• writeweird 4w

    I only write when I cannot think straight

    you talk about flowers;
    i want to shoot myself in the head

    you talk about the sky;
    i want to slit my throat and go to sleep

    wanna' talk about the love gone sour
    or how hard are whispers to breathe ?

    gonna' talk about kings and cowards
    and how them wolves wear the sheep ?

    how about the sad things by a lonely hour
    ghosts and tears they bleed

    doused in flames of ink and its power
    where the emptiness sleeps

    beyond the everglades

    so when are you gonna' dig deep
    and turn to a different page

    like back in second grade when
    everybody made the same mountains,
    a triangle, with river maybe a beach

    when are you gonna' pretend
    you're in a spaceship not on an
    old ugly ass wooden seat ?

    like all them other poets
    too broken to weep

    open your mind
    there's an ocean to blind

    and dead lines to complete

    no hurt or violence to teach
    happy childhood so good
    got no stories to preach

    only apples and peach
    deep down where your sugar coated
    hands cannot reach

    don't understand a thing that
    comes out of your tame mouth
    your fucking doubts out loud
    creep the fuck me out
    and i'm about to pick a creed

    maybe we're just a generation of creeps
    too eager to swim and hardwired to speak
    too tired to think we're machines
    metal and fire we're only wired to repeat

    not go out of way down the road
    with bag full of ale and smoke
    enough to make a pained man choke
    they say tragedy is comedy plus grief

    in dark i know one cannot read
    only the owls
    but it's clear that you cannot tell
    if it is a wolf that howls

    clear blue skies from hell
    when hounds prowl

    what it's like to spell
    when you're filled with nothing
    but a void and a voice with two hearts
    and halves of foul syrup and bleach

    and yet you're so full of salt
    and then you fill yourself with walls
    mannequins and statues and dolls
    watching the dead space
    as the dead pace in empty halls

    as the head breed

    for gods sake there's so much
    to hate and to forsake
    the happy times cannot even compete

    stories can never be complete
    they take a life of its own
    monsters and demons only reap
    where they are sown

    the mind can only lead thus far
    every heart has a mind of its own
    eyes that only read at the dusk hour
    right before a new sun is born

    and you want to talk about flowers ?

    #mirakee #writersnetwork @writersnetwork @mirakee

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    and you want to talk about flowers ?

    when are you gonna' pretend
    you're in a spaceship not on an
    old ugly ass wooden seat ?