I stand between two distinct yet similar boondocks
One was borne of peace; the other borne of war
Beholding but their tall vanguard ideals
What lies beyond I cannot fathom more
are you to blame me for not being able to delve more
if the risks remain uncertain
and to choose where to start could kill?
are you to blame me for being indecisive
if these mountains serve themselves as walls?
are you to blame me for abstaining
if all I could see is their best,
concealing all the rest?
I am so sorry
For being so much small.
Hazel eyes, hazy lies
Half-meant and hollow.
But the eyes, they never lie
The depths are wide yet shallow.
by Sad Potato
This one’s for you Mrs Gobblebrain!
My love for you is like the most rude carrot,
Your face reminds me of strong cockroaches,
Together, we are like pasties and olive oil.
Oh darling Maddie,
My rude carrot,
My strong potato,
The perfect companion to my pasties soul.
Poppies are red,
Oceans are blue,
I like forests at dusk,
But not as much as I love smooching with you!
Oh darling Maddie,
Your knees are like terrific maps on a winter day,
You’re like the most jolly air traffic controller to ever walk Russia.
Your strong cockroach face,
Your olive oil soul,
Your terrific knees,
Your jolly air traffic controller being…
How could I look at another when our rude carrot love is so strong?
I love you Mrs Gobblebrain!
This is actually a computer-generated lyrics from this wonderful yet hilarious site.
On the journey against this fleeting life
Wayward or onward — it doesn’t matter
Leeward we are all blown by the breeze
For everything is dust in the wind
Today is a malaise from hopes and dreams
I come and write a series of Ennui:
Freud, chemistry, and Headrush
Maman opened the gates to Outworld
Soundwaves flowing outward after my ears
Bass and treble lose its wry intension
Dry leaves fall; dry floors do not
I am bereft; I am wet
I am cold; I am warm
I am sick; I am not
Cry, Maman, weep the tree of gold
Poppy will give us bread otherwise
I will desist the waves from resounding…
till the room be as quiet as Solitude.
To whom we write:
to the clarion whispers left unsaid
to the forsaken souls left unawares
to the lives left deadened and exploited
to every child whom we would never see
to let them feel the world’s embrace
the wonders of this intelligent design
that they must not be left
that tomorrow shall yield another day
which that day marks the Emancipation
of everyone—of to whom we write.
To and fro I stumble and go astray
Westward, leeward and wayward
Waiting for an opportune chance
Only to find myself adrift amid.
Pushed and pulled by outward forces,
Yet the inward preempts stature:
An entropy within an entropy
Adrift by the sea, adrift by the soul
Whence the waves come is a query
Whence the discordant din a mystery
The origin of tumult and disquietude
Is it within or without?