Category: 08th

Puppeteer

How long have you been away
Was it real or was it fake
You’re in my thoughts
You’re in my dreams
I’m a puppet to your strings
Puppet master let me be sad
Let me grieve
Cause this hurts bad
I’m a fool to run away
Cause all I wanna do is stay
Stay away from all the pain
Cause god the pain drives me insane
Puppet master pull your strings
Make me different
Make me sing
I’m the new toy on the block
The one that’s gonna pick your lock
Into your heart where it is safe
Or at least, least safe to stay
Puppet master
Pull your strings
You decide when I can breath.

Minutes

Time a savior
People they beg,
For more years
Months, weeks days hours
Minutes.
We count the minutes
They add up
To something special
A birthday, holiday, event but each minute,
Each come but never return.
Time the reaper
It takes lives
Time is there but the next minute
Is gone
We gasp for breath
For more minutes
For more time to enjoy what we have taken for granted
We run out of time
We race the clock
School, tests, jobs deadlines.
Times
Countless times I find myself out of
Minutes, begging to see what one more minute could have changed.

Pen

The simplicity of a pen
Is as vast as a blank page but as true as the meaning of a voice.
Words that are written can’t just be erased. The honesty and noblity a pen holds to it’s owner bring truth and light to any peice of writing.
War and Peace, Oliver Twist. Some of the greatest writings in the world all came from a pen.
The next time you pick up a pen admire it’s simplicity but honor it’s greatest meaning.
To create an open door that echos even the smallest of voices.
Some of the worlds future Oliver Twists’ could come from you pen.

bookstore girls

old russian authors and late nights at bookstores
listening to music while everything else is hushed
waiting underneath bus stops while it pours

reading thick books on tiny beach shores
drinking tea from cans, watching them being crushed
old russian authors and late nights at bookstores

eating candy apples and throwing out their cores
hair flying in the wind usually going unbrushed
waiting underneath bus stops while it pours

taking tests and always getting perfect scores
talking to pretty boys and cheeks getting flushed
old russian authors and late nights in bookstores

laughing so hard that we bump into doors
walking downtown in a big group while getting lushed
waiting underneath bus stops while it pours

Always in trouble for not doing our chores
living life maybe a little too rushed
old russian authors and late nights at bookstores
waiting underneath bus stops while it pours

To be one with the Clouds

to be one with the clouds
the clouds move past
around and around our atmosphere
telling us the time

i yearn to touch a cloud
reach up and let my fingertip caress the gentle giants

to be a part of nature’s most fleeting beauty
the delicate puff of clear hazy magnificence

is it warm or cool
soft or surprisingly coarse

the feeling of a pillow in the sky
right there in my hand

the memory of touch will keep the sensation
safe, right there on my fingertips

to touch a cloud
for a brief, astounding, moment
gently coating me with mist

the embrace of the transparent wonders engulfing me inside
so that i may become one with the clouds
floating carelessly around, blanketing the gentle
baby blue sky

A trip out west

rain pelts the dirt
cars blur by
Mountains with trees stacked and packed
the world feels so small and so empty of meaning

cars blur by
my tears drop on leather seats
the world feels so small and so empty of meaning
smells of pine and vodka

my tears drop on leather seats
neon gas station signs and yellow painted streets
smells of pine and vodka
it’s a beautiful pocket of world

neon gas station signs and yellow painted streets
i feel unbearably alone
it’s a beautiful pocket of world
my head hurts and my heart burns

i feel unbearably alone
rain pelts the dirt
my head hurts and my heart burns
Mountains with trees stacked and packed

Inspiration

A single silent glimmer
A whisper to the deepest depths
A gleaming butterfly, an inch away
Casts one red string trail
As it floats away
Carrying lyrics on its back.

We snatch the cord like a fishing line
Thinking ourselves great,
When the prey we hunt has the true virtue.
Do not take advantage of the butterfly.
Let it guide you softly, let the gentle shine
Blind you of all else.

As it burns, it will consume the darkness.
As it burns, it will become clear.
Follow the string, and grab
Your pen and paper,
For inspiration has struck.

My oak tree

You were the small sapling
Of a baby oak
One that we planted
Underneath the sun
You were the small leaves sprouting
From its branches
Reaching for the stars
You were the bright green
And the light brown
That gave me comfort
And excitement
You were the little flowers that grew on the tree
The little honeysuckles
That tasted so sweet
You were the safe nook in our tree
We used to hide in
But now
You’re no longer a small sapling
But a big oak
One that towers above us
You’re not the small leaves
But the ones that give us shade
You’re not the honeysuckle anymore
You’re the trunk that gives them a home to climb
You’re not a nook in a tree but
rather the whole tree
Wrapping me in its branches

(or another’s)

And while your smile
Still reminds me that I am
Capable of inflicting pain
At such a distance

It comes together into a
Tear tracing down my cheek
Into our hearts beating (sos)
And my fist clutching the hem of your shirt

What more could I have crooned to you?
Your cool hand to my cheek
The flutter of our white curtains
A shared song under our breath
What else?

And while there is no boundary between
How you love and how you are loved
Is there no way to become myself again?

Once you are so dear in another’s heart,
Is there no escape?
I have found no such thing as escape.

(And since what) love you have
Shown (came fro