There's a shelf up on the wall
above the toy chest and the bed
The box full of cigars he smoked,
their smoky memory in there somewhere
Now change- pennies, nickels, dimes,
A CD to commemorate the times
and a letter tucked into the case
Pen-scratched letters dancing across it's face.
She didn't care but what could have been
is enough to tuck away,
And eventually all those collected pennies
will be enough change to take back someday.
Now neglect- dust assembles and marches
across the border, slowly peeling,
curling the paper up into ugly arches,
and that smoky memory fades.
Now find- old breath blows away the smoke,
Lifts the c
Some people say they dream in color
Others say they see black and white
I dream my dreams in film noir
In ideas, shadows, and light.
I once had a dream I saw myself die,
And in a puddle of water and rain did I lie,
and a man stepped out of the shadows to stare at me,
as I was, at my corpse, with his gun still held free
in one black gloved hand inside a dark trenchoat,
black hair, brown hat, a thousand scars of emotion.
He looked up and I realized he had no face,
his features were a blur in the rain and light,
but they were bland and empty and hollow.
His coat parted slightly to reveal a nametag,
simply titled "Mr. Grim."
The sh
I turned the old TV on last night.
Goverments are still having fights.
Newly-wed was slashed,
and a three-year old's heart had failed.
Another plane took a deadly dive,
Some old soldiers marched out their tragic lives,
and a few more teenagers were sent to jail.
A heroin addict was beaten to death.
The cops have the weapon but nothing else.
And the stock is rising, insert yawn.
Another shooting in the bad part of town.
They found the gun buried underground.
Worst of all, it was in a family's lawn.
A psychopath found himself a gun,
shot five dead and then he was done.
And a million more died of starvation far away.
Another city
7)
Physical rhythmns of a
fat tremendous
bitter delicious
color
dark delights whispering
pretty movies in black and
white and soothing
shadows
8)
Her
nightfire
eyes
purple and translucent
whisper quiet
rough wild
caramel aches
ancient operator of
men and music
producing
skywater glaciers
of chainbreak stitches
9)
Veins red
and orange and sketchy
capture her DNA form
Opera baby
Long legs
Longing for picturesque
grace
She drinks
liquid flame
and her presence is burning
preceded by spice
and epilogued by fire
10)
Ni
This is a love poem.
It's not a very good love poem
because I don't dot my i's with hearts
or doodle cutesy images on the sides.
It doesn't have rolling images
of romantic moons or meaningful momnents,
and it's lacking in cliched images
and oh-so-lovely-obvious wordplay.
It's not an epic, it's not a sonnet,
and I've not compared
her eyes to stars,
her lips to colors,
her skin to textures,
her breath to flowers,
or her breasts to fruit.
I haven't even said if she's pretty,
or that I love her for or in spite of it.
So what if I don't metaphor her into
a heroine of old,
or a fiery goddess,
or declare her my Helen of Troy,
an
Who are you, and what am I?
Remember me? I touched the sky
I flew too hard and burned too fast
Dreams like mine, they just don't last
I touched the sun on feathered limbs
I satisfied my wildest whims
But I burnt out, and I fell down
My body wasn't ever found
But don't remember me for how I failed
I embody all the dreams that've sailed
So who are you, and what am I?
Remember me? I wasn't afraid to fly.
Sometimes when I close my eyes,
I see angels. They are dancing.
And then the darkness stills,
and time flies,
and there are images prancing
across my mind.
Setting moons. Rolling hills.
People I've loved. People I've lost.
Sometimes I make mistakes.
Sometimes there's costs.
But there's always angels in my mind.
Sometimes they're especially hard to find.
They creep across the shadows
no longer bright in their beauty,
but a fright,
for they are no longer what I have,
but what I no longer have.
And so in their divine inspiration
They become my lamentation
And my nightmares are no longer
of devils and darkness,
things chasing
Who are you, and what am I?
Remember me? I touched the sky
I flew too hard and burned too fast
Dreams like mine, they just don't last
I touched the sun on feathered limbs
I satisfied my wildest whims
But I burnt out, and I fell down
My body wasn't ever found
But don't remember me for how I failed
I embody all the dreams that've sailed
So who are you, and what am I?
