are untied, then that your gaze seems unfocused, then that your hair is a disaster, then that your voice sounds like rain – and I hate rain.
You catch my stare.
I turn away because I am afraid.
You are uncertainty and unpredictability, and for this, I hate you; the unexpected is a d
Literature
Decendant of Darkness
Angels of death consumes your
Anguished calls.
You fight.
You beg.
Undulating laughter echo from the darkness
In my heart.
I am the forgotten.
I am the reaper.
The evil cries out,
As I watch in silent awe.
The remnants of your mind
Is lost in the storm of death
that surrounds you.
There is no escape.
There is no resistance.
Here from the world i control.
The hearts echos their surrender.
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There is something so creative about being up at 5am, when the world makes total sense from a different perspective
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Agreed. I find that morning is enigmatically hypnotic and quietly energetic. Very well done, I find that I can easily relate to the poem. It's very good.