Tag: poetry

Terrorist

vagabondprophet:

Darling I have some news
It just might give you the blues
I’ll try to give you the jist
Honey, I think you’re a terrorist

Its true you were kind
When you conquered my mind
But I hadn’t really a choice
Nor an audible voice

You brandished your sword
When you crossed the fjord
To a land I called my own
Now the villagers gone… flown

You slaughtered the king
With your feminine sting
Your body with it’s rise and fall
And your grand tales so tall

Your ideas filled me
At quite a steep fee
You took my heart,  called it yours
Changed the locks behind the doors

Since you came to join
There’s a new face on the coin
The cloth’s up the pole drag
With your likeness on the flag

Then a thing so strange
For you to arrange
After tasting my power
Like smelling a flower

Your new regime extinguished
Tyrants grip relinquished
When I asked you why
You winked with one eye

Your response such madness
Painted over with gladness
“ I had to wear this gown
I had to cut you down

It was all underneath
I am not a thief
Don’t you see, it’s fake?!
Your crown, I didn’t take

You smelled like petrichor
And I wanted something more
I strangled what was dead
All the old skin you shed

What was underneath
The thing in the sheath
A strength so sure
A goodness so pure

We never really fought
Your distress all for naught
I could never steal
What you offered with zeal

You offered your crown
Without even  a frown
I felt so inept
I couldn’t accept

If more kings were like you
But alas, there are so few
The kind that ought to rule
A good man, not a fool

You make love a verb
Not forgotten at the curb
Made me feel uplifted
Rather than re-gifted

I want to give myself
Don’t put me on the shelf
Love me with your power
Don’t lock me in a tower”

Isn’t this convoluted
A few points to be disputed
I’m certain I’m not good
Love me? Not sure you should

When you cut me down to size
It helped me realize
That there is plenty in store
I could be so much more

Just one answer I demand
Something I don’t understand
Why this is what you wanted
A man that is haunted

Quiver

vagabondprophet:

They say there’s an archer in the sky
And surely his bowstring grows taut
When he’s aiming at his prize
Perhaps the boar or the horse

Why must you aim at me
You,
Celestial and otherworldly
Surely I’m no trophy

Yet I find myself cornered
My pulse gone flat
Just like your bowstring
Pulled by your touch

I beg you just let go
Better to be slain
By an arrow from your quiver
Than to quiver all my life.

vagabondprophet:

Slave

You said you were a stranger

But you said it so friendly that I didn’t quite believe you at first.

You offered me a bottle

When you saw that I was panting,

clearly dieing of thirst.

I eyed it with suspicion

And you spoke unto me,

“It’s a long long way I’ve marched,

thirst has no respect for drought,

And I know your throat is parched.”

I took a deep draft

Like a fool

Really daft

And I’m pretty sure I’m suffering now

Went down sweeter than love

Now tremors are gripping me like a glove.

“Take my money take my money

make this all go away,

Take my money take my money

Make this come to an end.”

With a deep deep laugh you Chuckled and spat,

“Not your money but your life!  Your blood your soul your heart, that’s what I wanted, that’s what I wanted from the start”

I want everything, everything, everything that makes you you.

Eviscerated violated taken to the grave.

That’s what I want,  I want a slave

You never once said no,

You never once said go,

You’re conviction ain’t consistent

You were far from resistant.

Maybe next time you’ll arm yourself against all your favourite tastes and smells

Or you may find yourself on tour in the deepest depths of hell.

I want everything, everything, everything that makes you you.

Eviscerated violated taken to the grave.

That’s what I want,  I want a slave

I woke up panting

you step into the mirror,

Took a deep bow and then you said,

“If this isn’t want you wanted

Well then you won’t be haunted

But if I’m honest I think that you will be.”

– Vagabond Prophet

– First song I’ve written in about five years.

Bad weather

vagabondprophet:

The weather man gives me the finger
Says it’s gonna be a long one
Snow falls like a feather weight
To beat me to the punch

It cuts the chord
So the line stays quiet
So I simply shout
Sorry darling but I’m stuck out here

Creeping white
Scale the windows slowly
No power now
Frost outside and in

I can see my breath
Shaped like your name
I hope you find it
Because it’s my last.

My shooting star

vagabondprophet:

Dark and twinkling
Only for a second
But in that moment
So radiant and bright

Somehow more brightly coloured
An elegant display
Than anything of the day
On the land or in the sky

Books say just a rock
Floating in the vastness
But I know better
You spoke to me that night

It’s everything I’ve sought
But haven’t given name
The song I remember
But can’t quite sing along

Come back to me
My shooting star
I need you now
To illuminate my life

You’re my flickering hope
Straining in the wind
When you come down to meet me
Don’t crumble coming in.

vagabondprophet:

Balsa Wood

If I could remake you

Out of balsa wood

Would I?

You’d be lighter

Yet strong,

Easily take flight.

The wind would push

Against your wings

And caress your face.

Ascension, descension,

Thrown by the carelessness

Of the air and the sky.

Letting every splinter

Alter your course,

Dancing on the map.

Would you even return,

Fight the current

To come back to me.

I see you in the flesh

And swear

You’re something better

Could I set you free?

Free of the land

And free of me.

Knots and imperfections

Same as now,

But you would fly.

You belong

High above me,

A distant speck.

I can’t make this choice

I’m selfish in my love,

What say You?

Wind filled wingspan?

Or me, simply me,

Pink tongue, white teeth.

I’ll be yours

To hold and kiss,

To wriggle against.

I know it’s a poor choice.

I’ve always ruffled

One too many feathers.

So which is it?

The clouds,

Cotton and dewy.

Or me, simply me

I’ll hold you close

And love you tenderly.

If you wish

I’ll remake you

Out of balsa wood

But know that if

The gale proves too much,

You may return to me

I’d make you safe again

Peeling back every ring

Of that lovely balsa wood.

– Vagabond Prophet

Another Scotch

When the little hand hits twelve

On the face of my watch,

I’ll get off this chair

And pour another scotch.

Yellow and sweet

In a vicious kind of way,

Taking down fences

Ferrel words at end of day.

In the morning it’s coffee

I’ll be electrically afflicted

I bounce between these tonics

When my words are constricted.

The right words never come

My mind held on a scale,

Swatted like a horsefly

Tossed by the gale.

Buzzing energetic,

All business and astute,

Or brilliant in my torpor

But wordless as a brute.

This erratic crazed ballet

Doesn’t really help,

Should make better choices,

Kale, beets, and kelp

If my habits are nonsensical

If you could call me crazy,

I’m halfway to genius

At least I’m not lazy.

– Vagabond Prophet

          – Not going to lie, I was trying to write something else and it wasn’t working so I wrote this about writers block..