PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Rain, snow, sleet, hail

Set me free from this eye biased jail

Rain I ask you to call up your friends

Thunder and lightening to put this to an end

Snow it’s your turn to blind everyone’s eye

Take away their sight and just let them die

Sleet and hail work together

Give them a dent and make them crash in this weather

I’m so sick of talking about it all

I don’t know what to do

I’m so tired of repeating myself

What am I to prove?

Just like something that came from nothing

I’ll be the nothing that came from something

And just like something that came from nothing

I’ll be the nothing that came from something

And just like beauty lies in poetry

I’ll be the poetry that lies in the ugly

And just like the ears that pick up the sound

I’ll be the sound that lies to your ears

If we can work this out then it doesn’t have to be

But if we can work this out

Then in the summer we’ll be free

In the spring we’ll be sprung

And the fall we’ll be done

Then no rain snow sleet or hail

Will bias the views and we can take off the veil

No rain snow sleet or hail

Will blind us dent us or thunder out our wails

We’ll be heard across town

Kicking gravel at our differences

Showing each other that we’re not insecure with this

Proving to each other that we can keep promises

Letting each other know that we can be honest.



Honesty resides as a book in my mind.  There’s a library where I keep it.  You ask the definition of if I’m a good person, expecting to hear the truth, but I’m well versed in, bullshitting answers out to the contender, exposing the pretenders as if I were any better.  I got a letter from the library, the books been checked out.  Something that means I can’t answer without.  And now my web grows bigger while my morals hit a drought.  But that’s not even what I’m about, because I can sit here and spout all these things about how I’m honest because I wrote this which makes it a lie by default.  Or I can say that I was lying when I wrote this, which makes it all true, and then it’s admitting to it that shows what I know.  All along playing like a kid at Barnum and baileys, just messing around to see what I can get away with.

Staring at this mirror I see a reflection of myself.  No signs of prosperity, no signs of any wealth.  Just a fuck up with a pen, who writes about himself, or an emotional attachment he had with a girl.  This guy falls in love more often than he knows, while the girls are unsuspecting, his loneliness shows. Bags under his eyes, a cigarette to hear his cries, and an empty seat in front of him where his reflection lies.  Misconceived and full of anguish, the boy moves on towards being famous.  A middle child syndrome on the last of the three, two older sisters who crave attention like meat.  This kid is so insecure that fame doesn’t mean much, he needs to move on to be stable on his broken ego crutch.  Picking apart his reflection he sees his imperfection:  an elongated nose and one eye is more closed.  His ears move when he smiles and he needs to change his clothes.  Out of order and out of shape, there are two directions that he can take.  Look at the mirror and continue his thinking or walk away pondering that while he’s leaving.  I decide to pull away from this tangled up path.  Grabbing the mirror as I run in any direction that I can.  Losing my mind I break the mirror with a .  Seeing 1000 me’s blinking right back.  At that I see exactly what I lack.  Ten times the smile and 100 times the Tim.  Beauty is only relative to the person that it’s in.

The antidisestablishmentarianism is the direction that my life’s been living.  And I can’t cope with women because I always seem to give in.  My kneecaps weaken and I stay alone on the weekends.  The outlook is bleak and I try hard to keep my head from sinkin.  Sway back and forth like Ali and his rope-a-dope.  Livin’ like I'm on coke, natural high is what I toke and an intense personality which makes me a joke.  My sense of myself changes with the seasons, I don’t even understand most of the reasons, but I accept it, not reject it, I don’t pawn it I perfect it.  And you know I’ll protect it because for me it’s the best fit. in the summertime the women are easy and I’m on the microphone busting’ to the beat.  All day people come and ridicule me, telling me about how freestyle is weak.  But I don’t rap for them, I do it for me.  Trying to prove to myself that spirit makes the scene.  Acting on stage I tried to break a leg, maybe one day you’ll appreciate what I’ve said.  September comes up pulling the curtain off my window.  People can see inside and understand my flow.  Ignorance spawned fright from what they didn’t know; and now they’re telling me to put on another show.  Autumn leaves change, personified by my mood.  Putting a cast on my leg to give it time for my wound.  A monster lurks inside trying to bide time and hide but doesn’t know how to glide or to which side to slide, my minds eye blinked, it opened up and it was winter.  December for me makes motivation turn to liquor.  Drunk-like songs and all night coffee marathons, spilling the truth and spelling out my roots.  The lasting impact is exact because when I get sprung from this mousetrap I’ll have cheese and whine to snack.  But do I really lack what I say I pack?  Are my rhymes whack and need some snap?  For the remainder of the seasons I search for life’s reasons, inspirational meetings and warm spring greetings.  A pen and a pad, a tree or the sand, anywhere I sit my muse will be glad.  Because renewal is an order and the years getting warmer, so my age gets older and my experience passes the borders.

