Day to day we thrive among the dead
Never seeing or hearing them
Never knowing what they might have said
They lie and rot in their cold dark graves
While we fight and argue
Shouting "Jesus Saves!"
No one listens to the dead
Mankind's time is one to forget
It is nothing but lonely and red
So pray for the dead tonight as you sleep
For those words you sent today
May comfort you when you weep
Friday, April 30, 2010
Poetry: Progressive Decay
Sitting by the computer day by day
Getting fatter, weaker, stupider
In my own way
Using cordless phones to stay in my seat
Talking to friends
Even as I eat
Using e-mail to talk to people I know nothing about
Some claiming to be teachers doctors or even Mr. Lout
Decay does not smell of rotten meat
Nor rancid wine
It smells of an electrical beat
And the downfall of time
Getting fatter, weaker, stupider
In my own way
Using cordless phones to stay in my seat
Talking to friends
Even as I eat
Using e-mail to talk to people I know nothing about
Some claiming to be teachers doctors or even Mr. Lout
Decay does not smell of rotten meat
Nor rancid wine
It smells of an electrical beat
And the downfall of time
On A Roll With the Bad Poetry
Man With No Soul
Laughter errupting from witnessing another's pain
Laughter watching sickness set in from the rain
Others ponder what there is to gain
From rejoicing in another's pain
Sitting by the window without a grin
Wondering where all the little battered children have been
Souless man can't you see your sin?
Take from your mouth that awful grin!
Bit by bit you whither away
The hatred you hold inside can only stay
While those with hearts can only pray
That your own indifference will stay away.
Man with no soul, why stay upon this mortal coil?
Your blackness seethes and can only boil.
Hating all that is good for it is your foil
Man with no soul descend from this mortal coil.
Laughter errupting from witnessing another's pain
Laughter watching sickness set in from the rain
Others ponder what there is to gain
From rejoicing in another's pain
Sitting by the window without a grin
Wondering where all the little battered children have been
Souless man can't you see your sin?
Take from your mouth that awful grin!
Bit by bit you whither away
The hatred you hold inside can only stay
While those with hearts can only pray
That your own indifference will stay away.
Man with no soul, why stay upon this mortal coil?
Your blackness seethes and can only boil.
Hating all that is good for it is your foil
Man with no soul descend from this mortal coil.
Further Adventurers of Bad Poetry
Innocence Corrupted
Sitting with enough crayons to color the whole of the Earth
The child attacks the picture book with unbound creativity
While adults try to look amused judge that which the child gives birth
Stay inside the lines!
That color is all wrong!
You've gotten it on the wall!
Let me show you how to do that!
They bully and cry
Never realizing that inside
The gift of creativity has been made to die
Sitting with enough crayons to color the whole of the Earth
The child attacks the picture book with unbound creativity
While adults try to look amused judge that which the child gives birth
Stay inside the lines!
That color is all wrong!
You've gotten it on the wall!
Let me show you how to do that!
They bully and cry
Never realizing that inside
The gift of creativity has been made to die
Bad Poetry 2: The Foolish Worker
Ah to be young, angry, and willing to write it down in such prose again.
Work harder they say to him
As they sit by the poolside
Or run through the gym
Haven't you finished that yet they goad
As they take hour lunches
And the foolish worker takes on their load
When all is finished and the workday done
The worker falls prey to exhaustion
While the bosses have their fun
Yet who is the fool
The lazy
Or the one who is their tool
Work harder they say to him
As they sit by the poolside
Or run through the gym
Haven't you finished that yet they goad
As they take hour lunches
And the foolish worker takes on their load
When all is finished and the workday done
The worker falls prey to exhaustion
While the bosses have their fun
Yet who is the fool
The lazy
Or the one who is their tool
Bad Poetry Part 1: Metropolitan Hell
In addition to fragments of various bits of bad fantasy fiction, I occassionally tried to do the whole rhyming demon thing.
Metropolitian Hell
The skies grow dark like a stygian night
The hearts of men turn away from God
Self sure in their own divine right
People walking the street with dead eyes
Craving death's sweet kiss
While listening to politician lies
Cars honk and howl through the streets
As men, women and children dash from place to place
Some good, some bad, some simply creeps
Hell is not fire and brimstone lakes
Hell is here today
And it's all ours to taste.
Metropolitian Hell
The skies grow dark like a stygian night
The hearts of men turn away from God
Self sure in their own divine right
People walking the street with dead eyes
Craving death's sweet kiss
While listening to politician lies
Cars honk and howl through the streets
As men, women and children dash from place to place
Some good, some bad, some simply creeps
Hell is not fire and brimstone lakes
Hell is here today
And it's all ours to taste.
Endar One Page Fragment
Looking up, Endar stifled a curse as a fat drop struck him in the eye. Wiping his eye clear, he looked up again, shielding his face with his hand.
He saw signs with anvils, hammers, dancing dragons and more than he could easily keep track of.
It wasn't until he spotted a sign with a keg of frothy beer smashing a skull open that he stopped. He was here at the Broken Skull where he would meet Jord.
Pushing through the door, he noticed that this tavern was like most others he'd been to. On the far west wall, fire danced in red and orange steps. Each table lit by a small candle while censers overhead masked the stale smell of vomit, beer and urine.
Smoke hung over the room and turned everything into shades of grey. He moved past the leaf smokers and the card players. If Jord remained paranoid as he last was, he wouldn't set up front with the likes of these.
Indeed, Jord must not have changed too greatly for sitting in the corner, with his back to the wall, Jord sat with unblinking red rimmed eyes. His face linned with worry wrinkles, his hair greying at the...
And that's all that was of that one bit. I've been finding a lot of my writting scattered about. Being the king of never finish a damn thing writing, I've decided to at least try and post it online in some vein attempt to semi-centralize things and get it in a typed format and hopefully provide a few chuckles to those out there who may find such.
He saw signs with anvils, hammers, dancing dragons and more than he could easily keep track of.
It wasn't until he spotted a sign with a keg of frothy beer smashing a skull open that he stopped. He was here at the Broken Skull where he would meet Jord.
Pushing through the door, he noticed that this tavern was like most others he'd been to. On the far west wall, fire danced in red and orange steps. Each table lit by a small candle while censers overhead masked the stale smell of vomit, beer and urine.
Smoke hung over the room and turned everything into shades of grey. He moved past the leaf smokers and the card players. If Jord remained paranoid as he last was, he wouldn't set up front with the likes of these.
Indeed, Jord must not have changed too greatly for sitting in the corner, with his back to the wall, Jord sat with unblinking red rimmed eyes. His face linned with worry wrinkles, his hair greying at the...
And that's all that was of that one bit. I've been finding a lot of my writting scattered about. Being the king of never finish a damn thing writing, I've decided to at least try and post it online in some vein attempt to semi-centralize things and get it in a typed format and hopefully provide a few chuckles to those out there who may find such.
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