Random Poems

- Moonshine

The wind softly shrieks to be let in for the night,
But the cold steals all feeling from your shriveling limbs,
The wood briefly speaks for mercy from God,
Inside of the forgotten house on the lake.

The moon cogently brings life to the water,
But the waves still try to rip themselves from the depths,
The trees gratingly sing callous cawings and cries,
All which is gated by great, looming mountains.

The man painfully steals another swig from his bottle,
As he lays under the window in the dusty, dark attic,
His pain achingly feels as if it’s being ignored,
And doesn’t even bother to return anymore.

The house incessantly groans as the sky comes in closer,
And the moon’s heartless stare barrels down like mortar fire.
The wind endlessly moans like an unattended child,
Who had to face the truth many years too soon.

The moon solemnly peaks through the grimy old window,
To see a man sprawled out like a doll on the floor,
The liquor damningly leaks from the mouth of the bottle,
As death lies motionless in a flood of moonshine.



- Sins Of Morning

Sometimes I cannot help but dream
Of horrid things that to me seem,
Ghost no sane man should ever see,
Like ill specters which never rest,
And as my heart pounds in my chest,
I hold my breath, unendingly.

I can feel their heinous presence,
As I predict painful events,
Filled with punishment and scorning,
I know my soul will never rise,
My pasture’s brown, with cloudy skies,
Retribution for sins of morning.

Sometimes I pray I wake up dead,
Or find my innocence instead,
There’s a war of shame and pride,
But guilt is easier to fight,
When the sun scares off the night,
Until then I can only hide.



- A Writer's Night

There is a place that I call home,
Where I drink and write myself this poem,
But I fear I will begin to roam,
And become these words which line my tome.

I fear I do not have the heart,
To dissect, lie-let, and tear apart,
Every soul that passes by,
Please tell me, Lord, where do I start?

I sit at home, curl up, and type,
These putrid thoughts once they are ripe,
They make me sad, though when I shun,
Their absence pains me even more.

Is it like booze, and when abandoned,
Festers in your head for years,
And though the pain takes long to numb,
The freedom is its own reward?

Can words cause such a same reaction?
Forcing your hurt into two factions,
One which weeps the words they've written,
One which mourns those I've forgotten.

And as I see before my eyes,
A spectacle of insane flies,
And though we judge them so unkindly,
We never judge the one that cries.

So as I sit, my muscles tight,
Thinking, as I wait for the light,
Of those I spin, and words I fight,
And how I judge their petty plight,
Of my want to jump and just take flight,
My hate of joy, never too slight,
I threw out love for words that bite,
I forced my way to a new height,
So high, I feel I lost my sight,
All that I see is black and white,
This drink being my sole delight,
Please tell me, Lord, is this all right?

Where is the love in a writer's long night?