Tag Archives: creative writing

Intrinsic Instruments

Silence strangles me.

Serendipity strengthens me.

Singing is scrutiny into and of my hapless soul,

Saving my senility for something bigger to swallow;

Saving my serenity: bid for my fast safe return.

Specters in the sky, specters in the night,

Strange and lovely demons plague the air.

The stroke of the majestic midnight,

The servile recruiter of raucous tidings,

Silence strangles me,

Silence sets me free.

Saving eternity,

A saline of the sea,

A solution sprung of sanity.

Six Figga Nigga

Sighing qualms for peace;

Angsty with integrity.

Void and annoyance.

 

You stole my car, bitch?

Instigation, criminal.

My house, my rules, my cash.

 

Honey, you know, ho’!

Little fella’s up on me.

Jeal’sy makes you green

 

Little Girl.

 

Suicide saves no one,

For they answer to Him.

And, I pray every night and know that He has no mercy for a thief….

For me, for I agree

Wednesday dreams leave me feeling serene,

But Sunday,

That Sunday sun sings it’s rhythms like no one.

Flags and freedom, oh, a guy can dream.

And I feel serene.

And I feel serene.

Your tangible face, while yes, it drifts away,

I’m not apologetic, but I’m not apathetic.

And cream, it sits at the top, waiting for me.

And I feel redeemed.

Monday lifts me up on my heels, screaming scathing onerous drills.

I dream of quitting; a dream surreal,

And I feel surreal.

‘Cause quite lately I have been eating cake.

I have been both in possession of said cake, and I have been defiant in eating it as well.

I am blessed, can’t you tell?

Bonus et Sapiens                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             A la Craig

Quiet lies hide the tide of change

That tries to bloom.

Indiscretion hides a bitter life of regret;

I can’t forget.

Some Sunday sun

Seems benevolent.

I question and I try to remain indifferent,

But the tides, like the ides,

Forbid me from reminiscing

Forbid me from forgiving

Forbid me from living and breathing,

For they only know bereaving.

Conscience, I’ve lived.

Decrepit, and at once livid:

I foresee a day,

A day as righteous as a flower in May.

I deliver my thanks

And I consecrate my

Banks of knowledge.

I’ve got knowledge.

But can I forget all this that I’ve tried to beget?

I want to be a new sapling; a tree. I want to be, but I want to be me.

A poem of a little flower growing strong

That bold young flower, which grows

By the sol’s power,

And bathes in the moon glowing bright

Over the dunes, triumphs over

The weeds that the garden master

Cannot see.

And the weeds, while they sting,

While they blame, and while they bleed

Out all the nutrients, crippling

Said flower’s stead, do not

See, do not dream, do not

Relent, and with fervor vent.

However, as I see it,

The flower

Grows, and the flower shows

Off its petals, crying not

In the presence of those who

Meddle, further circumventing

All those who will not start relenting.