This is not a poem

You think your opinion counts
Think you make the world go round
It's all abut sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll
What on Earth can you do? Fuck-all

You dream of a better tomorrow
Where there is no hunger or sorrow
You kid yourself, thinking yours is the only way
And feed your crap to the kids everyday

You speak of a world where everyone is the same
Little do they realise you're just playing a sick game
Nothing's gonna change; the end is nigh
So fuck this shit and let's get high?

No, it's not that simple, as you very well know
Sooner or later, she is going to blow
What then, are they to do?
Get up and shout "fuck you too"?

Meh?

I want to write a poem about you
Something silly, immature and maybe a little weird
But I can’t seem to find the right words
Or maybe I’m just too lazy and tired
I dunno…
See, I can’t even get this to rhyme
Maybe that means something
Maybe it doesn’t
Who knows? Who cares?
I don’t know what to think
One minute I want you forever
Next minute I’m not so sure
Ah, I think I managed a little rhyme there
No, not really… yeah
Anyway…
I think I like you
Kind of
Sort of
A little bit
Or more
I don’t know
I do know one thing, though
Yesterday…
I missed you

You are...

An enigma to many
A bit naive to some
A nuisance to a few
You are..
An oasis to "them"

I make you...
A loser
An idiot
A loner
I make you...
One of "them"

You make me...
A freak
An addict
A thief
You make me...
A criminal to "them"

We are...
A dream
A nightmare
A story
We are...
... nothing to "them"

Jingle bells, Christmas sells

Jingle bells
Christmas sells
No one gives a damn
Oh, what fun,
It is to ride an open market scam

Hey

Jingle Bells
Christmas sells
No one gives a damn
Oh, what fun,
It is to ride an open market scam

Dashing through the gore
In a one-track bullshit sleigh
O’er the mires we go
Laughing all the waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay

@#*$&^!*^$(@!#$^(*@#$^(*

FUCK commercialism!

____

Inspired by the Joker’s version of Jingle Bells

Snakes and ladders

You slither, you hiss
You embrace, you kiss
I wither, I miss
My disgrace, my bliss

He hallows, she mellows
He bellows, she follows
He wallows, she swallows
How hollow, how shallow

I watch, you mock
The cradle won't rock
They botch, they dock
The ladle won't wok

You slither, and smother
Hither and thither,
I gather their blather
And lather your tether

Shall I compare thee to a winter's day?

With apologies to Mr. William Shakespeare

Shall I compare thee to a winter's day?

Thou art more cold and maketh me desperate

Hailstorms deter not the lone wolf on its way

And winter's lease leaveth no room for hate

Sometimes too deep run the crevices of lust

And oft is its crimson complexion dimm'd

And no fair from fair will ever rust

By chance nor nature's changing course untrimm'd:

But thy eternal winter shall not fade

Nor lose possession of that poison that thou owest

Nor shall Death brag thou wanderest in his shade

For Death himself is but thyself slowest


So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,

So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

In other words, I'm crazy about you when I know I shouldn't be.

Love is...

An illusion... for it's a mere magic trick played on the weak and gullible

A mirage... for it's something that is really not there

A lie... for no one really means it when they say 'I love you'

A trap... for it ensnares the senses


A book... that no one will ever finish reading

A puzzle... that no one has yet solved

A riddle... that no one will ever figure out

A quagmire... that no one will ever get out of alive


A dagger... that can kill you in an instant

A poison... that can kill you slowly

A bullet... that can pierce your heart

A sword... that can sever your head



Love is...

A load of crap, that we all so desperately crave for

A weapon... of mass destruction

Finito

The Watchmaker

He sits in silence bent over his desk…

He watches his watch dying a slow agonising death…

He knows what he is… a surgeon…

A life saver… he must do this; it is no burden

He wears no mask, he fears nothing…

For he is always certain he knows what’s coming…

He picks his tools, and shifts on his stool…

And imagines himself drowning in a pool…

Wiping the sweat off of his tired face…

He wearily looks at the finish line of the race…

It’s not that far, he knows he can make it…

But for how long does he think he can fake it?

____________________________________
OK, I admit. Poetry is not my strong point. This is just something I wrote over a year ago. It's... weird, to say the least.