[Poems] Tabula Rasa + Outside your door, knocking + Broken Tape
Just writing some for Mirage. Skipping the cut this time.
Tabula Rasa
tis about a painter who lives alone, doing nothing but paint.
A blank canvas
white, washed, waiting
A colorful palette
conspicuous, colored, clashing
A flick of wrist
slide, stroke, swipe
Creation of an image
fulfillment of the soul
Outside your door, knocking
a thief in the middle of an open-house party
Rows of window with slivers of light,
a stray soul strolling silently
Opened doors yet uninviting,
the treacherous thief tearing through
Ignoring danger behind thin walls of wood,
all unfeeling under universal uppers.
On & on goes the broken tape
the very first of the bunch, very much whimsical
There were times when things become unbearable,
the stifling air, the heaving breaths,
the stale stench of acid and sweat.
You never knew when it started,
never knew when it ended--
was there an end? Doubtful,
a broken tape, it is, on and on.
Four walls, each with their own mark of decay,
a roof over your head, stained,
like your flood made of piss.
Convenience, they call it, but not much,
really, when it's always like that,
everyday, dirty and sad, every time.
On and on; on and on,
like a broken record, a broken tape.
Tabula Rasa
tis about a painter who lives alone, doing nothing but paint.
A blank canvas
white, washed, waiting
A colorful palette
conspicuous, colored, clashing
A flick of wrist
slide, stroke, swipe
Creation of an image
fulfillment of the soul
Outside your door, knocking
a thief in the middle of an open-house party
Rows of window with slivers of light,
a stray soul strolling silently
Opened doors yet uninviting,
the treacherous thief tearing through
Ignoring danger behind thin walls of wood,
all unfeeling under universal uppers.
On & on goes the broken tape
the very first of the bunch, very much whimsical
There were times when things become unbearable,
the stifling air, the heaving breaths,
the stale stench of acid and sweat.
You never knew when it started,
never knew when it ended--
was there an end? Doubtful,
a broken tape, it is, on and on.
Four walls, each with their own mark of decay,
a roof over your head, stained,
like your flood made of piss.
Convenience, they call it, but not much,
really, when it's always like that,
everyday, dirty and sad, every time.
On and on; on and on,
like a broken record, a broken tape.