The Good Me
Bluelighter
Hello.
My very closest friend, Vocab, introduced me to Blue Light just this evening, and I have to say, it makes me so happy to see so many people excited about poetry. There is alot of useful information for the curious, advice etc... but to see so much poetry, and the feedback it recieves, suffice to say, I will be reading, and submitting for a long time to come.
Now, to add my voice to the masses:
I see mad poetry sad sweet and troubled
you bring me your vision from under the cloud
with the silver lining I stand in
and wave
Do not forget, mad poets, that madness frees.
freedom in humble shoes, treading lightly on spring grass, or planted on a floorboard zipping along 12 inches above the ground and 65 miles an hour toward those nights that poetry holds.
we are youth, and youth revels
there are songs of childhood, of trolls under bridges and water that rolls and crashes against the sky.
Terrible 10:00p.m. horrors produced by Jaws and a stolen glimpse of Psycho.
Cousins that grow bored with every toy you wished you had.
A grandfathers rain barrel with swarms of tiny insects, so small, the look like ripples in the water.
Through many short summers and long winters, these songs slowly become sonnets of love
and desperation,
don't stop there.
Scream to America
PREPARE RAMSHACKLE TENNESSEE!!
lay out sheets for serene sleep in a dusty riverbed for me and thee and thee and thee, (hee hee)
We roll cigarettes in the backseat of an 88 Olds stationwagon as we flat burn across frying pan asphalt, roll through Texas, roll through New Mexico, roll though Nevada.
Find wise smiles of steady Native Americans.
This is my home.
I, too, am native.
Record stores were made for music, so make music in record stores, and diners, and on every street corner you pass.
The time for poets to lounge on marble steps wrapped in their dark concealing cloaks and reading their poetry with a furrowed brow to damp air and stale minds has long since past.
Poetry is passion, the expression of expression, so we beam and beat and stamp and growl and cuss spit wine at the moon.
Pills of poetry
plants of poetry
powder of poetry
I eat words
I breath lyrics
and when I sweat from exertion, rivers of words run in phrases and paragraphs
to make the poem I give you now.
The Good Me
My very closest friend, Vocab, introduced me to Blue Light just this evening, and I have to say, it makes me so happy to see so many people excited about poetry. There is alot of useful information for the curious, advice etc... but to see so much poetry, and the feedback it recieves, suffice to say, I will be reading, and submitting for a long time to come.
Now, to add my voice to the masses:
I see mad poetry sad sweet and troubled
you bring me your vision from under the cloud
with the silver lining I stand in
and wave
Do not forget, mad poets, that madness frees.
freedom in humble shoes, treading lightly on spring grass, or planted on a floorboard zipping along 12 inches above the ground and 65 miles an hour toward those nights that poetry holds.
we are youth, and youth revels
there are songs of childhood, of trolls under bridges and water that rolls and crashes against the sky.
Terrible 10:00p.m. horrors produced by Jaws and a stolen glimpse of Psycho.
Cousins that grow bored with every toy you wished you had.
A grandfathers rain barrel with swarms of tiny insects, so small, the look like ripples in the water.
Through many short summers and long winters, these songs slowly become sonnets of love
and desperation,
don't stop there.
Scream to America
PREPARE RAMSHACKLE TENNESSEE!!
lay out sheets for serene sleep in a dusty riverbed for me and thee and thee and thee, (hee hee)
We roll cigarettes in the backseat of an 88 Olds stationwagon as we flat burn across frying pan asphalt, roll through Texas, roll through New Mexico, roll though Nevada.
Find wise smiles of steady Native Americans.
This is my home.
I, too, am native.
Record stores were made for music, so make music in record stores, and diners, and on every street corner you pass.
The time for poets to lounge on marble steps wrapped in their dark concealing cloaks and reading their poetry with a furrowed brow to damp air and stale minds has long since past.
Poetry is passion, the expression of expression, so we beam and beat and stamp and growl and cuss spit wine at the moon.
Pills of poetry
plants of poetry
powder of poetry
I eat words
I breath lyrics
and when I sweat from exertion, rivers of words run in phrases and paragraphs
to make the poem I give you now.
The Good Me
