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  • troubadour 3w

    Like Night
    Mar. 7th, 2020


    Like night
    as it rushes in.
    I falter
    as I face defeat
    and attempt
    to begin again.

    ©Troubadour

  • troubadour 3w

    Wild
    Mar. 7th, 2020


    Star child,
    born wild,
    breeze caresses face,
    elemental grace.
    Whispering earth spirit,
    only in complete silence
    can one hear it.

    ©Troubadour

  • troubadour 3w

    Moment By Moment
    Mar. 7th, 2020


    I often find myself in powerful moments,
    where upon a speedy whim,
    I must choose quickly between,
    calloused compassion and undulating understanding.

    ©Troubadour

  • troubadour 4w

    Distance
    Feb. 29th, 2020


    City scape,
    lights in the distance,
    like us,
    stable yet inconsistent.

    ©Troubadour

  • troubadour 4w

    Morning Light
    Feb. 28th, 2020


    As pillars of morning light
    play upon the young wood of my balcony,
    I bask in the confusion of who I am.
    As the first birds begin their enigmatic songs,
    I revel and writhe in the knowledge
    that though I most assuredly do exist
    and am alive,
    my purpose forever eludes me.

    ©Troubadour

  • troubadour 6w

    Whose Eyes Are These?
    Feb. 14th, 2020


    Whose eyes are these,
    that look back at me so?
    Whose eyes are these,
    I don't think that I know.

    ©Troubadour

  • troubadour 7w

    Sir. Shamus Shameless
    Apr. 28th, 2014


    My name is,

    nobody.

    Sick sore soul
    in an empty body.
    Emaciated from
    when contorted
    confusion caught
    up to me.
    Can not remember a
    single thing that
    has been taught
    to me.
    Heavy hollow howling
    hounds haunt
    me.

    Whisper softly when you utter my name,
    for I'm no good at this obviously rigged game.
    I see in colors not of average spectrum,
    my thoughts are timeless and my brain is bothersome.

    The door stands ajar,
    but it's a complete mystery where it leads.
    I can not see that far,
    my brittle bomb brain bloats then bleeds.
    Poetry penned with hot sticky tar,
    my mind was made to massacre and mar,
    memories of malice that cripple and scar.
    We are all made of space and star,
    doomed to endlessly wonder how and who we really are.

    My name is,

    nameless.

    A.K.A. blameless,
    call me Sir. Shamus Shameless.
    Too much cutting
    left me veinless.
    I'm clear, odorless,
    tasteless poison that
    is also painless.
    I'm far from fearless,
    nearly a near miss.
    I'm a coward who's
    courage is the color
    of piss.
    Too high now to poke
    fun or throw diss.
    Fuck poetry,
    I can no longer
    handle this.

    ©Troubadour

  • troubadour 7w

    Roughly Grown
    Feb. 5th, 2019


    I am at the best of times,
    a combination of what I almost did,
    and who I could have been.

    Mixed together with a bit of meandering melancholy,
    Sprinkled on top with freshly picked happiness holly.

    ©Troubadour

  • troubadour 9w

    Love Is A Lie
    Apr. 26th, 2014


    Surfin around on free wi-fi,
    gettin and feelin quite high,
    wondering why we all sigh,
    maybe because we know that at the end
    of the day all men must die,
    no matter how hard we try,
    love is a great big self propagating lie,
    sooner or later we all will fry,
    there is no heavenly city in the sky.

    Sorry to burst your safe little bubble,
    we are all made of rot and rubble,
    sour scheming stale stubble,
    stains the faces of those particular masses,
    who failed to pay attention in most of thier school classes.
    I write for them and for thee,
    for they are just like me,
    unsafe, unsteady, and not quite free,
    filled to capacity,
    with unwashed and unstable depravity,
    cradling corrupt blasphemy.

    ©Troubadour

  • troubadour 9w

    Hey Moon Glow, Whaddya Know?
    Apr. 23rd, 2014


    Pondering as I wander,
    deep in thought and prone to wonder.

    Inhabited and invaded by demons screeching louder than peals of thunder.
    Thier invasive and insidious spell I am always trapped under.

    Gouging and slashing,
    they pillage and plunder.
    Slicing and gnashing,
    they joyfully tear asunder.

    Hey moon glow,
    where did all of the snow go?
    Why do grass and trees grow?
    Why does the wind blow?
    Please tell me what you know,
    please teach me how to let go.

    Cracking right down the middle,
    life is an eternal riddle,
    covered in demon spittle,
    I feel every spiteful nibble,
    good vibes and positivity are thier kibble.
    Every bite steals a little bit more light,
    confusing wrong with right,
    so hard to keep up the fight,
    when evil sprites cloud your desperate sight,
    with starless pitch black night.

    I just can not help but to wonder,
    am I really worth the time and effort it takes to plunder?

    Haunted by unholy hunger,
    my soul is old but my actions are some what younger.

    Choking on my own blood,
    languishing in malevolent misfit mud,
    is where I am most often found,
    strapped down, gagged, beaten, and bound.

    ©Troubadour