The PlayThe air is frigid, and snow covers all.
I freeze in my footsteps,
Surrounded by white I am
I feel misplaced, and oh so wrong.
the only darkness in this purity.
The only flaw, on this perfect Stage.
The only one who doesnt know thier lines.
In this play of perfection.
Constantly making mistakes,
Never being good enough.
Again and again, I rehearse,
Retrace the steps, repeat the lines.
They go through my head,
The way the blood goes thorugh my veins,
In order to seek approval,
This is what I must do.
I go to the first scene,
Taking my place on the stage,
The curtain begins to rise.
So many thoughts go through my head,
Snow litters the stage
It goes cold.
I begin to move in my dark Attire.
Everyone begins to move in the dance.
I step out and continue on my own.
UnbrokenTell me,Unbroken5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Are my hands cold?
I feel old--
Not in years,
But in half dried tears.
My fears are gone with you.
I am resilient too.
I once was brilliant
The way diamonds sparkle in mud
But gems are just rocks
And only fools fall in love.
I thought the world was
Epitomized in your face-
How much of the universe is just empty space?
Everyone (I suppose) makes mistakes
And so we digress, supress and repress
Tarnished memories of youthful disgrace.
Yet how can I erase the lust of imagined glory?
Is there such a thing as an unwritten story?
We're all destined to cry
All fated to die.
Dear, do not lie-
You are a cynic, too.
You would sell your soul, wouldn't you?
Whose god is God,
Gentile or Jew?
Religion is a scapegoat to you.
You tried to teach me
About faith, hope and love.
But I only learned what heartache does.
So now I sleep
With eyes that do not weep
But burn in apprehension.
Dreams are merely a reflection,
An extension of revelries long dead
And my days are too few
Chekov's GunBlood flowing through the veins-Chekov's Gun5 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
A pen spilling plasmodic characters;
Not in focus but not in vain.
He says he comes to serve his time:
Nature gave him Chekov's gun - a hairpin trigger folicle fine.
He grew up a hard man and died an old child,
Doomed as a victim of his time, the meek and mild
Winters of a chemical sting
Like a puppet, dancing on a string
To a desparate beat, tongue in cheek and hands in pockets.
Never have I seen such a sad sight as a crushed and empty car,
A vacant hospital bed,
A baby with a page of writing in it's mouth,
A broken cane abandoned in the street,
A bouquet of flowers tied to a lamp post,
A well lit area at night,
An elderly father crying,
A bird singing in the rain,
A piano playing in an empty hall;
Caught in a bush: a carelessly worn shawl,
A telephone mast in a wheat field,
Apples in packages, already peeled.
Ignorant people banding together like good people could,
Faulty ethics succeeding where morality should.
Never have I been so angry at things as