(no subject)
Hm. It's become an increasing trend to post old poetry, so I figure I'll post some from early-to-mid high school for shits. May I say, I gave up titling them years and years ago.
Weathered and worn, I fall in my bed
Leaving the world's stressful outlook
Behind the sunset, where it belongs.
Killing time, trying to rest my eyes,
But impossible it proves when work
Lies ahead as the road's obstruction.
Day-in, day-out routine wears like a noose,
Choking the life away; the sheets are
My only friend. Lending a helping hand.
Engulfing me comfortably while the sweet
Whimsicle absense lullabies me to counting
Those tormenting sheep.
From the time I wake up until the time I die,
I only wish to lie in my bed, encouraging the
Expanding bags from below my eyes. As if it
Weren't noticable, let me sleep within the
Blankets' comfort. I call on thee, soothing bed,
Take me under your wing.
The pain that you gave
Slowly slid away with consciousness
Went down with a silver bullet
And a bottle of flavored beer.
Nothing tasted better
Than those last drinks,
Cheering for the fading light,
Until my head rested on the floor.
And if this is getting over you,
I'm considering doing it more often.
For the pain, for the farewell,
I simply wink, too drunk to talk.
That late night on the slick leather
Driving cautiously in the poor weather
With the icesicles hanging from every post
Taking two breaths a minute at most.
In the middle of town, the only car in sight
With a flickering street lamp, fading yellow light.
The moon spoke to me freely, for the first time,
Charging me with but the simplest of a crime.
Apparently, his craters missed my gaze,
They told everything from epics to plays.
I'd have to say that this meant everything to me,
Because for the first time in my life, I felt so free.
For hours on end, we seemed to discuss
What made us grin, and why that I must
Take more time for pleasure-filled evenings
Listening as the weeping nightingale sings.
Then I simply proclaimed, "That boy inside me died."
And proceeded to drive, rationality ensured inside.
Lying awake under that light sheet,
The frigid air gnawing at my exposed feet.
Discerning myself from other thought,
But all of my efforts led to naught.
Peeking over the windows ledge,
Using my pillow as a make-shift wedge.
I gazed acrossed the treetops high,
Couldn't refrain from pondering, "Why?"
Why life was blessed upon me,
Or why isn't anything my cup-of-tea?
Hours on end, I laid there docile,
Collaborating questions all the while.
I couldn't seem to finally conclude,
Because all the answers seemed to elude.
And so I realized, it was not my place.
Then I was senseless and my bed embraced.
Vanity is taught like arithmetic
In a world so needy of attention.
Every person seems so apathetic,
Only doting over egocentric ascension.
This is no time for playing hero,
The world is too vain and self-involved.
All our hearts reach absolute zero,
It's pitiful how we have evolved.
No one comes to the rescue,
The foggy curtain has been closed.
Since hope has bid a final adieu,
All our priorities have been transposed.
February's bitter nature inches its way past,
Conquering every obstacle in its sea-current path,
Scouring the land; toppling the tallest mountain.
It invades the waters of the Great Lakes, smothering
Every fish in every crevice; your defenses will not hold.
The sun's gleam shines that much shorter than before,
Shining shorter from the late morning unto early night
Reflecting off of the glistening snow, blinding the
Winter drivers, immune by sunglasses and car visors.
Science has destroyed our painful, instinctive pleasures.
Yet the population endures on the hope of summer,
The briefest three months of the year, tantalizing the
Tastebuds in our tongue-in-cheek minds. Material
Accumulates; but hope metamorphoses into security in months.
Short months that seem so agonizingly lengthy: dreich.
These occasional fleeting moments within the 100 days
Until glory are what forces compliance upon our dreams.
Eyes darting between melancholy rain drop
Splatter on the windshield where they stop,
Erased by the continual pivoting
Of the subtle wipers, transmuting.
I drove slowly toward no set direction
At mind; nor at hand with any conviction
Except the leather shift nob and a lit cigarette,
bringing me to a conclusion that I'll never forget.
There is no comfort in friendships nor solitude,
There is no solace in those humble nor shrewd.
The only succor is harbored within the art of being coy,
And that is only securable through many degenerate ploy.
Forty-five degree tropics in Smalltown, Ohio,
Bouncing off the bat of a snowbound record --
Driving through the countryside, mistaking Io
For a mare amongst the travelling horde.
Energetic enigma draining each ounce, brio --
Aspiring to gulp glasses of inspiration being poured.
The drunken ridule followed suit; spades
My choice, volatile under death's fingertips --
Ideas exploded like consecutive grenades,
And the dreams of the comfort held in your lips.
Every lingering breath deceives the next
Into thinking its thoughts would turn to text.
A proverbial plethora of introspective
Thought with this bitter perspective
Overwrought, the distinction between
Fate and misfortune, because I'm 18
And always entangled amongst a vice,
whether it be lust, love, or either twice
In a day when trust is so monetarially
Distraught and awkwardly confused primarily.
And the diminishing self-worth
Is only a biproduct, and the gerth
That defines it is only demonstrating
What not to do without explaining
Why we come or why we go
And never interrupt the flow.
Taken apart, versatile and euphoric,
Lying between a discrepency and the next.
These views steadfast and plutonic,
Taking fire from either side, perplexed.
Comforted not by the coagulating black
On the brilliant orange, weaving between
My fingers, around my waist and to my back,
Which formerly induced a state of serene.
The image warping liquid, thick and clear,
Defied my vision and coordination once more,
But no solace was found in its midst, just fear
That return won't come, not needing to be washed ashore.
