deepundergroundpoetry.com
Symptoms of Syndrome
Senses seem to send away the purpose of the feeling
Burned so many times by rhymes it seems the words are peeling
Screaming in my brain so loud, I may just crack the ceiling
Evermore, we swim for shore and hide from thoughts and feelings
Reveling in peddling, a Flintstoones car away from home
Every brick I've used to build my happy house, the neighbors build with chrome
Even if I earned another income, worked another shift
I'd still feel empty, earthless, without purpose, all for nought without my gift
Singing in my cerebellum siren songs for verbal praise
Living lingual leisure in a secret spot I've never seen
Speakers blaring scary thinking, every thought belongs to me
Hearing, fearing, pioneering ways to make the skin secede
Needle pricks and beetle clicks are blaring every time I bleed
Summation of events contend that no one saw what no one did
No one is a vile violent virulent villan, now look what you did
Between each fallen rain drop sings a symphony, listen dear
If you miss it, I'd be remiss not to tell you “have another hear”
As notes climb, I sense another signal, there's another near
Light flashes and cracks from above the sun and makes the airs intentions clear
Segments of centuries played back through melted negatives
Edges burned, intent returned, resent confirmed, respect unearned
The pipes are creakin, hear them weaken every time I bend the verb
Cryptkeeper speaking, coffins reaking, an epidemic spread the germ
Drinking emerald pools from a cup of lead saturated with wood and worm
My peripheral pinnacle pasted with pictures of sunsets bleeding in puddle trees
Drinkning shades of grey like lonely housewives mulling over sultry subtleties
Focus a fulcrum and I'm helter skelter, I'm tipping the scales and my weight is welter
Poetry my mistress? Not once. I've never felt her.
I just pray for a broken levvy on the molten moat of frenzy, so I may bath in the boiling
swelter
Let me rub my temples raw and paint utopia on classroom walls
Philosophy the likes of which is captured in the bathroom stalls
Burned so many times by rhymes it seems the words are peeling
Screaming in my brain so loud, I may just crack the ceiling
Evermore, we swim for shore and hide from thoughts and feelings
Reveling in peddling, a Flintstoones car away from home
Every brick I've used to build my happy house, the neighbors build with chrome
Even if I earned another income, worked another shift
I'd still feel empty, earthless, without purpose, all for nought without my gift
Singing in my cerebellum siren songs for verbal praise
Living lingual leisure in a secret spot I've never seen
Speakers blaring scary thinking, every thought belongs to me
Hearing, fearing, pioneering ways to make the skin secede
Needle pricks and beetle clicks are blaring every time I bleed
Summation of events contend that no one saw what no one did
No one is a vile violent virulent villan, now look what you did
Between each fallen rain drop sings a symphony, listen dear
If you miss it, I'd be remiss not to tell you “have another hear”
As notes climb, I sense another signal, there's another near
Light flashes and cracks from above the sun and makes the airs intentions clear
Segments of centuries played back through melted negatives
Edges burned, intent returned, resent confirmed, respect unearned
The pipes are creakin, hear them weaken every time I bend the verb
Cryptkeeper speaking, coffins reaking, an epidemic spread the germ
Drinking emerald pools from a cup of lead saturated with wood and worm
My peripheral pinnacle pasted with pictures of sunsets bleeding in puddle trees
Drinkning shades of grey like lonely housewives mulling over sultry subtleties
Focus a fulcrum and I'm helter skelter, I'm tipping the scales and my weight is welter
Poetry my mistress? Not once. I've never felt her.
I just pray for a broken levvy on the molten moat of frenzy, so I may bath in the boiling
swelter
Let me rub my temples raw and paint utopia on classroom walls
Philosophy the likes of which is captured in the bathroom stalls
Published 25th Aug 2012
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25th Aug 2012 7:54am
If your writing from the heart, which myself being no real critic does believe....I have been around awhile and still feel the scales impossbile to balance to my liking. I like your poetry but love the hair. In case your wondering, im not being sarcastic. Good poem.
