Mathias
10-24-07, 07:01 PM
So, I write quite a bit of poetry. All kinds, at that. So, if anyone's interested, I think I'll start posting some here. Don't be afraid to criticize me in any way, or hold back your opinions.
~
The Second Chance
One odd day within a May, I met upon a chance,
Upon the stairs within the Faires, a man named Longinus Lance.
He looked me queerly to say so dearly, with a hint of venom,
"I left you dead, curse thy head! to take a ride with Charon."
I told him plainly, if so vainly, that I played no tricks.
"No simple haunting, nor ghostly daunting, for I crossed no River Styx.
The custom penny you left no plenty, so I could not pay my fare,
The ferry left my soul bereft, so no afterlife was there."
His face grew pale as if in gale, as if I were a storm,
And no console could soothe his soul, for fear of wrath or mourn.
And in upstart his beating heart did make him haste to shake,
And with a tear, but through his fear, he spoke despite the quake.
"And thus you're back, though soul you lack, like the walking Dead,
so do we say adieu, fair day, or shall you curse my head?
It would be fair, I doubt you care, for such a simple mercy,
To take revenge and self avenge, the same way I did curse thee!"
And with a nod, by grace of God, I turned the other cheek,
I said quite plain, not quite in vain, "Revenge is for the weak."
I wished no ill nor devil thrill, not upon his head.
And so I left, our souls bereft, to return to the land of the dead.
Pinot Noir
Taking up his pen, the philosopher amounts,
Among worldly men, philosophical accounts,
Within dreams of dreams, breaking seams it seems,
All the demons eyes realize that no lies are beamin' from fall,
And of course of all men, was it truly him of all?
Upon one ev'ning, so the debate would rage on,
Lasted through heaving, the point lost from this page on,
Within dreams of dreams, breaking seams it seems,
A pretty girl twirls through swirls of all the petty sures,
And we were never affirmed how fast a ballerina matures.
That the story of, all restless baby lasses,
A lolita love, from an age of molasses,
Within dreams of dreams, breaking seams it seems,
That any judge begrudged a nudge to all her worries,
Though a dreaming demon may dream of all her flurries.
And perhaps no man, or beast I should guess to say,
Is truly that one fan, to cease the dreaded wrongful way,
Within dreams of dreams, breaking seams it seems,
That blossom of gossip and lip gloss to this floss,
Led us all astray in a paramount way for no one's boss,
And like any us, had something smart to say to him,
And with gestures thus, subjected he to our whim,
Within dreams of dreams, breaking seams it seems,
Its possible an apostle would acost all us like this,
And lecture on forever about that forbidden kiss.
So thus with little, the hero tries to conclude,
An attempt to whittle, false morals ensued.
Within dreams of dreams, breaking seams it seems,
The subject of objects are object to reject for our version of right,
And always we thought, we were the ones with the plight.
Mask
A pretty smile, all the while,
You smoke your cigarette,
Look pretty, look gorgeous,
Look hot and faint with your pompous silhouette.
I'll stay bitter, I'll stay mad,
and I'll just hoarde my cynicism,
And you'll get better, you'll be glad,
when I'm engulfed by pessimism.
It was your goal, your only hope,
To undo unto me what good I made repair,
And it was in fun, it was in jest,
But now I'm broke by a tresses dare,
Your pride and such, in all its lust,
Had done good in make betraying,
And so from everything in which I must,
I thought you'd been portraying.
Pheta hectameter . Dionysus
The spit you writ so earnestly, has trickled through the walls,
And echoed through society, and cushioned all its falls,
And what was once so eloquent, has slowly turned inane,
And once the message clearly read, it now seems oh so vane.
The pretty little happenings, the ones that sell so well,
Have come to capture nothing more, than an everyman's hell.
And karma's walking to the bank, cashing in a check
With nothing left in Caliban, now asking for your neck.
The things we want to try to say, have all seemed so benign,
and yet so simply sorrowful that we love our sorrow dine,
and this is what becomes of us for speaking out of turn,
And this is why the happenings are happening to burn.
Welcome once before the end, when things are almost over,
And disconnect by rubberneck and hope to gain some closure.
Have you felt that once before, the feeling now instilled?
It comes by heart, by beating vessel, bringing thought distilled.
And once before these words were wrote, writ like spit and dry,
And then we hung it on the line and never asked us why.
Then we knew what then was wrong and that was surely it;
That all the words, despite their worth, had become a bunch of shit.
Comment ; Desire
Get what you got and had what you have
and sneak it more glances than all angels grab
And hope it so well that it goes undetected
and harbor these secrets that say unmolested.