But the front door's open, back door's closed,
And no one seems to find a path to infinity
Through my gates, new laws have been proposed
And never confirmed to vaporize affinity.
Weathered and worn, I fall in my bed
Leaving the world's stressful outlook
Behind the sunset, where it belongs.
Killing time, trying to rest my eyes,
But impossible it proves when work
Lies ahead as the road's obstruction.
Day-in, day-out routine wears like a noose,
Choking the life away; the sheets are
My only friend. Lending a helping hand.
Engulfing me comfortably while the sweet
Whimsicle absense lullabies me to counting
Those tormenting sheep.
From the time I wake up until the time I die,
I only wish to lie in my bed, encouraging the
Expanding bags from below my eyes. As if it
Weren't noticable, let me sleep within the
Blankets' comfort. I call on thee, soothing bed,
Take me under your wing.
The pain that you gave
Slowly slid away with consciousness
Went down with a silver bullet
And a bottle of flavored beer.
Nothing tasted better
Than those last drinks,
Cheering for the fading light,
Until my head rested on the floor.
And if this is getting over you,
I'm considering doing it more often.
For the pain, for the farewell,
I simply wink, too drunk to talk.
That late night on the slick leather
Driving cautiously in the poor weather
With the icesicles hanging from every post
Taking two breaths a minute at most.
In the middle of town, the only car in sight
With a flickering street lamp, fading yellow light.
The moon spoke to me freely, for the first time,
Charging me with but the simplest of a crime.
Apparently, his craters missed my gaze,
They told everything from epics to plays.
I'd have to say that this meant everything to me,
Because for the first time in my life, I felt so free.
For hours on end, we seemed to discuss
What made us grin, and why that I must
Take more time for pleasure-filled evenings
Listening as the weeping nightingale sings.
Then I simply proclaimed, "That boy inside me died."
And proceeded to drive, rationality ensured inside.
Lying awake under that light sheet,
The frigid air gnawing at my exposed feet.
Discerning myself from other thought,
But all of my efforts led to naught.
Peeking over the windows ledge,
Using my pillow as a make-shift wedge.
I gazed acrossed the treetops high,
Couldn't refrain from pondering, "Why?"
Why life was blessed upon me,
Or why isn't anything my cup-of-tea?
Hours on end, I laid there docile,
Collaborating questions all the while.
I couldn't seem to finally conclude,
Because all the answers seemed to elude.
And so I realized, it was not my place.
Then I was senseless and my bed embraced.
Vanity is taught like arithmetic
In a world so needy of attention.
Every person seems so apathetic,
Only doting over egocentric ascension.
This is no time for playing hero,
The world is too vain and self-involved.
All our hearts reach absolute zero,
It's pitiful how we have evolved.
No one comes to the rescue,
The foggy curtain has been closed.
Since hope has bid a final adieu,
All our priorities have been transposed.
February's bitter nature inches its way past,
Conquering every obstacle in its sea-current path,
Scouring the land; toppling the tallest mountain.
It invades the waters of the Great Lakes, smothering
Every fish in every crevice; your defenses will not hold.
The sun's gleam shines that much shorter than before,
Shining shorter from the late morning unto early night
Reflecting off of the glistening snow, blinding the
Winter drivers, immune by sunglasses and car visors.
Science has destroyed our painful, instinctive pleasures.
Yet the population endures on the hope of summer,
The briefest three months of the year, tantalizing the
Tastebuds in our tongue-in-cheek minds. Material
Accumulates; but hope metamorphoses into security in months.
Short months that seem so agonizingly lengthy: dreich.
These occasional fleeting moments within the 100 days
Until glory are what forces compliance upon our dreams.
Eyes darting between melancholy rain drop
Splatter on the windshield where they stop,
Erased by the continual pivoting
Of the subtle wipers, transmuting.
I drove slowly toward no set direction
At mind; nor at hand with any conviction
Except the leather shift nob and a lit cigarette,
bringing me to a conclusion that I'll never forget.
There is no comfort in friendships nor solitude,
There is no solace in those humble nor shrewd.
The only succor is harbored within the art of being coy,
And that is only securable through many degenerate ploy.
Forty-five degree tropics in Smalltown, Ohio,
Bouncing off the bat of a snowbound record --
Driving through the countryside, mistaking Io
For a mare amongst the travelling horde.
Energetic enigma draining each ounce, brio --
Aspiring to gulp glasses of inspiration being poured.
The drunken ridule followed suit; spades
My choice, volatile under death's fingertips --
Ideas exploded like consecutive grenades,
And the dreams of the comfort held in your lips.
Every lingering breath deceives the next
Into thinking its thoughts would turn to text.
A proverbial plethora of introspective
Thought with this bitter perspective
Overwrought, the distinction between
Fate and misfortune, because I'm 18
And always entangled amongst a vice,
whether it be lust, love, or either twice
In a day when trust is so monetarially
Distraught and awkwardly confused primarily.
And the diminishing self-worth
Is only a biproduct, and the gerth
That defines it is only demonstrating
What not to do without explaining
Why we come or why we go
And never interrupt the flow.
Taken apart, versatile and euphoric,
Lying between a discrepency and the next.
These views steadfast and plutonic,
Taking fire from either side, perplexed.
Comforted not by the coagulating black
On the brilliant orange, weaving between
My fingers, around my waist and to my back,
Which formerly induced a state of serene.
The image warping liquid, thick and clear,
Defied my vision and coordination once more,
But no solace was found in its midst, just fear
That return won't come, not needing to be washed ashore.
But the front door's open, back door's closed,
And no one seems to find a path to infinity
Through my gates, new laws have been proposed
And never confirmed to vaporize affinity.