Yes, roses are red
And violets are blue
But you have to understand
Who said they had to,
Its about imagination
Emotion and orignality
Not the reiteration
Of dead men's practicality
These words,
They are your sentence
To a world that has to listen
As you create the difference
Whether it be
With angst poem against love
Or how you set your heart free
To fly like a dove,
For these words
Whether or not they be true
Their beauty and ideals
Will be used to define you,
So yes,
Hope ,in fact, has feathers
And like a caged bird it sings
But these words will only be tethers
That strip you of your wings,
Those are their words
Meant for their time
And me
I must have been insane to think
I could ever do this on my own--
That's why people love, right? So they
Don't ever have to be alone.
I'm not alone; I'm not, but I
Never want to cause people sadness!
Never want to break their smiles,
Never want to be a burden--
No, no; don't do this to yourself.
Don't kill yourself with poetry.
You'll start to believe the words you write
You'll turn away, hide from the light--
Wanting your own life; is that so wrong?
Relying on no one to carry on?
I love--I do! My heart is oceans
Red and blue. But this life is...
Shortcut Through Heaven and a Church Yard by Gay-Mountain, literature
Literature
Shortcut Through Heaven and a Church Yard
At four years old, a woman tells me
"you can have everything
back;
your birthday on a Saturday
every year and all the apple juice
in the universe.
Just be a good person, Sam,
and you will go on
as if you were your own sub-species;
a turned-down supernova
endlessly realising the colour
of your wife's eyes."
I don't know;
I haven't lost it all yet
and I wonder when I will.
The screaming is too loud, today and tonight.
So I clasp my hands over my ears.
And shut it tight.
My eye’s eyes are shut. I don’t scream anymore.
Dry lips, from no longer screaming.
My mouth will remain shut.
Time no longer turning.
I am here for you little screaming girl.
Don’t open your mouth.
You’ll fall victim to the repetition.
The addiction of the screams.
Once I open my eyes
Fading to white, the world around me blurs.
Refusing to scream, just because of the pressure.
Others fall victim to the repetition, the addiction.
Sweet little boy, you screamed for so long.
Surely you must be tired.,
An
I found a cup of liquid.
I saw it burn and bubble.
I did not want to touch it;
I wanted no such trouble.
I tried to keep my distance;
could not get far enough.
And as my friend approached,
to make a choice was tough.
I saw him reaching out;
I did not act at all,
and as he screamed and howled
I watched the cup's short fall.
And as it fell, it tipped.
It started then to pour,
and I was forced to realize
the puddle on the floor.
It forced us two apart,
and still went on to scorch;
like jumping into flames,
or sharp hot knives or torch.
The damage hence is done;
it cannot be unmade.
And I have come to see,
the sca
A Spanish lament
blooms in high halls; ... in incarcerated windows
unflowering on the marble almost touching the vines
then pouring and straining in their stony spouse's eyes
through jigsawed cobbled streets. a length of breath away.
... and intermittently pulsing strings The sadness of the World
spray the orange from the lamps sprouts in between the crevasses
painting the cries ripe and full of taste -
and mellowing the sorrow. a feast for crows
Wasted Words.
We wait for the last possible moment.
Even when confronting our opponents.
To reveal,
How we truly feel.
We hide behind our counterfeit expressions.
Conceal and contain our countless confessions.
Failing to announce,
What our mouths long to pronounce.
We purposely squander opportunities.
Maintaining our positions within our communities.
Avoiding any disclosure,
Reducing the risk of exposure.
We use humour to dilute what we actually say.
Because the truth does not have to be revealed today.
We know there always is a tomorrow,
So today has not got to be filled with sorrow.
We wait and wait.
Stall and pr