poetryfreak15

It's nothing big or Amazing. It's a small river running Down a hill. That's all. Nothing more. I couldn't tell you the Name of it. Few people could. Most don't even know Where it is. But--- Maby that's just it. It's hidden from the world. It's still left, pure And alone. It's simple and natural- Which alone makes it Beautiful.

What the hell is wrong with all the world, We sit back and watch while others hurt. Why can't you see that the world is on the edge, And you're just gonna go down with all the rest? You've gotta see it now, we're all just spiraling down.... And there's nothing worth it now.... Nothing left to care about..... The world is dead.... But we're still moving on.

Headaches and noises. Tolerance and annoyences. Energy and sleep. Work and fatigue. Quiet. Awake. Alone. Sinking deep between Lightness and darkness. Memories and dreams. Sleep and wakefulness. Here and there. And floating just above despair. Living in a dream. Just above a nightmare. Just below the world.

Let's be honest. I hate the sight of you. I hate seeing you- every morning. Every afternoon- every night. You're always there. In the middle of my life- Like a cuckoo bird in a thrush's nest. An oversized misfit outstaying it's welcome. You're not supposed to be here. Just like the child with a lazy mother. We never wanted you. But here you are- Born from mistakes and circumstance. And you know it. You've always known it. You know that every word- every look- the slightest touch. Is a pound of the hammer, Beating the nail you've put to my head. And it's reaching through my think skull- To pierce my mind. To poison my thoughts. To bring it a

Long drives to Nowhere Land. Christmas eve at grandma Doup's. Bowling alleys and skating rinks. Gas stations and laundro matts. ciggaretts and drive throughs. Iced tea and cherry coke. Everything that means a thing, Everything means you. Fishing trips and late-night walks. blackberries and mushrooms. Bike paths and grandpa talks. Brick hats and reese cups. Blue eyes verse green eyes. Blonde hair verse no hair. Hat searches, ripped jeans. Lost furbys, and lost boys. Everything that means a thing. Everything means you. Old guitars and new strings. Harmonicas while I sing. Oxymorons, idioms. 12-year- old editors. Onomonopeia. Wonder what it mean

The father: With a burning cigar between caving lips he carves into the soft flesh of the maple slab resting gently upon arthritic knees. His shaking hands dance across burned wood and yellowed walls with a dripping paintbrush, and a wet sponge. He can barely see his work, but he still carves. He can barely hold a brush, but still he paints. The Son: The tips of his calloused fingers dance across the golden strings of an old accousic, the smooth neck resting in the soft crevice between thumb and fingers. This other hand dances to another rythm across the golden tightrope of strings. And it's hard to tell if they play the music or merely danc

He sits atop his mushroom bed, And old cigar in hand. The smoke he blows Takes shape- of butterflies And snakes. He askes me who I am And denies all that I say. He is the caterpillar. My grandpa ceterpillar.

Guitar is a failed attempt- better left behind. Writing is a major flaw that is never getting fixed. Flute is a growing pain, better left to die. Reading needs the concentration which I clearly lack. Music is a cruel noise that kills me inside out. Food is just a tool made to comfort, then to kill. Sleeping is a lovely gift that I cannot accept. Nightmares, the punnishment for all I don't deserve. And thoughts are haunting spirits that watch me 'till I die. Well.... That leaves me now with what?

The lightning bugs from the end of June. The prettiest of all of them. August lightning bugs were dim. I never noticed the rest. But I clearly remember the ones of that month. They were dim until the end- Now they're finally starting to die.

In the woods behind an old shed- In an overgrown little clearing- Just beside a fallen tree- Is a swing set.