Temptation is drawing me
into where I dare not tread
and what's left of my self-control
hangs on by a fraying thread.
I find myself biding my time
calculating the cost of regret,
and wishing that I could forget.
Requiem for a Pipe DreamEverything seemed perfect,
it just all fit into place.
That is, until the day it slowly
blew up in my face.
I should have know much better,
seen it coming from afar,
but we never truly understand
how blinded that we are
by hope and need and every void
we just can't seem to fill.
However much you feed them,
they just get hungrier still.
I'd like to think I've finally learned
this lesson once again,
but I'm sure that I will probably
be back here now and then.
What was I thinking?Caught unawares
and unable to deal
with a foolish illusion
that I thought was real.
A lapse in composure,
a loss of control.
A lifelong anomaly
taking its toll.
We're ThereAnd so, at last, we've reached the inevitable end,
the destination we've been chasing all along.
A bittersweet resolution to everything we've done
and now, I guess, it's time to say so long.
The Myth of IndependenceYou say "hell is other people.",
but where do you think you'd be
if everyone around you
shared your misanthropic view?
in a world of apathy,
what exactly is it
that you think that you could do?
Brain WaveFor so long I was stuck,
but then inspiration struck.
I found the right idea, at last
and now I'm on my way.
So That HappenedJust when I thought that it
was over, said and done,
something told me that
it's only just begun.
So I took another shot
and tried with all my might,
I only hope that it's
enough to make things right.
Misanthropic Abandon“Hell is other people”,
a wise man once did say
and from where I'm standing,
they can all just go away.
No one is an island,
but I'm damn sure going to try.
They only people I want to know
are me, myself and I.
MediocrityIn the mushy middle
right between loved and despised.
With no distinguishing features,
but potential unrealized.
It leaves no lasting impression,
just emphatic apathy
so all that's left to say
is that there's nothing here to see.
To Save A PrincessTo Save A Princess:
In most of the stories, whether old or new
It is usually the knight that saves the maiden
But reality is never as sweet as that
And often the truth gets slightly misshapen
But this is a story about the truth;
A tale of Pirates who aided the King
Though most would credit his honoured knights
We know they didn't do a thing...
Instead what happened is an epic story
For it began on a night when the moon was full
The Pirates slipped from their hallowed ship
Like wolves cloaked in wool
They hid amongst the jagged rocks
And called like birds to communicate
The soldiers thought they were hearing things
Until they began to hallunicate...
Visions of frightening ghosts and shades
Covered their eyes and sent them screaming
They clawed at their faces and toppled to the ground;
They woke the camp with their horrid keening
The ground was alive with running footsteps
Yet soldiers began to fall like snow
In panic their ears could not hear the sound
Of the rifle
Shall I find thee all in ice ensnared,
the tree boughs stripped, the blossoms bared,
trapped in a wet and wintry grave -
the blight of snow and hoarfrost shared?
They brought you here, their souls enslaved.
The altar where your minions prayed -
a brilliant diadem of ice,
the offering that your cold heart craved.
They linger here whilst you entice
their frozen limbs as sacrifice.
Their wizened hands by you declared
the chosen few who paid your price
The Tell Tale HeartI feel the rhythm of his heart,
beneath the boards the beating starts;
as reason from my mind departs,
I fall apart, I fall apart.
The men who knocked upon my door,
not knowing what's beneath my floor
will want to settle up the score -
I do implore, I do implore
This guilt breaks conscience with my lie -
my wracking sobs and wretched sighs.
I never meant for him to die.
It was his eye, it was his eye!
MoonlessThe moonless evening
turns its back against the sky
and leaves it empty.
Perhaps the morning
will come back with its hands full,
holding up the sun.
These Words Aren't PrettyThese Words Aren't Pretty:
My verses are ugly and I admit to the fact
I can't use pretty language when I'm working with rap
Because the things that I write, are just the things that I feel
I ain't an Edgar Allan Poe or a Danielle Steel
And I'll be honest with you, I've got an envy inside
Because some poets got a flow that's as smooth as the tide
I read some stuff that they write, it's just so dope I ignite
Burning shame and my anger at the beautiful sight
And like birds of a feather, they're flocking together
These poets are the Gods and I'm nailed by the weather
But as the rain pours down, lightning resound;
I try to write pretty words but my lips remain bound
So deeply silenced by fear - the darkness I hear,
Afraid to be unloved by the ones I hold dear
I've hit the limit of time; my lyrical crime
These words that I've lived are just turning to grime.
So I wish I had their talent; just a sliver of that
If their skill was a mountain then I've broken my back
It's like t
The Defense of Gawain (Fragment 1)He brushed his wavy hair from his pale face
Just like his horse was shaking off the flies
While following behind. Their limping pace
Was slow, although the city rang with cries
Surprised from friends who thought that he was dead--
But still his head slumped down, and still his eyes
And clammy cheeks were flushed with streaking red,
Though they were running, dashing to his side.
And then his young brother, half-laughing, said,
"Oh god, I thought--you know we thought you died?
That awful task--you left, you rode away--
And then did not come back. Oh, how I cried!
I thought you died. On last year's new-year's day
A year since you had left, they all agreed
You must have failed your quest, but I said nay--
I knew my brother Gawain would succeed
Although it seemed to all impossible.
But you did not come back, and I concede
I thought you died." And then his voice sunk low
From where it had been shouting in delight,
And then he said: "But brother, may I know--
Your hair is snarled, unkempt--yo
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils.
A solitary path I claimed
In seeking shelter from the crowd;
And lo, when all deserted me,
I wandered lonely as a cloud
I sought the green and grassy knolls
Between the rustic barns and mills,
And spied the new winged, dappled lark
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
The silent majesty of thoughts
Was broken as I dreamed aloud.
I was wrested from my reverie
When all at once I saw a crowd
This treasure grows and rests upon
the fertile soil where river spills
I'll rest my weary bones within
A host of golden daffodils.
His fingertips splashed through the ivory keys
With ripples that scattered in rows
While windows bloomed petals of watery pinks
Each kissing his cheeks with a glow
Releasing his notes like a bird caged in spring
He untangled the keys from their din
Making sense of a sequence not meant to be seen
He etches them deep in his skin.
He performs for the windows and plays for the halls
The curtains will sway in his song
The picture frames quiver and jump from the walls
Beneath the great rush of his palms.
So I open my window, before I lay rest
Just to capture a trace of his spawn
It's been years since I've heard it, but still I await
for the chime of the Pianist's song.