PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

What a skeletal wreck of man this is.

Translucent flesh and feeble bones,

the kind of temple where the whores and villains try to tempt the holistic domes.

Running rampid with free thought to free form, and the free and clear.

When the matters at hand are shelled out like lint at a

laundry mat to sift and focus on the bigger, better, now.

We all have a little sin that needs venting,

virtues for the rending and laws and systems and stems are ripped

from the branches of office, do you know where your post entails?

Do you serve a purpose, or purposely serve?

When in doubt inside your atavistic allure, the value of a summer spent, and a winter earned.

For the rest of us, there is always Sunday.

The day of the week the reeks of rest, but all we do is catch our breath,

so we can wade naked in the bloody pool, and place our hand on the big, black book.

To watch the knives zigzag between our aching fingers.

A vacation is a countdown, T minus your life and

counting, time to drag your tongue across the sugar cube,

and hope you get a taste.

What the fuck is all this for?

What the hell's going on? Shut up!

I can go on and on but lets move on, shall we?



Say, your me, and I’m you, and they all watch the things we do,

and like a smack of spite they threw me down the stairs,

haven’t felt like this in years.

The great magnet of malicious magnanimous refuse, let me go,

and punch me into the dead spout again.

That’s where you go when there’s no one else around,

it’s just you, and there was never anyone to begin with, now was there?

Sanctimonious pretentious dastardly bastards with their thumb on the pulse,

and a finger on the trigger.

Classified my ass! That's a fucking secret, and you know it!

Government is another way to say better…than…you.

It’s like ice but no pick, a murder charge that won’t stick,

it’s like a whole other world where you can smell the food,

but you can’t touch the silverware.

Huh, what luck. Fascism you can vote for.

Humph, isn’t that sweet?

And we’re all gonna die some day, because that’s the American way,

and I’ve drunk too much, and said too little,

when your gaffer taped in the

middle, say a prayer, say a face, get your self together and see what’s happening.

Shut up! Fuck you! Fuck you!

I’m sorry, I could go on and on but

their times to move on so, remember: you’re a wreck, an accident.

Forget the freak, your just nature.

Keep the gun oiled, and the temple cleaned shit snort,

and blaspheme, let the heads cool, and the engine run.

Because in the end, everything we do, is just everything we’ve done.



by Corey Taylor of Stone Sour & Slipknot