CoffeeDrinker
Bluelighter
I just randomly found a verse of an unfinished thing I did yesterday, now I feel like working on it some more. The first verse is what I wrote a few months ago, everything else I just made up on the spot, loose rhyme schemes, etc. Don't hate!
Creative Destruction:
When I asked why the poem was deadly
Nobody could pick up my sign,
But they did their best to remain pretty friendly
even if they so clearly hid what's on their mind.
And I looked for a while at the pages
claimed by a man long ago
Who grew darkness like a king grows cages
and I knew right away this was Poe.
He wrote about the guilty heart and secret dreams,
and I know I have both of those in spades.
The first is due to my borrowed time,
and the second happens every time I get paid.
With no qualms about leaving behind the quiet life
like an old blanket that no longer keeps out the cold,
I push ahead knowing I'm headed for too much strife
than I even know how to handle or hold
On my mind these creations work in strange ways
and I'm feeling just a little bit drained.
When the sunlight and heat are still hours away
they flame up and demand to be tamed.
Tell that to the people I need to see tomorrow
and they look at me like I'm insane.
All the more reason not to feel any sorrow
When I escape from this grey and white domain.
I might wind up dead on the side of the road
and be remembered in a Neil Young song.
But when the daylight glints off of my eyes
I know I don't feel I've gone so wrong.
On the roads beneath my feet my boots are tattered
and I still have some crossroads to get past
I hope, for once, all my illusions are shattered
and I find just what I'm looking for at last.
There's no destiny like for those who seek
everything but what's in their face.
Poe's haunting words are still at work
when I decided I need to keep up the chase
I cast nothing out when I pick it up,
All my memories make a home inside my brain.
I might not try to see if some are corrupt,
to be honest it all seems much the same.
They're all just tools for the Muses's fool
who tries to serve her each and every day.
Always struggling with futility
can make even the most jaded ones want to pray.
Some times I think I'm on a fool's errand
trying to blaze a trail where no one cares to stray
At the same time I can't see why I shouldn't
make some use of my dwindling days
The road I'm on was well traveled once
and, if it still is, I just don't know,
but it's hard to see too far ahead
when you've got a cloud of thoughts constantly in tow.
Yes, I might wind up dead on the side of the road
and be forgotten before too long.
But when the daylight glints off of my eyes
I know I don't feel I've gone so wrong.
My pockets have holes, but are still useful.
My shoes have them too and feel great.
It's not like gravel is all that painful
when you've been living on it for millions of days.
The Sun is almost down now, and I have to leave
before the Muse calls me to her.
She's never been one to wait that long,
she carries a long list of those she might prefer.
The first of her flames rise behind my eyes
when the dawn and dusk stand perfectly opposed.
The moon shines down through clouds as I write my lines
and my poorly guarded thoughts become exposed.
And when it's clear she's totally used me up,
and left me with nothing to call my own,
a seed appears, subtle and abrupt.
Could be brilliant, but she's just throwing me a bone.
The poison from the preachers who lived and spoke
to the crowds from days long ago
was spilt upon my growing mind
and it never washed off or lost its glow.
I know these words all came from her
when she was feeling merciful instead of carefree.
Her image-less face always in the air
wherever my eyes try to see.
Yes, I might wind up dead on the side of the road
and be hated, loved, or ignored.
But every time the daylight hits my eyes
My ears ring with that same phantom chord.
When those highest priests died before their time
it was clear their potency wasn't just for show.
When they signed their deals to work for the Muse
she would never allow them to let it go.
The gifts she gave in their very first days,
just samples of her endless dreams,
contaminated their all their futures
and made them eager to leave the main stream.
I know I have to die eventually
so why not end up on the side of the road,
Having lived my life always for her
and for those who need a glimpse of her code?
Creative Destruction:
When I asked why the poem was deadly
Nobody could pick up my sign,
But they did their best to remain pretty friendly
even if they so clearly hid what's on their mind.
And I looked for a while at the pages
claimed by a man long ago
Who grew darkness like a king grows cages
and I knew right away this was Poe.
He wrote about the guilty heart and secret dreams,
and I know I have both of those in spades.
The first is due to my borrowed time,
and the second happens every time I get paid.
With no qualms about leaving behind the quiet life
like an old blanket that no longer keeps out the cold,
I push ahead knowing I'm headed for too much strife
than I even know how to handle or hold
On my mind these creations work in strange ways
and I'm feeling just a little bit drained.
When the sunlight and heat are still hours away
they flame up and demand to be tamed.
Tell that to the people I need to see tomorrow
and they look at me like I'm insane.
All the more reason not to feel any sorrow
When I escape from this grey and white domain.
I might wind up dead on the side of the road
and be remembered in a Neil Young song.
But when the daylight glints off of my eyes
I know I don't feel I've gone so wrong.
On the roads beneath my feet my boots are tattered
and I still have some crossroads to get past
I hope, for once, all my illusions are shattered
and I find just what I'm looking for at last.
There's no destiny like for those who seek
everything but what's in their face.
Poe's haunting words are still at work
when I decided I need to keep up the chase
I cast nothing out when I pick it up,
All my memories make a home inside my brain.
I might not try to see if some are corrupt,
to be honest it all seems much the same.
They're all just tools for the Muses's fool
who tries to serve her each and every day.
Always struggling with futility
can make even the most jaded ones want to pray.
Some times I think I'm on a fool's errand
trying to blaze a trail where no one cares to stray
At the same time I can't see why I shouldn't
make some use of my dwindling days
The road I'm on was well traveled once
and, if it still is, I just don't know,
but it's hard to see too far ahead
when you've got a cloud of thoughts constantly in tow.
Yes, I might wind up dead on the side of the road
and be forgotten before too long.
But when the daylight glints off of my eyes
I know I don't feel I've gone so wrong.
My pockets have holes, but are still useful.
My shoes have them too and feel great.
It's not like gravel is all that painful
when you've been living on it for millions of days.
The Sun is almost down now, and I have to leave
before the Muse calls me to her.
She's never been one to wait that long,
she carries a long list of those she might prefer.
The first of her flames rise behind my eyes
when the dawn and dusk stand perfectly opposed.
The moon shines down through clouds as I write my lines
and my poorly guarded thoughts become exposed.
And when it's clear she's totally used me up,
and left me with nothing to call my own,
a seed appears, subtle and abrupt.
Could be brilliant, but she's just throwing me a bone.
The poison from the preachers who lived and spoke
to the crowds from days long ago
was spilt upon my growing mind
and it never washed off or lost its glow.
I know these words all came from her
when she was feeling merciful instead of carefree.
Her image-less face always in the air
wherever my eyes try to see.
Yes, I might wind up dead on the side of the road
and be hated, loved, or ignored.
But every time the daylight hits my eyes
My ears ring with that same phantom chord.
When those highest priests died before their time
it was clear their potency wasn't just for show.
When they signed their deals to work for the Muse
she would never allow them to let it go.
The gifts she gave in their very first days,
just samples of her endless dreams,
contaminated their all their futures
and made them eager to leave the main stream.
I know I have to die eventually
so why not end up on the side of the road,
Having lived my life always for her
and for those who need a glimpse of her code?
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