deepundergroundpoetry.com
Drama Drama Drama
! extreme content !
Pretending to live a soap opera existence
Cutting and complaining with synthetic persistence
I have run out of my endless supply of patience
For your faux suicidal displays I have zero tolerance
Next time you cry wolf I won't call for an ambulance
So bleed out, bleed out and get out, stay out, goodbye, good riddance
I am tired of your screaming and melodramatics
How many times can I beg you to stop?
How many times can I watch you slice away
at your innocent flesh now scarred with faux sin?
Your soul agonizing for no reason over the life you are in
Cos you decided you're so dark and you're so dark and you're so fucking dark
Fine, go ahead, be dark and be dead with 666 carved into your heart
I gave you love and cared as you fed off my flesh like a man-eating shark
Then begged me to beat you 'til it tore me apart
No more, no more, I'm done with your game
You've always been you with no one to blame
Spilling your blood while laughing, it's the same old same
A grave is your next stop the next time I hear you cackle my name
Published 18th July 2015 1:15pm
Pretending to live a soap opera existence
Cutting and complaining with synthetic persistence
I have run out of my endless supply of patience
For your faux suicidal displays I have zero tolerance
Next time you cry wolf I won't call for an ambulance
So bleed out, bleed out and get out, stay out, goodbye, good riddance
I am tired of your screaming and melodramatics
How many times can I beg you to stop?
How many times can I watch you slice away
at your innocent flesh now scarred with faux sin?
Your soul agonizing for no reason over the life you are in
Cos you decided you're so dark and you're so dark and you're so fucking dark
Fine, go ahead, be dark and be dead with 666 carved into your heart
I gave you love and cared as you fed off my flesh like a man-eating shark
Then begged me to beat you 'til it tore me apart
No more, no more, I'm done with your game
You've always been you with no one to blame
Spilling your blood while laughing, it's the same old same
A grave is your next stop the next time I hear you cackle my name
Published 18th July 2015 1:15pm
Published 20th Aug 2011
| Edited 10th Aug 2015
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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20th Aug 2011 7:39am
Amen to that! Excellent poem and very well written. Enjoyed reading it immensely.
I had not witnessed the true power of poetry until age seventeen when it served to help grant forgiveness at a time I needed it most. Before a heartbreaking misdeed on my part, I hadn’t thought much of poetry as anything more than an assignment in English class.
I was never a fan of English, but after that fateful day I began to appreciate poetry for the artform it is, and a means to communicate feelings I was unable to express otherwise. For thirty-thousand years art has been humans greatest creation, I make my contribution in verse.
In his early years as an artist, Vincent Van Gogh vividly related his concept of art to his brother Theo in two separate letters from July of 1882. In a book of Vincent’s letters titled, “Van Gogh, A Self-Portrait”, translated by W.H. Auden, letters numbered 218 and 221, express his feelings perfectly and can be more carefully read there in full than if I were to paraphrase or quote bits and pieces here. His letters are a portal into the mind of a great artist and a misunderstood man.
While his work was not recognized during his lifetime, as Vincent predicted back then, sooner or later sincere art finds its audience and is accepted by the art lovers. Vincent thought it might seem pretentious for him to talk about his art with such regard, but in hindsight, who can argue with him now? How ironic that his paintings now sell for millions of dollars when only a couple of them sold while he was alive.
If not for Theo saving the paintings and letters Vincent sent him, we might never have known this man and his tender heart. Art, weather it be paintings, poetry, music or any other form, must be expressed unconditionally. Even in the early years Vincent felt that art was for the artist to create, not to be influenced by the critics, dealers and gallery owners, or to be produced for the market. It isn’t that art should not be sold once it has been created; the dilemma arises when selling out in the formation of it.
jj
I was never a fan of English, but after that fateful day I began to appreciate poetry for the artform it is, and a means to communicate feelings I was unable to express otherwise. For thirty-thousand years art has been humans greatest creation, I make my contribution in verse.
In his early years as an artist, Vincent Van Gogh vividly related his concept of art to his brother Theo in two separate letters from July of 1882. In a book of Vincent’s letters titled, “Van Gogh, A Self-Portrait”, translated by W.H. Auden, letters numbered 218 and 221, express his feelings perfectly and can be more carefully read there in full than if I were to paraphrase or quote bits and pieces here. His letters are a portal into the mind of a great artist and a misunderstood man.
While his work was not recognized during his lifetime, as Vincent predicted back then, sooner or later sincere art finds its audience and is accepted by the art lovers. Vincent thought it might seem pretentious for him to talk about his art with such regard, but in hindsight, who can argue with him now? How ironic that his paintings now sell for millions of dollars when only a couple of them sold while he was alive.
If not for Theo saving the paintings and letters Vincent sent him, we might never have known this man and his tender heart. Art, weather it be paintings, poetry, music or any other form, must be expressed unconditionally. Even in the early years Vincent felt that art was for the artist to create, not to be influenced by the critics, dealers and gallery owners, or to be produced for the market. It isn’t that art should not be sold once it has been created; the dilemma arises when selling out in the formation of it.
jj
