I agree, I don't think my stuff is cynical though; sometimes dark. Theraputic yes, poetry is very meditative to me. I only started writing when I was inspired by love and suffering both. Works of wisdom like Desiderata are amazing to me. Thanks for sharing all your stuff guys.

You sure do, I gave you some rep earlier.

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A garden of gratitude must first be cultivated in a mans soul before any seed will grow for him.Hydro Q's
My Journal

thanks new

After hundreds of doses of Reality-Revealer
you'll become a believer
this i swear to the god Shiva
at age 16 I became a psychic receiver
I did this with acid, shrooms and kind reefer
if you think im a spacey deciever
we'll butt heads like Keifer
and you can feel the blade of my cleaver
im no deciever or a pacifast either
Im a dream-weaver when im sick with the fever
a booby feeler, a skinny fuck resembling Mike Seaver
I get lots of chicks and treat her like I dont need her
now Im a women healer, plus I go down on beaver
a wheeler-dealer, a wet kiss stealer
doesnt hurt Im hung like a horse neither

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"Jesus Cant Save You"

Here's some stuff that I've written over the years. Just tid-bits I found on my computer after viewing this thread and deciding to share. I keep most of my writings in notebooks as opposed to the computer, so I'll look through my books and figure out some extras to share.

My writings are almost always stream of conscious and flow the speed of my thoughts... fingers or jotting.

There's a multitude of influence, it doesn't take much venture to say that some are definitely drug influenced/ induced while others are from lack of sleep or just observation and random jotting.

Influence comes in all forms.

Hope you like

*The use of "you" isn't always ment as a definite, more often in the indefinite form.*

1)

To grasp lightning and shake with thunder, we know that the veins of life exist within her hands.

2)

We are of memories regaurding moments, moments eclipsed by years, years offering life times drawing near.

Distant futures on the head of a pin, trash is a can tumbling forth unfolding maps telling stories in foot print patch work.

Smile empty window sill the birds will continue to speak with you.

I know the tragic nothings whispered under the door mats breath, "where is the key?".

Trace my heart in frost bitten silence, I freeze, how deep I freeze at the thought of a commercial existence.

Template cookie cutters produce more drones to loan interruption and corrupt a covanlent bond.

Submerse a cadence in a cascading turbulent self, then speak of a lasting effort.

Maybe the constellations have an ordinance to follow, they lead answeres our way that remain deaf to our questions.

Gestating crazy legs tip toe through the tulips attached to aborted mechanical babies, feasting upon the banished shame of thinking unorthodox.

Approximately the worst horrors hover around every doorway waiting to engulf and unravle deadly sins for suffering.

So deduct to conduct a peaceful, feastful, full bellied existence, be it what it may of a choice you once made.

Once at a standstill waiting for perpetual motion.

3)

I've found myself once more, every piece scattered across oblivion. The journey through souls has rendered me stronger, double stitched as to not loose my stuffing.

I've fallen from your second hand color changing involvement, and it's blissful. I'm no longer a thirsty planet, parched from your drought of words.

I'm whole again, I'm me again.

Never again to feel the salt you rubbed into my wounds. I've kicked those flowers from my bed because their roots were poison.

I'm beautiful.

4)

I am juxtaposed. So many thoughts, so many actions, so many feelings, so many reactions. Every part of me is of something that doesn't fit, to somehow make up this being known as SELF.I am of tradition, as much as I am of abstract radicalism. I am a circle with no end, yet I am not here, nor there, my edges touch beyond reason. To me left is right, and right is left, up is neither it self nor down. Each direction is what we make of it and deem. My sight is not tinted by glasses, only shaded by hands. I am of earth that is fertile, only made so by raging fires and added water. My words are not true, or false, they are just, infinite. We are all of opinion, a reciprocating reason that cannot be proved right or wrong. I am a seed placed here to grow and indulge myself in the knowledge of history, but to be free from it to create my own abstraction. I am surreal, the clock on the wall, the ring on your finger, the feeling in your chest, the tower that casts a shadow into the halls where we used to frolic. I am a kiss hard on the lips, I am what remains.