Perhaps if we think if we thought they should know,
perhaps then we'd love and our patience would grow.
Or instead turn to ash the fires of passion
and poison the romance and give it no ration.
So when we give way to traditions of old,
and then off our elders comes morals of gold,
We'll wonder what wonders await us in Heaven,
so long as we keep our record within a good Seven.
And this is the price for staying in Babylon
when priests' greatest sin is simply to rabble on.
The Lethargy
Down by the river my wife must still be waiting for me,
Awaited by the life that takes its toll upon the mountain,
I walk with Psyche upon the road, winding, twisting,
"O' Ishi, O' Ishi," she proclaims, but no ballad arises,
And Israfel doth not play upon a flowing fountain,
Down by the river my wife must still be waiting for me,
Gasping as I scribble notes, satiric to my nation,
But Psyche, sister and soul know no listing,
"Oh Ishi, Oh Ishi," I defame, whom Ulalume surprises,
And coy was always adjective to imagination,
Down by the river my wife is no longer waiting for me,
Due to long and lonesome nights by the camping fires,
And Psyche still praises, too unresisting,
"O' Ishi, Oh Ishi," they maintain, on past revises,
And I know that my fame is the biggest of liars.
stealing
there are
things
which we give to people
and they always take it with them
when they leave;
It's not HOW they leave that matters...
They die.
They break up with you.
They move.
but we give them pieces of jewelry,
let them borrow our CD collection,
or give them the keys to our car.
then they get pissed off,
take your belongings and
RUN!
in whatever way they can
Then you're left with nothing, except,
a feeling of being wronged.
Keep Keep Keep it Together
Can't keep it up,
in more ways than one.
I can't keep doing this,
because I'm almost done.
I'm tired of trying,
tired of you,
tired of lying
of what you should do.
Impossible progress
miracles happen,
practically absess,
the hell that I'm trapped in.
This is a relationship
but where is the love?
Where is the fellowship,
the mutual dove?
I can't find the reason
that's keeping me stayin'
not just with the season
but still with the prayin'.
I'm tired of keeping
and staying with this,
ahead in the reaping
of destroying our bliss.
The older we get,
the younger you seem,
until I forget,
my original dream.
I had it in mind,
but lost it to time,
and found it to find,
the reason for rhyme.
But this is the game,
this is the price,
of trying to tame,
the heart of a vice.
~
The Second Chance
One odd day within a May, I met upon a chance,
Upon the stairs within the Faires, a man named Longinus Lance.
He looked me queerly to say so dearly, with a hint of venom,
"I left you dead, curse thy head! to take a ride with Charon."
I told him plainly, if so vainly, that I played no tricks.
"No simple haunting, nor ghostly daunting, for I crossed no River Styx.
The custom penny you left no plenty, so I could not pay my fare,
The ferry left my soul bereft, so no afterlife was there."
His face grew pale as if in gale, as if I were a storm,
And no console could soothe his soul, for fear of wrath or mourn.
And in upstart his beating heart did make him haste to shake,
And with a tear, but through his fear, he spoke despite the quake.
"And thus you're back, though soul you lack, like the walking Dead,
so do we say adieu, fair day, or shall you curse my head?
It would be fair, I doubt you care, for such a simple mercy,
To take revenge and self avenge, the same way I did curse thee!"
And with a nod, by grace of God, I turned the other cheek,
I said quite plain, not quite in vain, "Revenge is for the weak."
I wished no ill nor devil thrill, not upon his head.
And so I left, our souls bereft, to return to the land of the dead.
Pinot Noir
Taking up his pen, the philosopher amounts,
Among worldly men, philosophical accounts,
Within dreams of dreams, breaking seams it seems,
All the demons eyes realize that no lies are beamin' from fall,
And of course of all men, was it truly him of all?
Upon one ev'ning, so the debate would rage on,
Lasted through heaving, the point lost from this page on,
Within dreams of dreams, breaking seams it seems,
A pretty girl twirls through swirls of all the petty sures,
And we were never affirmed how fast a ballerina matures.
That the story of, all restless baby lasses,
A lolita love, from an age of molasses,
Within dreams of dreams, breaking seams it seems,
That any judge begrudged a nudge to all her worries,
Though a dreaming demon may dream of all her flurries.
And perhaps no man, or beast I should guess to say,
Is truly that one fan, to cease the dreaded wrongful way,
Within dreams of dreams, breaking seams it seems,
That blossom of gossip and lip gloss to this floss,
Led us all astray in a paramount way for no one's boss,
And like any us, had something smart to say to him,
And with gestures thus, subjected he to our whim,
Within dreams of dreams, breaking seams it seems,
Its possible an apostle would acost all us like this,
And lecture on forever about that forbidden kiss.
