Cry In The Garden
And ill spend many a days with a cold heart
Beating a burning desire.
These memories of scents and shades.
burn on and on
a semi vanquished fire.
lovesick thoughts,
de cages all my senses
I'd swear winter falls
On every killer absense.
I've changed my mind on being alone.
My own mind kills me everyday.
Alas!
I've spent many days loved for the illusion I am.
But hated for those very few seconds of truth.
And many achieving naught.
But twice a year I seem to turn solitude to love
And cry in the garden.
And ill spend many days writing of depression.
Trying to achieve a smile
And ill spend many days with a sore throat
Crying at strepsils smoking a cigarette.
Alas! Solitude isn't bliss
Its eternity
Bring back your presence
Maybe that day I'll love
The way my poems love
And Dance
The way my music does.
I'm such a terrific liar.
In verse.
Its all a holy lie.
No one feels.
The way my music does.
Hold on to your women
Hold on to your underpants.
Fore solitude is not bliss.
But I will spend my days
With short moments of clarity
Generally public and religious holidays.
Where I'll greet my old solitude garden loving self.
And cry out of clarity.
Holding hands with my terrifically stupendous ghost.
And I will say
'you don’t know where your going'
And he'll laugh and so will i.
Because I know he won't feel love
Till the rocks are sand.
And death sees time.
poem by Hunter James
Added by Poetry Lover
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