[x]

How?How do you dream with your eyes wide open?
How do you speak with your mouth shut tight?
How do you feel when your heart is broken?
And how can you sleep when you're blinded by light?

How do you think when your mind is empty?
How do you cry when your eyes are dry?
How do you run when the world walks slowly?
And how do you fly when you can't get high?

How do you smile when inside you're aching?
How do you love when you're dying to fight?
How do you stand when your shoes are breaking?
And how do you live when the world isn't right?

Let me be the bad guy.Why? Tell me why and maybe for once I'll be able to understand,
because lately I feel like I never do.
You're like this so very twisted charming prince,
that came when I was drowning to save me…
And honey, you sure did…for a while.
But now I'm falling again, and I'm drowning.
I'm drowning in the tears that I can't let out…
Because I'm afraid, I'm afraid that they may get to you,
and burn you like they burn me.
I don't want to hurt you.
You apologize, you know it's my fault but you still do.
I never wanted to play the victim,
I'm always the villain, you know?
So let me, once again, hurt you and hurt me.
Be my victi

i can't tell youDo you hear that?
it's the saddest sound in the world.

Not the strident cry
of an infant
abandoned-

Nor the retreating footsteps
of a love
lost-

Nor even the crackle and roar-
of a thousand-
guns peppering bodies with-
holes big-
enough to let their-
spirits seep-
out-

No.

It's the crack of the glass face
and shudder of unforgiving gears
as the human race
attempts

to wrench back the hands
of the resilient master
time.

Caught in Battle     Lately I've been doing a lot of not sleeping at night. That is to say, I fall asleep fine, but about one in the morning the dreams turn to thoughts and I'm not at all asleep anymore. I just lie there, thinking too much to even close my eyes. My eyes feel bad in the red mornings, after staring in the dark so long each night, so tonight I light the oil lamp and sit up.

     I might as well write what was requested by a friend a few days ago, at dinner together.
     I find it doesn't kill dream memories, though.

     At that dinner, my f

The Black Bag     The problem was simple, really. I was a little too drunk. Me and my buddy Jake though, we found it simple to walk with a stagger and laugh a little too loud, a simple problem. The day was pretty good, pretty drunk.

     The hours passed easy until Max came out of his pawnshop. Max never leaves his pawnshop. He looked so worried and strange I had to squint to be sure it was him. He got us interested, walking toward my buddy and me with trouble written all over his face. Trouble is something a man can relate to from time to time, somehow.

     Max walked right up

TargetYou threw my heart up into the sky
aimed and shot
before it had a chance to fly
Well, that's what I get for trusting you with it

Hit me like a dummy
Dragged me like a rag doll
Ripped me open like a package
Left me bleeding in the hall
Your fingers were the blade
and your tongue was the salt

I'll step back and take a breath
look at everything I have left
and hope it's enough to pick myself up
I can't go back to where I started
I'll just have to start all over
Re-draw a map without any detours or dead ends
Tonight's the last night you get me
Midnight, my new life begins

You threw my heart up above the clouds
but they weren't

StreetsSay goodbye to the streets for me,
Because I won't be seeing them again.
Tell them how I loved their noise,
How it kept me from sleeping at night.
The way they took me away when I ran,
It was so calm when they subdued me,
Took away my thoughts when I couldn't.
Tell them I will be missing them so,
Because nobody knew me like they did.
Say I will remember them forever.

A Silly LimerickThere once was a young man named Hugh

Who found a rather large frog in his shoe.

"Oh no!" he cried out

And started jumping about

And squished the poor frog into goo.

It's Compromise That Moves UsThe difference between
you and me:

I spend my life studying
my feet.

You lift your eyes
to ride on a bird's wing.

The only hope for middle ground

is to look at each other.

The TravelerI walked the Earth in search of justice
but found only the wickedness of hollow men
Their souls covered in fallen Angel's dust, their lives
once bright, filled with stained glass shards
forged from shattered hopes
And dyed in ruin-hued innocence

A pain like broken destiny rises within me

I lost my way taking heartache detours and self-pity shortcuts
killing dreams I thought never really existed
creating others to fill a map of my life
Never knowing, never finding, never resting
when all that was really needed was a dotted line
and an X placed directly over the spot
where my heart was hidden

A wanderer takes pause at an oasis

I

e x i s t."Where's your heart?"

"...Nowhere."

"Why is that?"

"It doesn't exist, anymore."

The Girl Who Has EverythingAnd she really is
Quite the beautiful girl.
Quite the talented poet.
Quite the genius artist.

How can she feel bad about herself?
How can she want to be someone else,
When every time I read her poem,
See her picture,
Hear her voice,
I know I'd give anything to be like her?
What can I say to the girl
Who's scared of herself?

I think
She's not afraid that she can't do it.
    She's afraid that she can
          Better than anyone else could even dream to.

I think
What this all comes down to
    Is that she's scared
&

No Longer AnonymousNo longer can I remain anonymous, just another girl checking in for her doctor's appointment. The moment I tell them the visit is to be billed to the state, and present this voucher, which might as well be painted in bright red blood, dripping and leaving a breadcrumb trail for all, with a neon sign that reads "sexual assault," I become that girl.

I see the way their eyes change. I see how they look at me. The hardness of the day, painted in the lines on their face, softens, just a bit. Their eyes, normally cold and focused, now try to melt my heart with their temporary concern.