So thus with little, the hero tries to conclude,
An attempt to whittle, false morals ensued.
Within dreams of dreams, breaking seams it seems,
The subject of objects are object to reject for our version of right,
And always we thought, we were the ones with the plight.
Mask
A pretty smile, all the while,
You smoke your cigarette,
Look pretty, look gorgeous,
Look hot and faint with your pompous silhouette.
I'll stay bitter, I'll stay mad,
and I'll just hoarde my cynicism,
And you'll get better, you'll be glad,
when I'm engulfed by pessimism.
It was your goal, your only hope,
To undo unto me what good I made repair,
And it was in fun, it was in jest,
But now I'm broke by a tresses dare,
Your pride and such, in all its lust,
Had done good in make betraying,
And so from everything in which I must,
I thought you'd been portraying.
Pheta hectameter . Dionysus
The spit you writ so earnestly, has trickled through the walls,
And echoed through society, and cushioned all its falls,
And what was once so eloquent, has slowly turned inane,
And once the message clearly read, it now seems oh so vane.
The pretty little happenings, the ones that sell so well,
Have come to capture nothing more, than an everyman's hell.
And karma's walking to the bank, cashing in a check
With nothing left in Caliban, now asking for your neck.
The things we want to try to say, have all seemed so benign,
and yet so simply sorrowful that we love our sorrow dine,
and this is what becomes of us for speaking out of turn,
And this is why the happenings are happening to burn.
Welcome once before the end, when things are almost over,
And disconnect by rubberneck and hope to gain some closure.
Have you felt that once before, the feeling now instilled?
It comes by heart, by beating vessel, bringing thought distilled.
And once before these words were wrote, writ like spit and dry,
And then we hung it on the line and never asked us why.
Then we knew what then was wrong and that was surely it;
That all the words, despite their worth, had become a bunch of shit.
Comment ; Desire
Get what you got and had what you have
and sneak it more glances than all angels grab
And hope it so well that it goes undetected
and harbor these secrets that say unmolested.
Perhaps if we think if we thought they should know,
perhaps then we'd love and our patience would grow.
Or instead turn to ash the fires of passion
and poison the romance and give it no ration.
So when we give way to traditions of old,
and then off our elders comes morals of gold,
We'll wonder what wonders await us in Heaven,
so long as we keep our record within a good Seven.
And this is the price for staying in Babylon
when priests' greatest sin is simply to rabble on.
The Lethargy
Down by the river my wife must still be waiting for me,
Awaited by the life that takes its toll upon the mountain,
I walk with Psyche upon the road, winding, twisting,
"O' Ishi, O' Ishi," she proclaims, but no ballad arises,
And Israfel doth not play upon a flowing fountain,
Down by the river my wife must still be waiting for me,
Gasping as I scribble notes, satiric to my nation,
But Psyche, sister and soul know no listing,
"Oh Ishi, Oh Ishi," I defame, whom Ulalume surprises,
And coy was always adjective to imagination,
Down by the river my wife is no longer waiting for me,
Due to long and lonesome nights by the camping fires,
And Psyche still praises, too unresisting,
"O' Ishi, Oh Ishi," they maintain, on past revises,
And I know that my fame is the biggest of liars.
stealing
there are
things
which we give to people
and they always take it with them
when they leave;
It's not HOW they leave that matters...
They die.
They break up with you.
They move.
but we give them pieces of jewelry,
let them borrow our CD collection,
or give them the keys to our car.
then they get pissed off,
take your belongings and
RUN!
in whatever way they can
Then you're left with nothing, except,
a feeling of being wronged.
Keep Keep Keep it Together
Can't keep it up,
in more ways than one.
I can't keep doing this,
because I'm almost done.
I'm tired of trying,
tired of you,
tired of lying
of what you should do.
Impossible progress
miracles happen,
practically absess,
the hell that I'm trapped in.
This is a relationship
but where is the love?
Where is the fellowship,
the mutual dove?
I can't find the reason
that's keeping me stayin'
not just with the season
but still with the prayin'.
I'm tired of keeping
and staying with this,
ahead in the reaping
of destroying our bliss.
The older we get,
the younger you seem,
until I forget,
my original dream.
I had it in mind,
but lost it to time,
and found it to find,
the reason for rhyme.
But this is the game,
this is the price,
of trying to tame,
the heart of a vice.