Short(ish) poem.

Post Reply New Topic

I call this a poem, but I usually sing it Connor Oberst (Bright Eyes ) style, so I guess it's a song too.

Interestingly enough, it's about my lifestyle. Some may find disturbing

I come from the old time, baby

Stains
So I maxed out all my credit cards buying medicine on the street,
They told me it'd show me what's in my head,
Take two with alcohol and pray for the best... or so I guess,
It turns out the contents of my head are evil,
Just like the memories I tried to blot out with these medicines,
Everything I want was in my head as well as all that's wrong,
Sometimes it hides there... sometimes it breaks me.

I told my friends I'd rather die than swallow another one of those but,
Everytime they pass them round, my hand can't be helped,
I'll take it in my mouth and gasp for another drink,
So succinct we could all be extinct before the next is poured,
Sometimes I wish I could take my life in hand,
'Cause we all know it's f*****g enthusiasm I misplaced,
And we're all so f*****g jealous we just dropped out of the race.

To my credit I'm narrating this story that you're hearing,
In an ideal world, I'd make money from my crude talent,
You'd be feeling every word and fearing every sentiment,
Every night I'd wring the neck of an old battered guitar,
In some smokey amosphere like times at my friend's makeshift bar,
Where we wallow in depravity... so make some f*****g noise,
'Cause that place stained my soul, bruised my conscience, bled me dry.

I thought education would save me but my creativity grew stagnant,
Too much time confronted by empty space on paper,
Wondering why a "decent job" would ever be my saviour,
I'm cynical because I'm not innocent and that's no goddamn crime,
The world's so filled with ignorance and every dream or aspiration,
Just seems to equate to new ways to bleed money from situations
Well I'll never queue up for that 'cause I've not sold myself to avarice.

I guess the stains on my friend's carpet have become semi-permanent,
As my friends have taken up residence every weekend,
He doesn't like the mess we leave but the company's somehow worth it,
You know I'm not too sure how to end this, is it too long or too short?
I'll just tie it off like an artery and do some corrections as any good writer should,
Despite being a bad one, it's a habit I've still picked up,
And self-analysis stays with me just like all my scars, stains and cuts...

PeteExplodes, Dec. '07

...PS. I'm not all about misery!