Re: Poetic Corner (for the Artist in us)

They say looks could kill, I be that Ashton Kutcher
Yeah I'll slaughter you, like a fucking butcher
Not the same person when I look in the mirror
She's not the same girl when I look at her
Shell of our former selves
Collecting dust on all these shelves
No place in society
Only person I have is me
Smoke that herb, not talking herbal tea
I'm in ir for the long haul
Long lasting serenity
Taking bullets to the chest
Take one for the fucking team
Don't play nice with others, call me methamphetamine

Re: Poetic Corner (for the Artist in us)

That would be PERFECT for some Stoner Rock Band's lyrics. big_smile

Re: Poetic Corner (for the Artist in us)

It was a rap, my friend.  But I could see that working too. big_smile

Re: Poetic Corner (for the Artist in us)

Madness comes in many shapes and forms
From a knife, gun, tank, grenade and sword
Nothing but lust, a craving for war
Just pray every night, no answer from the fucking Lord
All you have is your self, with your soul to sell
As the war rages, the fires burning harder in hell
Blood on my hand, feet covered in sand
Drop to down my knees, as I float to the sea
I make out of this world, in a blaze of glory

Last edited by Tripod (2015-01-26 21:15:29)

Re: Poetic Corner (for the Artist in us)

Instaminy ribbinature fozagniotti burnungtarot foolitude nessfilurinage ugnowitlurn hak took nof lurst bot...

Re: Poetic Corner (for the Artist in us)

Damn my rap got cut off, it's edited.

Re: Poetic Corner (for the Artist in us)

A rap.

The world won't stop spinning
This is just my beginning
To rise up from above, from the dirt, cement, all these fucking rugs
Redeeming myself from my former sins
Watch them all blow away in the wind
Just rise up from my grave
No longer will I be Deaths slave
Live life on my own terms
Live with these emotional burns
My life, dull just like a knife
They say it's what you make it
But in the end it just rapes us

Re: Poetic Corner (for the Artist in us)

@Tri - I like that your raps have such substance, as opposed to some of the superficial "artists" out there who rap about their ego's content with bling and bitches and whatever.
Here's another song/poem I finished up about a half hour ago.

The Final Meeting

My eyes are red and my ears are burning,
strange signals run through my head.
My heart is yearning, I still feel the corkscrew turning
over all the little things she did and said.

Black holes are out there, deep in space
and I can feel 'em stretching out my brain.
The road is rumbling in my chest & I wonder
if all them women really think me so untame.
Just crawling out of the next grave pocket, I know
it'll never again quite feel the same.

Just touch me one more time, honey baby
knock me straight off of my chair.
You know just what it's like to transcend time,
don't ya darlin'? Even when I haven't gotten there...
I can still smell those sick daisies burning,
straight from your kitchen table and into the air.

Cigarette burns on my fingers,
there's snakes in your hair.
Your red lips chapped & scarred & thick,
but just like always they
never fail to stick.

Somewhere out there, I know the roar of the world
could never match the roar inside here.
Our savior has come too late, it's just our fate
and it's neither here nor there.

Clouds form upon the ceiling,
and I'm feeling angry like a clown.
Life was supposed to take us up,
not drop us straight down,
but here we are...
and I wish we could act as if we didn't care.
Ahh, but our eyes
feel just like weapons when we stare.

This is our final meeting,
we'll care not for friendly greeting.
Let's just get straight to the point,
it was always meant to be fleeting.

Our conversation burns hot
and limps from line to line.
My head is a smoking barrel
and I think she thinks that's fine.
I put on my Nixon mask...
she just smiles sly and I never say goodbye.

Thus life in its ways will go on beatin'
with the pulse of my scalloped heart
and the cruel hands of her time.
We can still sense our wicked vibrations
rolling on through this dusty insect city,
rolling through our strained relations & our greatest lies
rolling on through this insane parade of flesh and crime.

Re: Poetic Corner (for the Artist in us)

Dreams Upon the Interlude

Ghosts of the night-time
play funny with ghosts of the day.
Walking with their feet between the floor,
they sway back and forth,
rattling their chains that will never break.

The rooster crows
with an eye's blink at dawn.
A clown hides his nose,
and the world carries on
without any consideration of his name.

Time for you will weave on
like a spider with its thread.
Tangled up in its own web,
it's just a victim of its own chase
lost in a blurr of completely temporary space.

Down at the water's edge
the tide will keep you good company.
And as all the clouds will go by
far above the sound of your crys,
it'll already be the end of the day.

The crystals won't work
and the star maps will lie.
God is a mole,
prayers can't dig you out of that hole,
and it surely won't save the human race.

Anger does come
in a viscious red run.
Just throw salt on the wound
and your blister 'neath the solemn moon
will make you swoon to the grace of day.

And that rushing river will flow
in tune to the eternal I -Don't-Know
as butterflys land on your face.
And if you can't think of that,
just throw your brain in a vat
and forget all the words I'll ever say.