Tag: spilled poetry

Another Scotch

vagabondprophet:

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..

Another Scotch

vagabondprophet:

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..

vagabondprophet:

Discarded

To dive headlong

Into the ravine

The vee cut neckline

Plunging into the bosom

Of mother nature herself

To die of despair

A pendulum in the air

To swallow handfuls of madness

To dull the crowding sadness

All of these deaths I abhor

But cruelest yet

Is that you ignore

Not a glance, whisper, or touch.

Discarded

Like coupons from a store

You no longer frequent.

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.

vagabondprophet:

I think I’m in despair

The wind is in the trees

Basically, just waiting for something to come along and eat me

Is this future’s gate?

Where my dreams retreat?

And all my memories are just memories of memories?

And a-folded in a dream

Pitch-black and glowing blue

A raven saying, ‘I know a way that I can help you’

Oh-oh, I stared into his eyes

I saw my pale last days

Said, ‘What you can’t escape, you gotta embrace.’

Ah-oh, I know a way to get back

This don’t have to end

A way to get back

And haunt them. Haunt them. Haunt them

Then he wished me plain

As he flew away

Said I’d see him coming on that pale last day

And he wished me plain

Ordinary death

Said he’d be back after I escaped it

oh

I’ve seen how they are

How they’d all sell their souls

In little bits and pieces, til they get old

They don’t make a dent

In indifference

We’ll haunt them. Haunt them. Haunt them

But I want to go back

If this is the end

I want to go back

Not to ‘haunt them, haunt them, haunt them.’

Not to haunt them, haunt them

Not to haunt them, haunt, haunt

Haunt them, haunt them

Gordon Downie, if you haven’t listen to his solo album “Secret Path” you need to. Especially if you listen to it along with the accompanying graphic novel. It is nothing short of heart breaking and wonderful.

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..