Poetryzzz
Harbinger, a Harvester
I could go on like this,
Negating all the pain.
Seeing seasons pass by
And all the world frowning
Carefully upon us.
Riteously, we're painters,
Incognito until
Felt right to let ourselves
Invade the world that sees,
Cares, thinks of only me.
Isn't this like before?
Alibis and faltered
Lies, whispering the truth.
Lick the wounds I gave you
Only in sadist dreams.
Venture past the chalk lines
Even if that night stings.
Ill begotten of you,
Love; see me as perfect
Like you're still entertained.
Rescue me from drowning
Every time I fall in,
And tell me you're in love -
Primitive as it is.
Microcosm in us,
Yielding nothing much more.
Dilute the feelings of
Every day you said that
All you ever wished and
Thought to have was standing
Here before you, in me.
Clocca
Night decor -
a backwards winding
of time,
instantaneously.
Fortunate
like the gambler's streak -
one time
more to see what we're worth.
A second
hand touching mine; hours
our's now
to shape and frame again.
Touch my heart again.
Answer in a hush.
Yelling sympathies,
Like they help me now.
Only this can mend.
Relax and forget.
Night decor -
quiet for these words,
never
again for something else.
Fortunate,
though this isn't what
I'd planned
to compose my dreams, dear.
A second
too late to change these
hands back
that count us as minute.
Tripped on counting hands,
Abstract in their way,
Yet they never spin
Like I wish they would.
Only for you, can
Rivers flow me back.
Alabama
Alabama, the stepping stone;
you found me on the walk.
It could be Fate that found us,
but Destiny is simply talk.
Maybe not.
This isn't what I wanted.
Give me something to hear,
a reason to be.
Alabama, over and out;
I'll leave the dying grass behind.
The light that night was beautiful.
I must be fucking blind.
Could be
that you found something better,
but you never told me
you wanted more.
Alabama, break it all down.
Smolder inside the weeded ground.
I've been here before, so now
it doesn't hurt to know i'm drowned.
It may be,
but you wanted to feel your power.
You've got the hands of a god
to kill what I thought I found.
Tailor this heart into the world.
This heart was yours.
It took seven days to build a god,
and a second to tear it down.
This Faded Crown
I can feel you.
Even when the sun has parted ways
with the moon at the end of days,
this is all I want to ask you.
Even if this were not what could be,
I still push through, hoping to see.
This is all I ever wanted.
Touch the silence inside of a broken heart,
and the deafening roar will heal.
Touch the silence inside a quiet mouth,
and allow the thunder peel.
Pressing down.
Pressing down.
Faded crown on me.
Even if you can't understand how,
I've faltered to a burning sow,
with angel bites to cool me down.
Even if it's blasphemous to say,
I'll love you now in every way
until the sun will have me drown.
Touch the sky childishly,
not caring if it's blue.
Touch the silence in the sky
with Heaven and the peace in you.
And simply press it down,
this faded crown on me.
All of This Is Yours, for Now
Forever clad;
an achronism,
when sadness heats glaciers
that will not thaw with gentling.
Breath exhaled holds
like a curse that scrolls
and folds across the neck,
in a time too late to hurt.
A swift-blow fist
that's clutching, snow grip
flows blood with sympathy;
all of this is yours, for now.
I, Robot
Sentiently wasting tears
and, like a human, draining fears
through a synthetic mind that forces thought
and flows emotion on a mechanical plot.
Humans feel a hollow pain
in taking action or a vast refrain;
they live and fear, murder and cry,
but I, Robot, will never die.
Artificial as I seem,
I, too, must dream.
When the weariness can once more be felt,
I'll sleep, because this circuitry can melt.
The End
The end:
what a sight to behold
with the treasure I charged for
and my skin gilded gold -
how I asked for the heat,
and the breast gave me cold.
Doesn't help much now to be told
what uncertain coffers may hold.
Mirrored:
what a body to mold;
a sparkling diamond
to cut and be sold.
What jeweler is trusted
with these memories, untold?
Doesn't help to crease that fold
or constrict it in the way it's rolled.
So much to mend;
so much to tend.
The end of this, God-send.
Born Too Late
The titan's grip faltered.
It fumbled with the circuitry,
and this is inferno
with no way to escape.
With the wind howling acidic,
how is one to know?
But back when we were young-
Before God took a sip,
man told him his place,
but this is freefall
with no more faith.
With no god to believe in,
how can one be all?
But back when we were young,
it didn't matter.
This is a figment of imaginations.
Misguided concepts fulfilled.
Worst-case scenario.
Leave me something for hope.
Captain, stagger us towards land
if you know where it is.
We'll bring this ship home
one day, dock it with tattered rope.
But back when we were young,
it didn't matter.
The robots ruled the world -
perfect angels; perfect cliches -
constructed to obey.
Before God took another sip,
man told him He was wrong.
This is hopelessness.
God too bore down his will -
for the young and robotic to digress,
and, Captain, we did so.
Stay Past Sunday
Stay past Sunday
for creation or continuation.
Building up an army -
single-soldier, perfect nation.
Face the needle
on the rise to the eye,
puncturing the pupil
you deftly taught to cry.
?cigol derorrim fo elpmaxe na I mA
Buttercup, you're sour,
but I can't forget the taste.
This won't last.
This won't last.
Repeat.
Stay past Sunday
as they tell me we're in love.
A silken fabrication
from your tongue's velvet glove.
Face the needle
as it skips over empty tracks.
As long as you can't hear it,
you'll never have to face those facts.
.tser eht morf dehsiugnitsid er'uoY
Buttercup, you're sour,
but you felt great once on my tongue.
This won't last.
