Sonic flowers with bursts of lust
Transformed my vision from clear to
Unavoidable charcoal dust,
Left in the wind to blow through out
And landing on indigo innocence released by child’s fate.
Jade rain landing by the purple ocean shores,
Caught in her black heartened sweet poisoned kissed adore,
Locked in on the cure, with out keys I drift below doors.
Awkward and tainted, bottled for freshness.
Left myself in the sun to dry,
High noon heats the bleach that stains
The imperfection hard water spotted rain,
Point the blame correctly to cause
The right amount of pain in accurate imagination.
Tomorrow will eventually be yesterday’s
Sure dream of white picket fences drenched
With model simplicity, I still see the gleam
In the sparkle of the presence in honesty’s life…
Confused by insane imperfection beauty haunting,
Try to sit back and absorb delicate drop thoughts
Fixed end evening’s wine red eve
In absence of stars brilliance I see
Ghosts that haunt deep inside of me
They strive around my heart in and out of love
While their breath cold as ice runs through out
My blood, the ghosts that haunt deep inside of me
With eyes of the jades most surreal green
Will not let my good conscience awake from sleep
But cast upon my thoughts demons
Whose screams shriek at the sight of dreams
That pour out of my mind and slide upon the
Sun spots spine and land ever gently in the darkness
That surrounds me while sat in corner by the grim hand of myself,
Now they come, falling from the relaxed sky above where I stay,
The drops harsh and piercing with a frost bite that burrows into the
Deepest of me,
Trying to run, I stumble back into the darkness that
I am so aware of, it has befriended me and we
Sit down together and talk about how
The obscurity is a fractured mirror crack re-image
Of the blame that stains my face
wax drips down the sides of time,
hardening and crumbling as we grow old
creating a story that will never be told
until the flame has finally died
and the last burst of smoke moves on.
The lost highway of my own intimidations
is taking a back seat in my mind,
Dripping time is breaking waters as stones thrown across ponds
Are breaking hearts one by one and the once placidness has no remorse
Against whatever we have left.
Biographical sketch: I am 19.
Lost Hamlet recommends:
Book of Dreams by Jack Kerouac
Reason: Incredible short bliss.
Recommendations for writers:
True to the heart, and lie to the mind.