TLMFan

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i wish you to feel these words sting as they flow from my hands it's come time for me to tell you i give up you've won and if you want a trophy for your magnificent victory take my joy it looks nice on the mantle so close to the fire that's burned the smile off my face

these hands they don't make poems to think about music to listen to they make letters to look at sounds to hear none better than a street sign or the bang of a gun they're of a person to gawk at to direct your banter and derision to the hair just a little too long the eyes just a little too blind to see just how good i have it good enough to not complain not to make this poem these letters but here i am take me as is or return me for a refund of your wasted time

how deep do you have to dig into your seemingly endless supply of ignorant idiocy to try to make me think that you are somehow a better man than i? because i know that as you read this you think "oh he thinks he's cool. he writes in his precious little notebook, he likes to make something for his little internet friends that pathetic loser with no life and that laptop" it makes me sick to think of you having a solitary thought outside of what is cool hip whatever will keep you up in the ranks of the other morons that drone around this prison Birds of a feather flock together. that, sir, is why I avoid your ways that is why I am writing thi

what's in a muse i've never had one. is it when a masterpiece falls out of the sky and into your hands like a child from a stork? i'll tell you i don't see many storks around here it's a bit too cold a bit too dark maybe a little bit painful for them to drop those little baby muses into the hands of someone so young so unskilled so ungifted. to one without status the storks stay at bay for they follow the cheering of the crowd and not the crying of the broken

We fight these wars, we forget the ones who died Brotherhood done to fratricide. Man and woman drop dead over the desert sand The falling snow The churning waves. Loss of humanity and human disregarded Cultures destroyed, tradition discarded. We slay those seen as enemies. Those who say that God is the only one. Yet they play God, deciding who lives And who dies. Left to rot, On that desert sand Falling snow To sink under the churning waves