The stream (all workshops)
Woebegone and egg foo young on you
meaning me of course
sidestepping a crucial positive
electric kool aid battery acid test
prior to pledging troth,
and tying Gordian knot
to strangulation point,
never fending for myself,
nor being disaster about to happen.
I’ve had more pricks than you can count, I have them every day.
And when I’m due to have one more, honestly, I’m okay.
While the pricks pierce my flesh and even hurt my fingers,
Some have proved to be so sore, ahh that memory, still lingers.
At times they really hurt, but I am not complaining.
I have these pricks, because I need constantly maintaining.
And now I’ve had so many pricks, I don’t grumble at blood spurt
It’s hard at first to break your flesh and inject a little squirt.
Merry
More than a smile
A feeling from within
Doing things better every day
Happy
Me and my old man
Are far from
perfect
I struggle to keep up,
To get all of my ducks,
But if the ocean was whiskey
He’d dive like a duck,
And that would be that
And I would be done.
Me and my old man
Have no silver nor gold,
I even seen it in the window
Of an old man's pawn shop.
And I cry,
and I cry,
While he sips on his whisky,
Fumbling his hands
with his invisible gold band.
Untrustworthy and poor
I fall and
i fall
Headlines of sales pitch, spread dubious promise.
The devil’s tiny detail, isn’t obvious in invisibility.
A newscaster stutters, disbelief, coughs and smirks,
He understands your need for value, you’re human.
To be appeased by stimulation, as the voices clash,
and ire rises, pick a side, of frenzied foolish fervour.
Starved of truth, here’s a gift, banal entertainment,
to be virtually delivered, with rewards of marketing.
The Longest Goodbye
Written by Kelly Ann Wilson
Sometimes, as people get older
They start to forget
They forget where they put their keys
They forget what day of the week it is
Maybe it’s little things like that
At first
Then, they can't quite remember a word
When they were a teacher
Who taught children to read
Then, they just can't seem to find
Their way home
And so, they wander around the streets of town
For a little while
Maybe
There will be a moment
When breathing doesnt feel this hard
Its like im breathing mud
Thick and heavy
Noone teaches you
How to navigate depression,early on
You just find yourself swimming in it
And then suddenly
You are told to take these pills
Speak to this person
Say these things
And you remember
You have been cutting yourself
For years
You have been crying
For years
My creativity embodies my very mindset
Inspiration expressed not just an outlet
My discretion as an artist not to be repressed
Laid out in any form allowing others to digest
Thoughts manipulated then conveyed
Carefully constructed, hoping your amazed
A creative mind never compromised
My message ambitious yet always realized
You influence my passions and intentions
You see your essence is forever mentioned
Never censoring my words or ability
You bring about a flexible Impossibility
Knead dull brows knitted;
belief system I cogitate
gearing thee ordinary bipedal hominid
acquiesces to deck the halls
of the mountain (dew) king with boughs
of sister golden haired
sprinkling angel dust
from cremated remains
in bleak midwinter
unwittingly interweaving pagan rituals
Fuzzy, swirling befuddled, and pounding,
It's all just a little bit confounding.
Many words are spoken, but just sound,
Where is the sense of them found?
Pointless nowhere directions,
Flip back to show our reflections.
Spinning us around and around,
Our crazy earthly mound.
Except it’s us that’s chaotic,
Kind of bat crazy robotic.
Like our favourite song on repeat,
Over and over our lives go, like a treat.
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