Could I possibly implore you Oh ye of little sense Not to fall for every Schemers Ploy, as you peruse the Internet? Really, I’m not the only one that thinks, you Are coming off half cocked Claiming insider information You most assuredly haven’t got
The ‘truths’ you’re privy to online Have to be weighed with common sense Evidently, in which you’re lacking- Or you’d have thought of this yourself. Really, I’m not judging- Ijust absolutely believe, that when Sr. Francis Bacon Said, “Scientia potentia est”- he knew That knowledge can only be power, when your Sources are correct.
bukowski said,, he had a bluebird in his heart…. he said, he tried to drown it in cheap whiskey- to smother it in the smoke, of a myriad of hand rolled cigarettes.. yet, in the end, he told us, he knew, that it was there. and he knew- it was a bluebird…
still i wonder, just how deep he had to sink into the quagmire of his own scarred psyche- how many nights he had to lay awake staring into the cold, black, eyes of self- before he heard that single blessed note… before it broke thru. before it rose above the mire of life’s melancholy melody…and when it did-
when at last, it broke thru, his delusion distilled, and for the first time he held it close late at night in the dark when no one else was around-
was it then that he realized it was never really a bluebird that he was trying to drown in cheap whiskey or to smother in the fog of yet another hand rolled cigarette? was it then that he realized it was never really a bluebird that he desired to hold ever so tightly to himself as he drifted off to sleep listening to the bittersweet song that only he could hear alone, in the dark when no one else could see?
and if it was then, did he weep? i for one believe he did….
Grace, Charm, and Beauty The three graces escape me In mud covered boots *** To me, spring cleaning Means finding out what’s taken Root under the fridge *** Giai’s hot flashes Window panes on roller skates Her prerogative
Shall I continue? There are more where those came from. I’m game if you are.
He isn’t my type. I’m a mover, a shaker, a rocker, a punk. He’s a brainiac, a nerd, a techie, a geek. I live for the crowd, the chaos, the smoke, the applause. He lives for the scholarships, the level ups, the test scores, the hacks. He trips over my amplifier cord, opens his mouth, and music pours out:
“Awkward to a fault- Contents of a graceless life Spewed across the floor.”