whaddo i want?
i wanna be an adult when i grow up.
when do i wannit?
when i wake up.
well, give me half an hour
to open my eyes
and prise myself from where i lie.
whaddo i want?
jus’ to plod along
and write rubbish rhymes and songs.
to smoke spliffs but not bongs.
i don’t want much.
jus’ more than i’m due.
sitting here stoned i appear confused.
peppered with apathy this pathetic poet.
a pathetic poet
a prophetic poet this beast of a false priest of his own fleeced flock.
i know what we are and are not.
we are here for fun
where there are highs there are lows
my soul is stupid.
it knows what to do.
find the middle line there’s so much to lose.
everything to gain if i play the game of the sane.
as the snow set in with the din of the wind he could hardly hear himself holler;
but he could hear the wolves howling in the hills.
“let’s get this kill to the cave, be brave my brothers.”
“this foal is all snack and no supper.” said one to the other, contemplating their hunger as they trudged through the snow with little to show beside skin sinew and bone.
some grunted, some groaned.
the wolves closing in, collecting their kin, wary of so many men, tasting the blood on the snow as they go.
the cave is in sight, and inside is bright with a smoky glow.
women bandy burning brands of branches aflame to claim the kill for the clan.
once more the wolves are forced to flee into the night under the trees.
i often think;
the rabbits in the field,
the chaffinch in the trees,
the stickleback in the stream,
the goat on the cliff’s edge;
none have ever had hot food.
winter’s kitchen doesn’t contain cookers.
aaaaah, The sweet scent of contentment.
why do we write, why do we write in rhyme?
the lilt of thought that binds as glue in the brain.
to share a thought, a fleeting or insistent feeling.
to be remembered.
not just tomorrow or next month.
i don’t want fame today.
will i be remembered in another age?
if not by battle then by pen and by page.
hide my rhymes in the books i donate,
that over the eons, my name may be known,
as secret as Pelagius, unknown in most homes.
don’t like is different to dislike.
I have a feeling courage and fate are just best friends.
Without courage fate would be so boring. So much would be written differently in the book of destiny.
what will be, will be.
courage could be the hand of the soul that writes it’s own fate,
or maybe Courage and Fate could be enemies, with Courage constantly fighting on the frontline of our destiny.
Destiny is something that you cannot lose,
Destiny is not something you choose,
Destiny is exactly what will just be,
Destiny cannot be changed by a choice,
That choice is apart of your destiny.
sinner or saint,
freedom is as thin as a layer of paint.
we can try our best to test the notion
but Fate is the butler of life’s red potion.
Fate is as unknown as the bottom of the ocean
And it shall change in one swift motion
As long as we just keep hoping
That’s the ideal way for us to keep coping.
we can try as much as we like
and should; out of spite.
but nothing can be anything,
try as we might.
by VivaciousVision and myself, taken from comments on 92. Worry (new)