Brusque

20170805_142905 


Brusque

Opinions, for the ears of everybody
Words, of a mind for only one
You talk and you talk a good game
When, actually, you have none
A misplaced sense of self-importance
Confident, to the point of delusion
Constantly rubbing people the wrong way
A reality, wrapped inside an illusion

What colour is the sky in your world?
Does the sun only shine when you’re in it?
Is the planet lonely with just the one person?
Does it only turn when you spin it?

An endless list of those you’ve alienated
Astounded, by your condescending tone
An ego, that pierces the thickest of skin
Daggers, from a mind all your own
Common denominator to many problems
Divisor, for those who cross your path
You are 100% certain, and 90% wrong
Little remains, after you do the math

What colour is the sky in your world?
Is it grey and spattered with dots?
Do you ever get to see the sunlight?
Is it overcast, clouded by your thoughts?

You ride in on your high horse
Give the royal wave to all you pass
Those who don’t acknowledge you
Can just kiss your royal ass
You share a seat with your superiority
Oblivious to the ooze that you spill
Sitting smugly beside your judgement
In a sticky puddle of cold ill will

What colour is the sky in your world?
Is it showering blood, instead of rain?
Are you sheltered beneath your thin cover?
Or drenched, in the red of your disdain?

It is by no means an overstatement
Your demeanour is your disguise, your demise
Whenever you reveal your true self
It’s like a storm, sweeping the skies
From the nasty depths of self-absorption
Blunt statements, soaked in the odd
Revealed, one assumption at a time
From beneath your shallow façade

What colour is the sky in your world?
Does anyone ever reach you there?
Perhaps someone could tell you?
Would you really even care?

 

Butterfly?

Butterfly?

Epihany

The same stubborn scenario
The same view every night
A silhouette, close to the edge
A moth under the light
The echo of my thoughts
On infinite repeat
A schizophrenic mind field
Of two and a half feet

Turned one hundred and eighty
In a blanketed cocoon
A butterfly to a moth
Under the light of the moon
A stark and palpable silence
An insurmountable rut
Urges, kept at arm’s length
Until my eyes flutter shut

Take me back to my muse
Release me from this storm
From the cold of my creation
The bitter back to the warm
From this tempest in a teapot
 These chilling winds of blame
 The frigid reality each night
The moth back to the flame

An exasperating tug of war
Across a span of diminished hope
There has to be some solace
Near the end of my rope
Nothing that I can do or say
Changes, impervious to gain
The collateral damage is done
A consequence to the pain

So many months, eaten away
The thin fabric of a ruse
Resentful of my own creation
 A moth disguised as a muse
Rose-coloured tunnel vision?
Wishful thinking all along?

For the sanity of lost time
It would help if I was wrong

Take me back to my muse
Release me from this regret
From the pall of uncertainty
That hangs over me yet
From the now back to the then
The difference of day to night
To open arms and an open mind
To a butterfly, in a better light

Guns

          GUNS 

Justify them however you like,
  guns are made to kill.
 
   Made even more deadly
     in the hands of the vengeful,
       of the criminal, of the mentally ill.
         Guns will always find their way 
            into the hands of those who will.
              Inevitably, into the wrong hands, 
                  despite the latest greatest bill.
                     And always at the wrong time…
                        because guns are made to kill.

                           Those stubbornly blind say,
                             “Guns don’t kill. People do.”
  
                                 This weapon finds death.
                                    In the sights of the spiteful,
                                      of the careless, of the self-chosen few.
                                         It doesn’t matter what you say.
                                           It is mainly a matter of who.
                                             So open up your obstinate eyes.
                                               It could happen to yours, or you.
                                                  Guns alone may not shoot people…
                                                     but only people with guns do.

                                                         Defensive or offensive,
                                                            it is a scary slippery slope.

                                                              Guns are firmly entrenched
                                                                 in the arms of your nation,
                                                                   of law enforcement, of those who guard hope.
                                                                      Yet, for every group with the best intentions, 
                                                                         there is one more who can’t cope.
                                                                            Manufactured for a single purpose.
                                                                               Short-sighted, in every scope.
                                                                                  The hunter, or the hunted…
                                                                                     it’s a scary, slippery slope.

                                                                                         Guns are made to kill.
                                                                                            They will always find a way.
                                                                                              No matter what we do.
                                                                                                 No matter what you say.

A scary, slippery slope.

Forward

” Same old, same old.
Another day, another dollar.  
  I’m retiring in a while.
Grinning and baring it.
Going through the motions.
Same shit, different pile.
East gate here we go again[1]
” Easier said than done.

Nothing better out there.
I’ve been here this long.
I can’t take that chance.
Better safe than sorry.
What if I am wrong? ”
IMG_20141103_124147[1]
Forward
Life is far too short
No risk means no reward
So do it for yourself
It’s time…you can’t afford

I look to those who have done it
The tension of compromise long gone
They all have bettered themselves
Their life…their own, after moving on

IMG_20150722_142011[1]
The fact that they seldom look back

A safe distance from where they stood
Happy with who and where they are
It is a better life…when life is good

Pic3 for Alive
They chose a new and different path

To move forward, while they can
Each with their own ambition
Each…to become a better man

Try3
Because life is far too short

Peace of mind is your reward
M
ake yourself happy now

It’s time…you can’t afford

 

Guns

                     GUNS

Justify them however you like,
guns are made to kill.

Made even more deadly
in the hands of the vengeful,
of the criminal, of the mentally ill.
Guns will always find their way
into the hands of those who will.
Inevitably into the wrong hands
despite the latest, greatest bill.
And always at the wrong time
because guns are made to kill.


Those stubbornly blind say,
“Guns don’t kill. People do.”

This weapon finds death
in the sights of the spiteful,
of the careless, of the self-chosen few.
It doesn’t matter what you say,
it is mostly a matter of who.
So open up your obstinate eyes,
it could happen to yours, or you.
Guns alone may not shoot people,
but only people with guns do.


Defensive or offensive,

it is a scary slippery slope.

Guns are firmly entrenched
i
n the arms of your nation,
of law enforcement, of those who guard hope.
Yet for every one with the best intentions
there are three more who can’t cope.
Manufactured for a single purpose,
short-sighted, in every scope.
The hunter or the hunted,
It’s a scary slippery slope.


Guns are made to kill,
they will always find a way.
No matter what we do
no matter what you say.

It’s a
scary
slippery
slope.

                                                                                                            

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