5)

May we set the hands back instead of destroy the future? Someone threw a wrench into what seemed like a well oiled infinite machine. But nothing is infinite, not even the mind.

6)

How complex can something be before it rakes it's own downfall?

Before there is a collapse?

Before there is shame?

How often must one change their oily skies to prevent the afforementioned conclusion?

I guess I'll have to converse with the birds on this one... The jury is at lunch.

7)

So when does the curtain draw? When will the stage light up, and the performance begin?

I've often waited for these times, to give up the ghost and sink my teeth in... swim around a little... test the water.

But lately I sit back and watch it all unfold in teloscopic nature, each turn showing a larger and greater division.

All I ask is the time, to sit and view, to peer and formulate... congeal and mesh.

I've danced and spun to find my gravity only without a bearing point, just bearing existence.

I wait back for the right tide to sweep a coast and that's when I ride.

But when does one escape, when does one roam free and fall victim only to themselves?



You're but a curious question mark, as to when the world will end.

I see it in your eyes everyday.

I see it in all of your belongings,

I see it as your chest rises and falls only to satisfye the curious question mark you are.

Only a question, never an answere.

9)

Cast away calligraphy from a poets pen. These ink marks are misplaced, misspelled sentences logged down in the memorandum otherwise known as servival of the fittest. This is not how the story was written. Scape goat burnt finger tips, reaching for what is to hot, just to hot, we can dream can't we? Say the words, that which is drawn to me, becoming of me. Gastly decible distorted disaster, it's that ringing in our ears, an epitomy of your greatest hopes and your greatest fears. Textiles and time pieces, representations of deed, recipricating thrice the taking. Composed of stolen bread waiting in shadows of gallows, a parachute please? A parachute please, before we hit the ground? Let's say we end this moment in a sence of self wallowing, self consuming gestation (offer rebirth?). These thoughts which tear us from our jaws, bleeding gums, broken thumbs, trying to turn this doors knob. Pass on, vomit memories of when you could remember my face, my voice, my mind so much like yours. Come on Say those words that once sparked gasoline in our hearts. Life... Noxious fumes which fuel this machine... Our frames rust and fall, waiting is the mind, trapped inside broken walls. Disintigrate, tragically purge your blood, your flesh, your clones from the plate you produced. When chalk is wiped from the black board, a ghost image remains, in retrospect, we are all chalk waiting to be wiped from life's black board, arn't we all but preconceived ghosts?

I love you Grandpa.

10)

Atoms skamper away when they're weak, to fall and lay a path of chaos, chain reactions change the curvature of sight.

11)

To be a tree, I could stretch my arms in fashions of forever. Affix myself inside the ground becoming attune with the soil, harmony in first class accomplisment. Turn a plot into a home, where I could rest my roots, tap into the resource known as life. Change colors to match my feelings in the seasons, my rainbow cycles in static position. Offer shade for my family in the scorche of a blister day. I sit and listen as I watch you come and go down the generations, I look out between the light to notice the calibre of exisitence, and when my time comes... please make use of my bones.

12)

I've been twisted, my shape contorts but I maintain who I am. I'm lost in an ink blot pattern of two, each a puddle where composure slips aside and fallen are of the words we speak until the fly traps close. Our CPU's pressed to seek further input, our minds eyes are the jumper in which the data flows, even during dream. Beautiful fruit conjure up hope for tomorrow, the depth unknown past the thickness of our skulls. To trust and consume, a little bit here and there, the pressures of emotion lead torches down the dark paths. If there is light we can see, our eyes are not polished. Symbols emerge projecting from our souls, upon the wall is where we read, let it be noted we sign our names in finger prints. We glow, to start a campagne or silloutte of light in the dark texture background. Fingers embrace, thumb war captions, tangled legs among soft sheet landscapes. The thought pattern during the foggy eyed journey to the land of residence rendered me floored. I just want you to know.... it ment something to me.

