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2003-09-21 16:57:31 ET I wish this page had a hit-counter, so I could at least see if anyone actually cares. *sigh* so lonely.
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Giving Up | |
2003-09-16 15:04:44 ET Since when do I do nothing but write stupid love songs? What makes me waste the ink and stay up all night long? Emotions pour on the page and my words they tend to ramble and the chance that it'll be any good is a big risk to gamble Who's going to read them, anyway? Do I keep them so when I die they'll find my books and afterwards say, "There's one lonely guy?" Why does love even matter? Why cry myself to sleep? It is even worth the effort when my poems just repeat? So I'm finished with sappy love songs From now on it's lust and angst and rage and this poem is ending now 'cause it's the bottom of the page.
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West Hazleton's Got a Secret | |
2003-09-16 15:01:46 ET You're lucky I'm a man or I would have burst into tears driving from your house last night where I get all my good ideas poems I mean to write things I should have said Or like tonight when the words won't stop ringing over and again She told me we were over then kissed my lips softly smiled and said she loved me my eyes stared blankly as they do at the long, lonely stretch of 309 careening down the mountain the Valley, draped in peaceful fog little do they know it stores a secret from the all A treasure buried deep beneath the coal, the hopelessness and the dreams; a hometown girl untold. Failure gripped my frame except for my foot which pressed the pedal pushing me further from her home, and closer to the end. How easy it would be if we all got what we wanted without toil or worry How nice it would be if for just one night you were back asleep at my side instead of your song playing softly as a poor substitute and would that a man could cry; not that I would, but it sure would be easier |
Cracks | |
2003-09-16 14:55:55 ET trailing the cracks in the ceiling that run over my bed I feel like a traveller- a visitor in my own head the cracks threaten to collapse the framework of the house when in fact they give it character and tell the story of it's faults the cracks meet and divide a quilt of shoddy workmanship or a map of human hardships they lead down the walls over doorframes and around corners following stress and tension the walls split and rejoin the cracks keep a history of a house and of its time they attract our attention when tensions are low and when we can take the time to look around and count the lines that creep to and fro. |
Labor Day poems | |
2003-09-16 14:52:54 ET Damp rainy day curled in bed like a cat in a blanket no plans no goals no worries just a book and an open window Labor Day end of summer yadda yadda Jealousy - grey cat on a blanket last day of summer smells of barbeque and beer bored out of my skull |
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