Just killing time, til I see you
fleeting imagined moments abound within my unshaped head
happy and hopeful dreams of my unknown future, and some uncertain fate,
The blackness is more clear here than you can ever know
you cant see me swimming in the murky fluid of our home
but I'm still in here waiting, and I'm just killing time
The shame on my fathers hidden brow
and perhaps the regret of that drunkin night
the deadly decision, led by your embarresed smile
but still I'm right here waiting, waiting for the promise
for just the promise of your pain,
I heard what you said to father last night,
It scared me, did you feel me kick you in the middle
I feel too can you really just forget that, like they told you to?
but I'll wait here for you, just keep killing time, swimming inside
Waiting for you to decide, waiting for you to to set the day
of the killing time, or the beginning of my time.
This is Not Poetry
This isn't poetry
These are just the ramblings of a madman.
poetry is written by educated men, about deep thoughts, splashed with
color and sprinkeld with verses that I can't even understand.
but this is not poetry,
These are just the ramblings of man barely sane, dancing on the razor sharp edge
of madness, flirting with insanity, mumbling to the friends I created long ago,
dancing with these vague ethreal beings that lurk beneath the glaze
of my tortued and red rimmed eyes.....and liking it.
Poetry is written by great men, but I'm am not great
Poetry is written by wise men who can string together rythmic impassioned words
that soften the heart, and ease the troubled soul, but I am not wise,
Poetry is written by men of deep feeling but my feelings, have been numbed
by whatever chemestry prescribed or not, attempting to numb the stinging acid
of the hateful words aimed always at me.
Poetry is written by people with great thoughts,
but my thoughts remain hidden, and buried.
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