Graphite Grifter

I wished for sympathy from the crowd in some way That a minor character might die in my play A supporting actress would cry her last chorus And I prepared to draw tears for the both of us I sought after sympathy from the crowd in some sense A soliloquy would reveal my morbid intent Then tear burned lenses would hold a reflection Curving their contempt towards my affection I coveted sympathy from the crowd in some fashion But she dropped to the floor before assumed "action!" Curtains now drawing, how should I act? The audience sees clearly, dry eyes intact I demand sympathy from the crowd at last Disbelief's broadcast came grouped in a gasp "This is not the tragedy,  her character did not die! Only the mask that wears her,  please stand by"

steel cold looks cool worked metal in hand American workers pause waiting to take stand not on trial but as witness to tell of plains and plain faces they have known so well cross examined with tacit emotion by averting eyes broken and curtains unopened the artist a jury convicts without words his portrait the judge its sentence unheard but architectures fate arcs down towards man to remind him of lost history's demand to imitate the past on infertile soil to bear no fruit and continue their toil

I grew up in a tree and believed it to be, safe as the branches enclosed around me.  On strings of breeze God may pull as he please, the life over leaves dances with ease.  But when I watched by bees and birds as they fly, my limbs chagrined as branches down wind. Unaware before, I then yearned for more,  now feeling bound to my link in the ground. Shifting my gaze, grip turned to graze  as my eyes slid down to the trunk I had found. What could it be that afforded safety  as I sat above graves among the leaves and the aves? Was I anchored by tombs no man can exhume,  or was this decay the cause for trees' sway To the mound I fell by gravity compelled,  but when I did peel at what earth had concealed I found vines much stronger than ivy. Now posture is prayer so I look to the air,  thanking the roots for taking such care. But before I feed fibers completing the rhyme, I must find time for the trees ...

Si yo fuera poeta, hablaria con la lengua de otro Yo se mas palabras en ingles, pero los poetas no hablan sobre de lo que saben Ellos cantan sobre de lo que confunde  Yo estoy confunde, eso no es la problema Pero no se cantar No se como me siento, siento todos las cosas  Si pudeira hablar en italiano, yo usaria las manos de otro

which way does the moon trend against the darkness does it spin? and where do the stars end I feel I have them on my skin because when light does bend so do I into kin

“I’ll call you when I finish driving, I don’t like to talk in the car.” I was parked in my parents’ driveway, but that doesn’t make my statement any less true. I collected myself, pulled out, and headed towards the freeway. I enjoy talking on the phone with very few people. Who is interesting enough to hold my attention with just their words? I realize the irony, but I will try to be.  It’s fun to think of most people in public as playing characters . Wow, this mom at Starbucks makes a real convincing bitch.  Then I’ll give her a score like 8.5/10,  She’s kind of overdoing it, no one has that little self-awareness.  If she could dial it back a little? Super convincing.  How does anyone pass the ripe age of 20 and not come to the realization that there are other people in the world. 7 billion of them in fact—each complete with their own pet peeves, myths and kinks. I’m an infinitesimally small part of the universe. A part of the whole—the universe moves on wit...