The weight on my shoulders is gone when they move the boulder.  Three days in hell then I rose to heaven’s portrait.  Painted in my mind where I love to reside take time to myself then I stretch my angels wings to fly.  God’s right hand is my parakletic perch singing birdsongs about harmony and church.  The Reverend Boltron takes his job like a gift.  Loving every moment, every minute, every second of it.  A harp-equipped bard lays the rhythm for the sound, mixing and matching as we fly back down.  My wings turn to my hair and his harp was well prepared, because when he landed it became turntables and the strings became stairs.  Follow the leader or choose your own adventure but be true to yourself and you wont have to suffer.  Be true to yourself and we’ll invite you to a last supper.  Be true to yourself and your wings will get stronger.  Use the stairs when you need them and your halo will mark your freedom.  Walk hand and hand into God’s glorious kingdom.

Picture painted portraits pose problems, pausing profits.  Where will we work when we want wages?  Cant count correctly collecting contingencies, capitalizing crucifixion corroborated Christians.  Stealing someone’s story, so simple to save your soul.  Breaking back bombastic barriers, brutalizing bloodshed, boasting broken bridges.  Dilapidated diners decaying daily.  Don’t drive down depressive daunting decades.  Live life, lose lust, leave loath, love love.  Reminisce rapidly, don’t waste time living in the past.  Structure only works so well.  Break the mold and shed your cast.  Protection only shelters you, stopping experience from reaching you.  Security breech, someone got past.  A first time love, she got around the cast?  How often does that happen?  Working with the thunder clapping—In her ears.  Four more senses until communication disappears.  The empty shell of your problem ring plaster has her going in circles faster and faster.  She’s lost all her mass and attained the speed of light!  The next sense is lost, she can’t use her sight!  It pains her to feel your defense, leaving without a hug at best.  Number three is out the door.  Taste and smell dominate the floor.  They stumble onto an old shirt you’ve left there before.  Two weeks later, your smell is long gone, along with hers but the rejection tastes strong.  The one neglected sense, a silent dog by the fence.  Waiting for you to come back so she can finally rest.    Undetected and souring hope, she licks your trail to find a rope.  A single thread to bring you back, purify her actions and run with you on a track.  Keeping up with you she glides across the turf.  Balance was her sixth sense and she finally got it to work.  Seeing you for what you are, a scared little boy looking for someone’s arms.  They materialized around you, as she slows her speed to sound.  Mass coming back you hear her cry loud.  She covers you with kisses and rubs against your cheek, smelling you reverently remembering how you speak.  Adoration replaces rejections taste as you roam together with no destination as the place.

When time slows to a stop I hope I’m in a place where I love.  When earth stops spinning I hope gravity keeps its tug.  I hope nobody will pull the plug.  I hope someone’s watching from above.  A dove, symbolic of so many things.  A rug, walked on by so many feet.  A tug, the reminder of gravity.  Keeping the doves wings strong and the rug under your feet.  Above, below, all around it’s just a show.  The goal is to play the role of a force of nature to help you grow.  But once you know, its significance takes a toll.  Leaving you with a bitten apple and a head full of knowledge to find a scapegoat.  Time tick by and you ponder the fonder times of our life.  Watching magical forces before farces shone their shine.  Reflecting in your eyes until you can see, crucibles of Darwin’s nature bring depression to everyone they meet.  Depressed after a while, they still left an imprint.  Losing faith hurts, and insight isn’t relevant.  What’s to happen when knowledge is key?  When we realize that chemical reactions rule you and me.  Will morality jump out the window for all of us to see?  Killing people won’t be seen as mean, we’re just stopping chemicals from mixing.  Seratonin and dopamine make an emotionally synthetic being.  Causing ripples in the gene pool will have no more meaning…