A Vomit of my Intelect

Sometimes, when sleep evades you and despite all of your best efforts there are just too many things rattling around in your head. I find it is best to gag your mind of all random thought. Then you can often relax those muscles of your brain.

My cluttered mind cannot define, The images I see,
For caught in mazes far too hard, Each thought longs to be free.
An angel passes all the rest, and shouts down from the sky,
a music note falls from his lips, a drop of liquid pie.

A man far down below he sits, his hands are branches long.
He grows each day and ever stays, the source of right and wrong.
She bleeds deep purple lullaby's, while children drink them up,
Around her neck she wears a charm, that's bound to bring her luck.

A man crawls in and cries to her, for opportunities gone,
but he cannot stop his soul from this, he breaks into a song.
And from his hands a bubble blows, and pops into the night
With sun and moon and stars about but none can shed their light.

The twisted gate like hands it bars the way into the grave,
while one small kid hides bruises gleaned for when he misbehaves.
They jump right off his cheeks in song, and dance a merry jig
and with a bow, and some fanfare, each turns into a fig.

The boy grows feathers on his hands, and paints a picture bright
Where wagstop birds soar high above, feasting on the light
He pushed his thumb against a nail to see if he could bleed.
He grabbed a ball of linen dust and promptly planted seeds.

There grew a mighty palace, with kings made of pure gold.
A woman who was young and fair, then promptly became old.
The tapestry's of finest yarn, adorned the hall of Gods.
And terrariums of fish and birds and little candy frogs.

The kingdom cast a wary eye, on all who play with birds.
They pulled the hair of all they saw and even those they heard.
The prince of castles near and far, could not prevail at length,
for vanquished in the end he was, by the yonder velvet skank.

Exploding into colors, the man surrenders throne,
but beware of those that talk too sly, for the salamanders they are prone
But back to angels high above, who cry sweet lemon drops
and come to earth to sing us songs that will our every crop.

Of Gods on High who show us all the mysteries of time
and play on fields of sugar cane and feast on beds of lime.
I'm sorry now for on this page my mind had quite a spill
a vomit of my intellect, my creativity and will.

I'll wipe it up I'm sorry but, I simply cannot sleep.
when too many things are in my head, last on my mind are sheep.
Sorry about your Indian rug, I hope it does not stain,
I better leave and not come back (for I may just vomit again).

Mercy

Oh woe my friend for can't you see
this work of art laid forth
the beauty of the colors bright
cannot you see their worth?

As each and every hue I strove
to make this wondrous thing.
But all for naught it all must be
No yield can e're it bring.

The field so white a burning page
a canvas clean and pure
This thing I've done, the race I've run
what is all this for?

For perseverance, speed and gain
I've liad it all on sheet
But as I've left the quill in dock
I feel that I've been beat.

Don't get me wrong, the victory mine,
I've done it for myself
but world would not in future days
gaze upon the shelf.

So while I've lost somehow I've won
for nothing here can taint.
I've made a work that cannot be
of faded and peeling paint.

The jokes on you for what may seem
the wretched bane of this
The play lives on inside my mind
untainted by your fist.

So here is goes I'm leaving this
I put it down so slow
For mercy is the way within
I here must let it go.

Goodbye my sweet, I bid farewell
This life for you must end
I love you so, I always will,
but to mercy must I tend.

I'll do it soft, long hard strokes,
just close your eyes and breathe
for I could not leave you here to stay,
through death you'll be set free.

It's over now, I've done my deed.
My love exists no more
But deep inside you'll never see,
The shrine I've built for her.

I saved her from this life so cruel,
by taking her inside.
The work of art that was her face,
spared both of our pride.

I put the weapon down so slow,
it weightless in my hand.
The dust it falls as skittles do,
the post-war view just grand.

Don't worry now, its clean as snow.
I've cleaned it up so nice.
No one will know the deed I've done,
The death must be the price.

There is no guilt, just slight regret,
as I leave that canvas clean.
She's gone, it's done, it cannot change,
I'll just dwell on what has been.

Okay, despite what you guys may be thinking right now, This poem is about a dry-erase mural. I know you were thinking about the murder of a lover and all of that jazz but it still applies right? Read it again closely this time. You can't ignore the allusion to art...sometimes not even an allusion at all. It is an inevitable end but there is something in you that needs to put it down yourself. You could leave it for others to see but you wouldn't want the art to be desecrated so, being helpless, you must destroy that beautiful work that you have made to spare it the cruelty. I thought it was interesting to put it into a person kind of context and thought it astoundingly morbid but so relevant. So Andrew, I guess I did write about love in a warped and twisted sense. There are things that give you the cue without this explanation: Long hard strokes with a weightless weapon (usually a weapon would feel heavy in your hand). This is descriptive of me erasing the work of art. The skittle dust is pretty self-explanatory. Read it again, and try to feel the emotion as I have to destroy this work of art just after I have finished it because I know that it cannot last. So out of mercy I let its last moment be in its best state and I am the only one that truly got to behold it.