I sit in the waiti

I was the Oceanwillful wind beats and kneads
a broiling hide
whitecap foam its dough
stretched back by clever fingers

a broiling hide
seared with a palmfull of salt
stretched back by clever fingers
sloughs into little whitecaps

seared with a palmfull of salt
her tongue curls up
sloughs into little whitecaps
to ride the crest of breakers

her tongue curls up
whitecap foam its dough
to ride the crest of breakers
willful wind beats and kneads

Manifesto (Villanelle)the uniforms of our revolution
will be our naked skin and we
will embrace our execution
we will not need absolution
we will put onto and into our trainees
the uniforms of our revolution
and after our skin-on-skin elocutions
in their beds of contraceptive debris
they too will embrace our execution
they will be envoys of a new evolution
initiating the uninitiated at afternoon teas
in the uniforms of our revolution
and in their post-fuck diminution
the messages they erect on church marquees
will embrace their own execution
then with our tongues bequeathed to the prosecution
and our sweetbreads bequeathed to the mediterranean sea
in the uniforms of our revolution
we will embrace our execution

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More from ~sillycanadianwriter

PunctualI speak in semicolons;
I remember the beginning
after the end,

My words chase their tails
into the garbage bin
and I'm not quite sure
how to rescue them

or if I even should.

And if I ever
figure this
life out

I'm sure
it will be
too late.

CharadesMy room is full of half-masks--
but I don't decide
to get ready in the
morning.

It's hard
to make friends
with the wind,

and it's hard
to fall in love
with a box of smoke.

It seems I don't
have much
in common
with
myself.

what's the point?some ideas

are diseases,

Gnawing at your neurons,

and crawling through your pores-

penetrating your darkest places

and decaying dreams.

But it seems nothing

is more virulent

then the simple

"what's the point?"

for a loss of purpose

is a thousand times heavier

than

a

loss

of

life.

Sky SheepHe's the kind of person

who likes bad weather

just because he can drag shapes out of the air

and pin those rambunctious wisps

to the pages of his sketchbook.

He's the kind of person

who insists the clouds

are cataclysmic paintings

of vultures eating one another,

and that particular bit of fluff

is quite distinctly

a woman cradling a baby.

He's the kind of person

who gets accused of plotting

death, he's so quiet,

but really he's pondering,

and when prompted,

he'll let out a sigh

and a wistful

"Aren't

those ones

beautiful?"

finger stretched toward

the sky's downy

decorations.

He's the kind of person that would climb an

i like long walks on the beachOn these misty May evenings,

just cold enough

to make you remember

you're alive

somewhere

in the back of your brain,

you can sing sentences

just by inhaling.

You can aimlessly

scribble paths through

your thoughts,

and you tend

to meet

your destination

before you know its name.

It's moments like these,

when the clouds paint themselves

into sunsets

that I remember why

cliches became that

way in the first place:

they're perfect.

Something Like a :Love: PoemThe day I knew,

the air smelled like stale paper
and abandoned classics,

and the sun, pulsing
with the pain of a summer
rushed too soon,
shriveled our skin
into potatoes.

The week was probably
second cousins
with a snail,
melting into oblivion

as we attempted to rearrange
the Wordsworth
soaring through our neurons
into something resembling
a weekend.

Perched atop the varicose
vein of a tree-shaped
heart,

you surveyed our
government-sponsored
plastic while grumbling
about current affairs
and the sorry state
of ketchup
these days.

Your feet were
sprinkled with
half-remembered
dreams
of mud pies
and freshly-b

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Between You and Me

by ~sillycanadianwriter, Apr 28, 2011, 8:46:51 PM
Literature / Poetry / Humor / Free Verse

If you really want to know,
"what's the difference between you and I,"

It's the fact
that when asked that question,
I'll say,

"It's you and me, stupid!"
and think that's a sufficient answer.

Between You and Meby ~sillycanadianwriter

Literature / Poetry / Humor / Free Verse

Oh, grammar. An enemy and a friend all at once.

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~Femme-Fatale333 May 15, 2011 Hobbyist Writer

My mom's a writer...and she gave me the grammar bug...

very good poem!

Reply

~sillycanadianwriter May 15, 2011 Student Digital Artist

Oh yes

I seem to do it almost subconciously now....like:

My friend's mom: How'd you do on the test?
Friend: Pretty good.
Me: Well.
Friend: Whuuuut????
Me: Oh. Nothing.....

Reply

~Femme-Fatale333 May 15, 2011 Hobbyist Writer

haha, exactly!! Though I've learned to not be vocal about mine, my friends tend to be a bit testy...

Reply

~sillycanadianwriter May 16, 2011 Student Digital Artist

OH NOES

Reply

~universemarshmallow May 9, 2011

GRAMMAR NAZIS FTW!

Reply

~sillycanadianwriter May 9, 2011 Student Digital Artist

YUPPERZZZZZZ!!!

Reply

~universemarshmallow May 9, 2011

Have you ever seen that video? If not, look it up. You will not be disappointed.

Reply

~sillycanadianwriter May 9, 2011 Student Digital Artist

What am I looking up?

Reply

~universemarshmallow May 28, 2011

GRAMMAR NAZIS.

Reply

~sillycanadianwriter May 28, 2011 Student Digital Artist

Link plz?

Reply

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