13)

I cough blood upon your face, it's a portrait I paint daily. I cough blood in essence of regaurd, but disregaurd that because it doesn't matter anyway, you're still ripe, and I'm still distant like the moon in your eyes.

14)

Lightning.... strike.... heart stops. My bones leeched lesser the marrow. I collapse without structure, composure still stable, out by ten fold and counting. Please prop me up against life for a second... ahhh a breath of carbon, maybe re-animation is a possability... my grave plot not marked yet... sign on the dotted line that just so happens to be your epitaph. My teeth broken through my lips, you decided it's fortunate for you to cleanse me with your tongue. Dance dance dance with your wooden legs, motion leaves in an absence of relation.

15)

I am but fluid in a lung of confusion. Potentially regurgitated humidity for others to contract and adhere to.

Paint your nails red
Paint your lips red
Paint the world red
Paint it red

Dye your hair red
cry your eyes red
bleed your veins dead
go to bed.


These are my most favourite bits of poetry i've written in the last few years. I hope you enjoy.

Speak Softly

War on the was on terror has begun
so wipe your tears away and take a breath.
Unblur your eyes and try to choose your gun
paint, bullet, art; remove your right to death.
Urban warfare, revolution's first child, spreads her wings and proclaims that "Man Did This"
This love, this art will one day be exiled;
provisional, but freedom always is.

Night falls, the walls of the city are ours
reclaim our ground, the street belongs to us.
Away from them we hide by daylight hours
coloured streets, painted stains we leave and thus
our lives fragmented, stories, you can see;
beauty is not enough, but art could be.


For Fianna

Once, in reply to a doubt, I asked someone who i love very much "How could you say such a thing? You know i love you more than possums and intelligent monkeys and silver engines and left handed anguses ETC. Also, amber buttons on green checkered silk. Which is poetic, no matter which way you look at it." And i meant every word.

The Moon And I

Subtly, it was a Sunday, i lit
and smoked awhile.
Upon the grassy verge i lay
and glared at the moon - she dared
to wear a mocking smile.

My heart bared, uninfected,
i touched the near night sky.
So far away from everything,
and my emotions undirected
the moon and i, we cried.

Sipped shyly, the night's cool air,
waved to the moon's own man.
Playing as he was a teardrop prayer
on a silver lute. Silver notes, floating
down to land, on silver threads
who left their silver there.

Call to her myth though he's silent
save his lonely notes of pain.
Her mouth was empty and so i lent
her my words to sing over and over
and over again.

The moon sang and i listened
and the silver music held my head.
Our heartbeats slowly quickened
and i fell asleep on the grass, my bed.

You walked away

if in my moment i held no fear;
as i stood alone, in the moment,
growing old,
the heavy clouds i saw but said no words for you to hear,
it's for the waves that lapped my lonely feet
were cold.

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i'd rather have a life than a living

Here are some more.

16)

Like a sundial always depicting the proper time, the time of beauty and appreciation. Dials blush in their modesty, yet defy age with their arms stretched for all. Such a gem, such a rare form, no mold, no dialect prosperous enough to form cognitive language, no words suffice. The word beauty and related terms are just a suffix for the "beauty" that no words can explain. That suffix following a string of descriptors may only be explained in one word... love... it's all around us as we breath it each day, but that mere word (beauty) encompasses more then our hollow minds may comprehend, inter-dimensional, physical and internal prosperity, the ration of perfection devine in all it's flaw.

pulled into the black sin
gone and left with just one end
wishing on nuthin
to hope for something
lost in my head
comainy just like stale bread
i can see what i have left
i am just blind for all i have left
if you could come with me what would you say
if you could come and see would you want to stay
so here i sit away from all of this
crying out loud trying figure out all of this
yet all i can see is the black sin
all i can hear is where this will end
and all my lips can do is grin.

may be abit of topic but i like it...lol

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peace, love.........smoke

i like that man. whats it about exactly.

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thanx for the rep. ( i need it....lol)

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peace, love.........smoke

haha no problem. answer my question

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