Remember me? I wasn't afraid to fly.
This is a love poem.
It's not a very good love poem
because I don't dot my i's with hearts
or doodle cutesy images on the sides.
It doesn't have rolling images
of romantic moons or meaningful momnents,
and it's lacking in cliched images
and oh-so-lovely-obvious wordplay.
It's not an epic, it's not a sonnet,
and I've not compared
her eyes to stars,
her lips to colors,
her skin to textures,
her breath to flowers,
or her breasts to fruit.
I haven't even said if she's pretty,
or that I love her for or in spite of it.
So what if I don't metaphor her into
a heroine of old,
or a fiery goddess,
or declare her my Helen of Troy,
an
7)
Physical rhythmns of a
fat tremendous
bitter delicious
color
dark delights whispering
pretty movies in black and
white and soothing
shadows
8)
Her
nightfire
eyes
purple and translucent
whisper quiet
rough wild
caramel aches
ancient operator of
men and music
producing
skywater glaciers
of chainbreak stitches
9)
Veins red
and orange and sketchy
capture her DNA form
Opera baby
Long legs
Longing for picturesque
grace
She drinks
liquid flame
and her presence is burning
preceded by spice
and epilogued by fire
10)
Ni
I turned the old TV on last night.
Goverments are still having fights.
Newly-wed was slashed,
and a three-year old's heart had failed.
Another plane took a deadly dive,
Some old soldiers marched out their tragic lives,
and a few more teenagers were sent to jail.
A heroin addict was beaten to death.
The cops have the weapon but nothing else.
And the stock is rising, insert yawn.
Another shooting in the bad part of town.
They found the gun buried underground.
Worst of all, it was in a family's lawn.
A psychopath found himself a gun,
shot five dead and then he was done.
And a million more died of starvation far away.
Another city
Some people say they dream in color
Others say they see black and white
I dream my dreams in film noir
In ideas, shadows, and light.
I once had a dream I saw myself die,
And in a puddle of water and rain did I lie,
and a man stepped out of the shadows to stare at me,
as I was, at my corpse, with his gun still held free
in one black gloved hand inside a dark trenchoat,
black hair, brown hat, a thousand scars of emotion.
He looked up and I realized he had no face,
his features were a blur in the rain and light,
but they were bland and empty and hollow.
His coat parted slightly to reveal a nametag,
simply titled "Mr. Grim."
The sh
This is a love poem.
It's not a very good love poem
because I don't dot my i's with hearts
or doodle cutesy images on the sides.
It doesn't have rolling images
of romantic moons or meaningful momnents,
and it's lacking in cliched images
and oh-so-lovely-obvious wordplay.
It's not an epic, it's not a sonnet,
and I've not compared
her eyes to stars,
her lips to colors,
her skin to textures,
her breath to flowers,
or her breasts to fruit.
I haven't even said if she's pretty,
or that I love her for or in spite of it.
So what if I don't metaphor her into
a heroine of old,
or a fiery goddess,
or declare her my Helen of Troy,
an
Current Residence: Baltimore, City of Poets Favourite genre of music: Anything but Hard Rock. Operating System: Windows Vista MP3 player of choice: RealOne. Shell of choice: My brain. Wallpaper of choice: She comes.. Skin of choice: Vista. Favourite cartoon character: George W. Bush. What do you mean he's not a toon? Personal Quote: "You're not pathetic until you're wearing a slutty school girl outfit."
Favourite Visual Artist
Ame Tenchi; Mr. Oma; Wildlifehoodoo
Favourite Movies
Currently? None.
Favourite Bands / Musical Artists
M. Hipley, that girl who did Hikari.
Favourite Writers
Dr. Blankenburg, Moira Egan
Favourite Games
Crystal Chronicles, Arcanum, RPGs. WoW.
Favourite Gaming Platform
Gamecube or PS2.
Tools of the Trade
A paper. A pencil. A lighter to set the above on fire. A keyboard.
hi there, i read your icarus poem, and i was wondering if i could use it in the book im writing, full credit will be given of course. here is a link to my fanfic profile, go to the bottom and click icarus after reading the summery...if interested of course