Aedh Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven

by Yeats

Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

Give it time, man. My neighbor has half of his giant bicep tattooed with a stanza from this.

Long morning alone.

Love you all.

Do I get to say, "Namaste"?

I gave him my darkest (and most honest) poem for him to do a read thereof.

Waiting. Hahahaha.

Intelligence and shame are a terrible mix of a hard drink;
but ignorance is a worse order on the table.

Anonymous -

**** you.
And **** her too.

"You either die a hero or live long enough to see yourself become the villain."

(PLATO) Haha. Haha. Hehehehahahaha.

*smile*

Good morning, beautiful people.

My direct answer to the question would be a yes.

Sex, drugs, pain, violence, and poetic girls.

Also Otis Redding.

Between the love and letters
some life still got through.
All I have to thank today
is that those letters came from you.

My perfect hue, my sterling cue
to sing above the chorus.
The audience just roars;
the empty man is options.

It used to be we'd always say
how love would all turn out the same.
Your skies got smarter,
I got brave;
I gave the clouds a life to save.

And now I write your name
in petrified, pitched stanzas.
I got all of the questions right
but never found an answer.

What did you do upon
those haunted Melbourne streets
where you stitched on
the sneer veneer of happy fear
and the willing grace to let it on.

i'm just a scar-scraped moon
i am the dumb and dead who writhes too soon
and i am the death of true iridescence
your love in pocket
perfumed like a fragrance

and all my sweet friend want to know
why i let these dumb girls come and go

the days of the sweet
are one one bitter treat
oh, what am i saying?
i get paid next week
and i find you so weak as you weep in your struggle
why you thought life would change will remain
a pointless puzzle

so ponder the boy that you lost
with words he is prophet but may
prophesize loss
forget that forgetting was your only cost
to be free
well, let's see
the door before the 7-11 still assures me

so i drank up my until the devil denied
got fine with available, lapses and rhymes
ensured of my death is an infinite turning?

the world gets so damn vacant when it loses
the bruises on the tracks of time

Real talent - Piano.

Imaginary talent - Healing factor.

The farmhouse. Teenager.

I was three the first time I stole something from a store. A Captain Planet fire symbol ring.

I never understood the idea of "dating your best friend" until we were a month into a motel drop next to a White Castle.

In for the penny, in for the pound. Wouldn't have it any differently.

Oh, this also took about a decade of build-up. We're like the worst Law and Order series, in that sense.

i'll spill pictures like you bill addiction
working to keep my girlfriend out of remission
at the same time i've got kids who *****
about the languages stitched
to my ultimately ditched decision

you think i'll stand position?
while shots fire?
your pyre can't support
enough weight for my heart to hold
head's sweet continuity
report its subtle symmetry
you're the opposite of empathy
you're empty to me
you're the garbage
that lays at the soles of our feet
from the meek that shall inherit this earth
to the wounds of the weak
from the blind to the bleak

the creak in the floor that lets you
forget what you forgot writing for
while i bite off more than i can chew
and though singular individual
is capable of missing
a single missile meant to be impugnable
impede your skull

with a group of contusions
all pretentious - don't worry
there's not a hurry of stress involved

impossibly phony
you only make me want to take the piece of cake that served by holden caulfield and lack nutrition until i'm gaining scurvy
really think you could serve me?
you're a banquet plate
that's five minutes late
and the building owes me
somebody told me
you learn to live it your way
forget the pain that they play
you're plastic

you're an elastic conversation of gaining this pain
you're some kiss in the rain
scattered with the incredible hardships
of the scars on the arms of girls
who couldn't get funding to kill
wouldn't it be a thrill?

let's just go over to another country
i can't locate on a map
kill like they owe some money they hold me
who am i to be famous?
i'll be framed as patient zero
before a vacant disease, leaves and breathes
inside of my empty, chest cavity

yeah, you're really mad at me?
do you want to inspire turning up this burning
hate to the turning rate of the dial if you please?
oh, colin, damn, just geez
if you'd be straight up with these patrons
they wouldn't patronize your paternal please

basic girl - come on, please
you think that you
're the first to reserve
a statement when you're only
half as intelligent as able
you make a pageant out of the plight you find
it's fragrant
you're a vicious vagrant
you want to play
let's come and play it

like a go board
where there's a small chord
between loving your friend and being
maimed, so if you want to contain
yourself in that thinnest box
don't box a man mad of mischief

do you think i forgive?

I am the bone under the structure;
I am the last cut in the lumber;
I'm the under-advised scheme
you dreamed one day you'd live under.

You are a social plunger.
You're sucking a succubus soul
out of a whole body
of dead number.
Girl, you're a fast runner.
It must be so cute -
you smile in your boots
trace the drink to its last number.

You're just a trashed, mumbling
infant, innocent to the filth
you try to laugh under.

You're just a simple girl,
in some enchanted world,
and nothing really hurts you;
nothing just pains you like I do.

I wish you all the best.
And goddamn, you're gonna need it.
But finally proving all my tests
was never quite a secret.

1. Yes.

2. Yes.

3. Rape.

if i could simply barter my bets
into to some handsome rewards
if the plot to my life had temporarily
only become some
lottery of loss
then i would kindly buy you a drink

being poor, i have only my books of yeats,
my years of disdain,
my dialect is misappropriated
malaise

tread softly, little girl
you're treading on the already burning ashes
of poets
that roared with a pitchfork
with more terror
than i could spin with a pen

be careful, child

You're a coward, but best of luck, really.