Butterflies I've seen the lives of butterflies wrapped tightly in cocoons of lies so when will I a butterfly break free from my cocoon surprized? Then I can be what's really me and when my colors people see I'll float upon the currents free. |
Butterflies I've seen the lives of butterflies wrapped tightly in cocoons of lies so when will I a butterfly break free from my cocoon surprized? Then I can be what's really me and when my colors people see I'll float upon the currents free. |
© Brandon Mise
© Mark McCann
[Take the Mic]
For the lack of better terms
Excuse me, what? Blah blah blah blah?
Was that what you are saying?
I just bump into disinterest,
and attention ceased the paying,
and it's all because your drab droll speech is parallel to-
(silence)
the footsteps down the hall...
the speckle on the wall...
the cranky creak of chairs, or
the deafening loss of hair...
just intertwined into the lint of background boredom buzz...
it drives my pen to doodles, and
IT DRIVES MY PEN TO DOODLES!
Perhaps if you rephrased the thoughts,
or rearranged the diction,
It might catch my concentration if you bullshit changed to fiction.
But how can rearranging blah,
to blah blah blah assist you?
When the manner of your discourse drives observance to resist you?
But Wait!
The humdrum of your speech has stirred...
the puddles in my mind...
My thoughts on ______________, are ______________, ____________.
(insert subject) (insert silence)(insert rhyme)
HEY! Do want to know the secret?
How to dis-divide attention?
Just REALLY say blah blah blah,
you'll find more mind retention.
But Fuck!
I've lost my rhyming dictonaire,
and alas, there is no more-us...
but just for the score, YOU ARE A BORE.
(For lack of a thesaurus.)
the ride home
bloodlines come and go
cultures clash, cultures mesh.
all the while painting my ghetto
in severed lines
servers of the air roll their baggage past utopia
and into sleeping transition while
the servers servants walk around utopias severed circle.
sitting face to face with
beauty and beautys realness,
axe between its limbs,
its a square circle needing a trim.
clever bird cages with reflecting crystals
hung over utopia to shine their light
down for those who don't see.
"what time does the next bus leave?"
eleven thirty
sunflower blooming with light, gleaming overhead,
the winged ones have now gotten on the bus
to there until we meet here to are the ones
waiting in the sunshine of glass petals.
eyes peering over the pages of news
paper, convenient place to hide.
glances and a sentence, eyeballs a plenty.
she gives a rocking skull
boarding time is here
to the gates...
when the hand rolls around
you know its time.
so many conversations but no waves.
concrete floor
birds in cages, mutilated wings
lizards on the walls
mice in the organ
rats in between
come in and you'll see
what the ride home
has done to me.
dont you see? the ride home's
killin' me.
Lost Heroes and Unreal Idols
I've lost my words,
and I guess you've found them.
Help me remember what I say.
I lose me everyday.
I tried to live on the lamb,
but I hated going with the herd,
so now I'm flying, dying,
like a fucked up bird.
Slap me in the face
when I'm out of place.
Remember when I
touched your hand,
you were as warm
as sun pelted sand.
You have the face of sunshine,
you have the face of a friend.
You're there for me now,
but it's not quite the end.
Time after time,
you nail me to the ground,
and all that echoes in the hall
is your hammering sound.
I don't know very much,
but I know if I touch
the face of truth,
I'll once again
touch my youth.
O Magi
how shall I
atone
for sins so
deep
that Satan
weeps
© Nivek Rolyat
...all words, poems, and voices belong to the writer/speaker...all rights reserved...
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