PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

We wind our chords and gather strength

To force our way to something good

All the while we'll be disgusted

By the face we choose to show

The noon time rise, we'll compromise

And decide it's all for better here

Listen for the subtle queue

That's never ever there

We'll talk for years, half a ten

Where we simmer on our thoughts

We'll plan our greatest atrophy

And continue dreaming on

But I find, that I grow tired

And my exhaustion hurts me so

Did I fail, or did I wake

To find that we've grown old?



I cannot make a picture work

I cannot hold the time

I sit here still alone so well

And dwell on my decline

You will not laugh at my expense

You will not laugh for kind

You will stare so vacantly

And I will stand aside

We will never follow logic

We will never sign

But we will proclaim the flawless

When the time is right

And when we argue endlessly

We'll know that we'll be fine

For what does not destroy the world

Will always ease our mind



Our friends will watch us stall and scatter

As ideals divide our words

We'll not agree and then we'll see

What loyalty we've earned

And maybe then we'll find some friends

Who understand what we've become

But by that time we're bitter husks

Of what they used to love

We're royalty within our heads

And we shall not be denied

The lunatics that bring us down

Will fry upon the pikes

And pour us more, pack it tight

Grant us exit mild

Denounce us not, judge or jury

Free us for a while

We shall return, by day end break

And we'll be all the wiser

We may not fix what must be fixed

But it may be set on fire



For as we learn that of the world

We were never here

Our welcome worn, our binding torn

We try to stay sincere

But we find static and let it cling

To let us feel the warmth

As it melts our skin to bone

We remember what it's for

So we cripple and die alone

Or maybe with some friends

The ones we chose to lie to often

So that they'd come again



And with our flowers

We'll smell so sweet

To cover the stench of rot,

Until the clouds

Part and view us

And judge it all for not,

'But we decide

The mortal putty

That decorates the morgue,

And we will be

So tasteful when

We fall below the floor.