ClumsyMonkey.net

"three, left behind"

my God people change so fast,
and it usually takes so long
but it has only been a month,
and things have gone so wrong

where once stood four together,
now stand three, left behind
and some hang on forever,
but me, I'm not that blind

the third lies by accident,
and to herself not even knowing
that I know her well enough to see,
all the subtext that she's showing

the one has found new friends,
and a new mask to wear for them
with two of the three still hanging on,
to just change at his every whim

"the monastery"

sitting underneath their trees,
looking for something to write on--
dreaming of something to write

always looking up to their windows,
wondering if they see me--
I wonder if they know

I watch the sun fade behind their leaves,
racking my mind for something to say--
breaking my heart for anything

none of them ever come down to see me,
watch it all up from their rooms--
alone there in their rooms

the monks up in their towers,
just dying for the vacated past--
and digging for something to die for

"maps"

we're charting all the stars,
making plans, like mice and men
just lying in our gutters,
trying to find the sky again

making all of these small plans,
to comfort our beating hearts
knowing full-well they'll never stand,
and the world'll fall apart

but it keeps our hearts from breaking,
and our eyes find a place to hide
just digging through our maps,
trying to map the final ride

"Three, left behind" sounds more like a journal entry then a poem. I think thats because you don't use as much figurative language as in the other ones and its very blunt. Also there is no emotionial change at the end. Its like, it just ended. I donno, I guess thats just me.

I like "the monastery" and "maps" is definatly emtee inspired.

thanks; yeah, "three, left behind" actually started as a short commentary in my journal, but it ended up as that.

I got to thinking about "monastery" while I was sitting outside a local monastery all alone in their bing, empty 'park'-ish area on a park bench. I had a lot on my mind, and I almost started crying over it all. I looked up at the monastery, through the haning trees, and scribbled the poem out later that night.

Yeah, "maps" is kinda emtee inspired; by his music quote, and Oscar Wilde's similiar quote.

This next one came about after I saw the title of the thread on here about "history written by the victors". I got to thinking about that for a minute, and this came out...

...

"same stores, different endings"

truth comes from every point of view,
in sepia photos from our past
we can't help how we see the picture,
as we know it always lasts

black and white soldiers in the trenches,
or the Nazis burning books?
sad faces, in concentration camps,
with their neverending empty looks

in the textbooks of London to Manhattan,
the same stories, but different endings,
about a war of Northern aggression,
about the letters we've been sending

and our children lined in desks,
pretty faces all in a row
filled with sugar-coated propaganda,
and it's all they'll ever know

"a riot in the streets"

there's a riot in the streets
of your overworked imagination,
burned out fires, all that's left,
of the hatred that's been shelved

mob mentality leads the way,
for your broken army of one
all these leaderless agendas,
where are they gonna send us?

nothing but rubble in the streets,
with broken glass, and broken hearts
and all that's left above is ash,
and we're suspened for the crash

"a room"

it's an offer I never saw coming,
a room, and a roof, in that place
the place I've loathed for so long,
to fill that idle space

does it all come from necessity,
or are we mending burned-up bridges?
can they even be rebuilt,
are we falling from the ledges?

will it compromise more than shown,
the friendships I hold most dear?
will I be sucked into that world,
will I even care?

will I leave them all behind,
do it all just like you did?
no, I can draw that line,
I can live by what I've said

but there are only 24 hours,
and I've filled all of those now
maybe I can dig more from the night,
and make it all work out, somehow

"only myself when I'm alone"

I'm only myself when I'm alone,
amber lamp, pens and paper
worn those masks for far too long,
and I've finally lost the face

a smaller room to rest my head,
faded pictures, little shelves
filled with everything you did,
and a course I'll never trace

"know I'm real"

idle conversation,
choking out the air
fid meaing between the lines,
acting like I just don't care

forcing nonchalance,
hiding all I feel
roll my eyes and fake a smile,
and you don't even know I'm real

...

"time machine"

they say night is for the lovers,
I can't make the sun go down
but the sky above's so blue,
it alomst seems like it'll do

so every night I pray for clouds,
or an eclipse to take the light
all I can get's a purple glow,
an imminent dusk to never show

...

"sweet catastrophe"

does the lamplight burn as many tears,
as the sweet catastrophe in my head?
do their missteps falter, just as mine,
with the proud I am, instead?

can htis life teach me to hold a smile,
on my dreams of silent film?
just over thinking nothing, this sarcasm--
I don't even know my whims

it's just a so long search for meaning,
wade through static, finding noise
God, if I could only find myself--
with my ending, always poised

...

"a construction paper star"

a cardboard box of memories,
countless pennies, a ceramic jar
a decade wrapped in closets,
I'm a construction paper star

edges curl into the heart,
a sky of black spray paint
my heavens hang, on this old string,
ruled by watercolor saints

...

"spare me"

hide behind self-righteous,
you didn't spare me--
you didn't spare me

hide behind cowardice,
you didn't spare me--
you didn't spare me

hide behind your mind,
you didn't spare me--
you didn't spare me

hide behind your lies,
you didn't spare me--
you didn't spare me

and I give it all away,
to anyone who'll take
forever or today--
you're everything,
everything

and I give it all away,
forever or just today
to anyone who'll take--
everything,
my everything

tiptoes on the grass,
blades between my toes
is this love?
is this love?
I don't know,
I don't know
I breakdown to the ground

the ocean in my hand,
sand between my fingers
is this love?
is this love?
let it linger,
let it linger
I breakdown at the sound

and there's a thousand conversations,
inside of your sweet head
and a million sad, sad poems,
inside of mine, instead

thanks!

"this sad"

hapless confusion,
wanting something, but not sure
if it can be had

break the delusion,
finally thinking, finally pure
to see in me this sad

"broken conversation"

"I don't want to get in the way of your life."
"Is this love?"
"I don't know... I don't think I've ever been in love."
"I hate to do this over the phone; because you can't see my hand gestures, and I can't see your eyes."
"I'm glad you can't see my eyes."
"Are they still blue?"

i like broken conversation and i really like the line from it in your sig : )

thanks guys!

broken conversation is SO. GOOD.

"I'm glad you can't see my eyes."
"Are they still blue?"

"five"

open to love, but not openly looking;
broken hearted, dripping glue--
hammers and nails, broken clockwork,
doing everything, everything I can do

all I can ask, not knowing the question;
shattered ego, lost beliefs--
books and words, most just see film,
filled with everything, filled with grief

a happy memory, move on confused;
happy with five, not sure about ever--
letters and stamps, too hard on the heart,
a decade of dialogue, a decade of heather

my world of grey, can't pick a color;
closer to light, but can't find the turn--
candles and flashlights, but mostly the dark,
losing my memory, and losing my burn

a broken smile, but a smile, nonetheless;
losing that twinkle, I'm losing your eyes--
passion and heart, don't let me burn out,
with a gift of my subtlety, this dear gift of my tries