It's lasting still.
Repeat.
I could go on like this,
Negating all the pain.
Seeing seasons pass by
And all the world frowning
Carefully upon us.
Riteously, we're painters,
Incognito until
Felt right to let ourselves
Invade the world that sees,
Cares, thinks of only me.
Isn't this like before?
Alibis and faltered
Lies, whispering the truth.
Lick the wounds I gave you
Only in sadist dreams.
Venture past the chalk lines
Even if that night stings.
Ill begotten of you,
Love; see me as perfect
Like you're still entertained.
Rescue me from drowning
Every time I fall in,
And tell me you're in love -
Primitive as it is.
Microcosm in us,
Yielding nothing much more.
Dilute the feelings of
Every day you said that
All you ever wished and
Thought to have was standing
Here before you, in me.
Clocca
Night decor -
a backwards winding
of time,
instantaneously.
Fortunate
like the gambler's streak -
one time
more to see what we're worth.
A second
hand touching mine; hours
our's now
to shape and frame again.
Touch my heart again.
Answer in a hush.
Yelling sympathies,
Like they help me now.
Only this can mend.
Relax and forget.
Night decor -
quiet for these words,
never
again for something else.
Fortunate,
though this isn't what
I'd planned
to compose my dreams, dear.
A second
too late to change these
hands back
that count us as minute.
Tripped on counting hands,
Abstract in their way,
Yet they never spin
Like I wish they would.
Only for you, can
Rivers flow me back.
Alabama
Alabama, the stepping stone;
you found me on the walk.
It could be Fate that found us,
but Destiny is simply talk.
Maybe not.
This isn't what I wanted.
Give me something to hear,
a reason to be.
Alabama, over and out;
I'll leave the dying grass behind.
The light that night was beautiful.
I must be fucking blind.
Could be
that you found something better,
but you never told me
you wanted more.
Alabama, break it all down.
Smolder inside the weeded ground.
I've been here before, so now
it doesn't hurt to know i'm drowned.
It may be,
but you wanted to feel your power.
You've got the hands of a god
to kill what I thought I found.
Tailor this heart into the world.
This heart was yours.
It took seven days to build a god,
and a second to tear it down.
This Faded Crown
I can feel you.
Even when the sun has parted ways
with the moon at the end of days,
this is all I want to ask you.
Even if this were not what could be,
I still push through, hoping to see.
This is all I ever wanted.
Touch the silence inside of a broken heart,
and the deafening roar will heal.
Touch the silence inside a quiet mouth,
and allow the thunder peel.
Pressing down.
Pressing down.
Faded crown on me.
Even if you can't understand how,
I've faltered to a burning sow,
with angel bites to cool me down.
Even if it's blasphemous to say,
I'll love you now in every way
until the sun will have me drown.
Touch the sky childishly,
not caring if it's blue.
Touch the silence in the sky
with Heaven and the peace in you.
And simply press it down,
this faded crown on me.
All of This Is Yours, for Now
Forever clad;
an achronism,
when sadness heats glaciers
that will not thaw with gentling.
Breath exhaled holds
like a curse that scrolls
and folds across the neck,
in a time too late to hurt.
A swift-blow fist
that's clutching, snow grip
flows blood with sympathy;
all of this is yours, for now.
I, Robot
Sentiently wasting tears
and, like a human, draining fears
through a synthetic mind that forces thought
and flows emotion on a mechanical plot.
Humans feel a hollow pain
in taking action or a vast refrain;
they live and fear, murder and cry,
but I, Robot, will never die.
Artificial as I seem,
I, too, must dream.
When the weariness can once more be felt,
I'll sleep, because this circuitry can melt.
The End
The end:
what a sight to behold
with the treasure I charged for
and my skin gilded gold -
how I asked for the heat,
and the breast gave me cold.
Doesn't help much now to be told
what uncertain coffers may hold.
Mirrored:
what a body to mold;
a sparkling diamond
to cut and be sold.
What jeweler is trusted
with these memories, untold?
Doesn't help to crease that fold
or constrict it in the way it's rolled.
So much to mend;
so much to tend.
The end of this, God-send.
Born Too Late
The titan's grip faltered.
It fumbled with the circuitry,
and this is inferno
with no way to escape.
With the wind howling acidic,
how is one to know?
But back when we were young-
Before God took a sip,
man told him his place,
but this is freefall
with no more faith.
With no god to believe in,
how can one be all?
But back when we were young,
it didn't matter.
This is a figment of imaginations.
Misguided concepts fulfilled.
Worst-case scenario.
Leave me something for hope.
Captain, stagger us towards land
if you know where it is.
We'll bring this ship home
one day, dock it with tattered rope.
But back when we were young,
it didn't matter.
The robots ruled the world -
perfect angels; perfect cliches -
constructed to obey.
Before God took another sip,
man told him He was wrong.
This is hopelessness.
God too bore down his will -
for the young and robotic to digress,
and, Captain, we did so.
Stay Past Sunday
Stay past Sunday
for creation or continuation.
Building up an army -
single-soldier, perfect nation.
Face the needle
on the rise to the eye,
puncturing the pupil
you deftly taught to cry.
?cigol derorrim fo elpmaxe na I mA
Buttercup, you're sour,
but I can't forget the taste.
This won't last.
This won't last.
Repeat.
Stay past Sunday
as they tell me we're in love.
A silken fabrication
from your tongue's velvet glove.
Face the needle
as it skips over empty tracks.
As long as you can't hear it,
you'll never have to face those facts.
.tser eht morf dehsiugnitsid er'uoY
Buttercup, you're sour,
but you felt great once on my tongue.
This won't last.
It's lasting still.
Repeat.