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In and out of a bewildered dementia

They're afraid for him

The thought is not unnoticed

Instead, pushed back into a mess of sub conscious booby-traps

A purchased destiny at the " Five & Dime "

A hate felt with in his soul

A looming empty box for trinkets

Now full with nothing but self pity and grief

Throbbing temples

Technicolor whirls of disorientation and artificial joy

A designated note to " Boodah "

A final decision stemmed from uncontrolled contemplation

A mind destroyed by a double barreled wonder

The room wallpapered with soft red undertones

Three days of unknown misfortune

A semi-god is lost to all

It was so long ago, every time I remember I can feel again
The pain, the anguish, the misery of then.

If I can feel it now, then it must still be then.
If that is true, then will never end.

Because I will always remember,
I can never forget

I don't wish that I could, i need to know how I failed.
Because it was my fault, and now I'm Jailed

Prisoner of my memories is what I am
And I can never escape them.

Because I will always remember
I can never forget...

Because they will always control me.
And my sentence is from then until I can see.

So from here to eternity, my soul is bound
Never to be set free, until it is found.

Inner peace is what I must find.
But I'll never find it, because I am blind.

Thursday, June 9, 2005

People trust me, respect me, turn to me for help
They count on my friendship knowing I'll be there for them
I'd do anything for any one of them for nothing in return
And some would do the same, for which I am blessed
But it seems thats all I can be, all I'm good for and nothing more
Most seem to only value me for what I can do for them
Never, it seems, do they want me just for being me
Sometimes I want something more, to share more than just friendship
To know what it would be like to be cared for, and more than just a "How's it going"
I feel like all I am is second string, I'm stuck in the background below notice
I'm like the stray dog everybody will play with but won't take home
It's like my feelings are brushed aside, like they aren't important
Or worse, a bother, something to be loathed and avoided
I want to feel something more, I want to be more than just a friend
To be needed for who I am, just for a chance to be happy
I sit here, waiting, always alone even when I'm surrounded
'Cause I'm just a friend, maybe a best friend
And that's all I'm ever let to be...

felt like writing this for Dooms. Its not the best piece of poetry in the world, but it came from what I feel and I just had to write it. I also suggest the other poetry bastards give a crack at this.
=huggles Doomsie=
This is for you. Best of luck. We owe you.

==================================================================
The light that burns through my mind
The fire that spreads through my heart
The feeling that fills my soul
The you that completes me.

The joy you bring when you're close
The sorrow when you are gone
The love I feel always.
The love you will never have.

The feelings won't go away
The feelings I can't control
The feelings feel so good
The feelings feel so bad.

The feelings that I have
The feelings that control me
The feelings that console me
The feelings that let me down

The feelings that hurt me
The feelings that kill me
The feelings that fill me
The feelings you don't have.

With the Olympics soon in Sydeny,
I have decided to rebel,
I'm convening the Fat Bastard Games,
Those fit people can go to Hell.
Events will not be necessary,
We'll decide them on the day,
Let's not get hung up on excercise,
Let the Fat Bastards have their way.
But medals will be plentiful,
Given out now and then,
Bugger the gold, silver, bronze,
Let's award down to ten.
Tenth will be the colour grey,
But not signifying last,
It is to signify athlete proportions,
And the shadows that they cast.
Ninth is signified by red,
A colour you can't disguise,
It pays homage to late night footy,
And the colour it makes your eyes
Eight is recognised with yellow,
A colour sure to please,
It reminds us of last nights pizza,
Covered in mozzarella cheese.
Seventh is a hue of green,
Taking pride of place,
It displays the six packs of last night,
And the current colour of your face.
Sixth is the purest kind of white,
The athlete's in good stead,
It recognises the effect of aspirin,
On a hung-over head.
Fifth is a beautiful beige,
Sure to make you smile,
The colour of the athlete's cushions,
When they are Unwashed for a while.
Fourth is shimmering brown cordouroy (?),
Making all feel fine,
To recognise the colour of the lounge,
Upon which most athletes recline.
Third is a wonderous tattered black,
The recipient can justly prance,
To symbolise the athlete's attire,
Of raggedy Nike track pants.
Second is holy lettered black,
To the winners circle to float,
It mirrors the holy athlete's baton,
Of the cable TV remote.
First is the most excellent amber,
It's allure shall never fail,
The colour is to remind us all,
Of our favourite ale.
Now the prizes are all organised,
I let out a stifled groan,
Fat Bastards will not compete -
We rarely leave our home.

Down which hill did a small child roll?

Might it be the one,
littered with broken branches
and smelling of the dung of troll?

Or perhaps the one,
whose grass is disturbed
by the brown mounds of the mole?

Though possibly the one,
covered with ruts
left by sleds in the snow?

Can't be the one,
overgrown with trees
littered with leaves ever so old?

'Tisn't this one,
all full of brambles
he'd be scratched full of holes!

Nor here this one,
strewn with boulders
she'd likely fall down a hole!

No, 'tis this very hill,
all smooth and well-aimed,
straight toward the stream
with ajoining swimming hole,
this is the hill
down which a small child rolls.

Hrm. So I'm a little rusty. Oh well.

Surreal, becomming
what you
make it
nothing more
nothing less
than that
which is
needed