A Collection of Writings.
L.A.W
Severed brick walls
the attacking chirp of a bird
I find myself climbing up a ladder but down away I go.
Brain splattered
The eulogy lives on.
The spoken word of the dead withered into evaporated droplets.
Sitting under this tree, a breeze whispers stories.
The leaves, through thier flickering shadows shunned ideas inhibited by the Gods themselves.
A leaf falls and another father is awoken.
Oh the attacking chirp of a bird
Oh the attacking chirp of a bird
Is it you whom steals the sweet berries from my land?
From yonder approaches a man
with each step he throws a berry from his hand.
Now I ask yet another question,
but only through the flickering shadows of the leaves will I find the true answer.
Keep quiet, and sit still and you to will find what your looking for.
Anchovies disgust me .
I prefer cheese to remind me of an old tune.
A rancid smell, with a story to tell.
A crackled sound
from the whiskey drenched vinyl.
Happy to be surrounded by such philosophic musicians.
In this town such a sound is profound.
She wasn't from here.
You could tell she had the moon under her spell.
She swung from the stars and sang with the creatures of the Earth.
She'll save up money, find her honey, and take him back to tell.
Tell the sun
Tell the earth
not to mention of his birth.
He would simply be her melody.
Now I'm starting to doubt the seasons.
Not of nature
but of man
When his red tongue absorbs the poison, another man has won his welfare.
He defeated his own clan and was swallowed by the sand.
A tale once sane now turned into bane.
A tomb is now standing, almost a year and a quarter.
A man once a martyr, now lay cold in a bed. A bed filled with dirt and confidential vibrations.
The good man was blind and with this lost track of time.
His bones are still and his flesh burnt with the sun.
Turning tides with the moon
I sit still remembering that poor good man.
He didn't see
He could not see.
He never killed a man, just lost his will.
If only he could've seen the virtue i tried to instill .
It was fear who brought his fate
and now forever i'll be ill.
With this change i'll find a ring around the roses closest to the ground.
My arms are turning into grass lets take a bath alas.
In the back beneath the mat the key will turn you free.
Do not be disabled in spirit as well as physically - Steven Hawking
I must crack my skull, burn my brain, and lose my bones. For then my soul is free.
He seems to me like the sweetest white tea.
Someone who simmers with glittering dead breath.
Like a bird who chirped towards the sea
but was born from natures holy tree.
My passion has always been to understand.
A technique that this pen met with my hand.
With this might I stand.
Rotten like the world we must maneuver through the fires we call hell.
This song is dead like my overgrown fingernail in jail.
Mister milk man
Memory of a middle class vanity.
