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| Welcome ! | Home · FAQ · Topics · Web Links · Your Account · Submit Poetry · Top 30 · OldSite Link | 29-May 17:28:24 AEST | ||
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Array
(
[sid] => 104106
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Weird
[time] => 2005-08-21 21:35:28
[hometext] => So one day I picked up a pencil and started writing. This is what came out. I wasn't sure what to make of it, so I decided it was a poem. I guess
[bodytext] => If I could have it my way I'd spend the rest my life writing anonymous passages on the tombstones of complete strangers And cry everytime they were discovered and erased Play play ping pong with god in the garden between dreams and thoughts until the ball was lost in the margins And then we'd throw coy guffaws in our own delight Have have a picnic and eat angel wings If I could live life the way i thought was ideal I wouldn't even be real I'd be some kid's imaginary friend Playing hide and go seek in imaginary places If I could do anything for a living I'd be a mime's invisible wall Laughing at an angle, slightly slanted, anxious in disguise Biguiled by the thoughts of man Or I'd be a catcher in the rye If I could choose my existence I'd be an empty space waiting to be filled Reliving an old life with a new twist I'd like to be a fingerprint on some grisly murder scene Dusted and confirmed Solving the case but not bringing back the life lost I like hoplessness I cry when I see a child flying a kite Sticks and paper like flesh and spirit held by a string Manically attempting To escape bondage ending In a downward pull descending While the child laughs apathetically at the death of the source of their own joy So I've made a habit of walking through parks with scissors Sometimes I like to think that in a past life I was some song that some sub par musician never got around to writing Some flashing glimpse at an idea he couldn't grasp It's probably my favorite thought Maybe when I die I'll come back as a tree and live for a hundred years Only to be chopped down destroyed and reborn as a table, chair, paper, and pencil Used by some great poet to write some great anthology, revered and remembered Without a single soul giving thought to me my sacrifice Trees can't say what about me.... So I'd probably just laugh to death.... Do you think that's weird? [comments] => 2 [counter] => 268 [topic] => 43 [informant] => Shade [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 5 [ratings] => 1 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => oops )
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