biostar
My blood is clean, but the devil's in me.
hope
these are my wistful endeavours,
my way to waste some time.
the odd skilful pleasure,
poetry is but emotive rhyme.
these are my wasteful evenings,
my lazy, languid drone.
the vague sentient feelings,
the relentless search for home.
the methods by which to hone my thoughts,
filtered through tear, and verse, and remorse,
i am Earth’s greatest liar,
i am no visionary messiah.
these are my adolescent hopes;
to keep the lust for literature,
to keep the hope of hope,
in impossible physical endeavours,
such as the perfect rhyme,
the opportune time,
as timeless as life may be.
as fluid, as shoddy, as life may be.
the love for a pad on which to press,
longing, lovingly longing for ink to mean something.
read by the right eyes,
written with a female hand,
in black ink,
on white. . .
black and white-
gives a ring of truth, no?
gives that touch of hope.
there’s that word again:
hope.
my way to waste some time.
the odd skilful pleasure,
poetry is but emotive rhyme.
these are my wasteful evenings,
my lazy, languid drone.
the vague sentient feelings,
the relentless search for home.
the methods by which to hone my thoughts,
filtered through tear, and verse, and remorse,
i am Earth’s greatest liar,
i am no visionary messiah.
these are my adolescent hopes;
to keep the lust for literature,
to keep the hope of hope,
in impossible physical endeavours,
such as the perfect rhyme,
the opportune time,
as timeless as life may be.
as fluid, as shoddy, as life may be.
the love for a pad on which to press,
longing, lovingly longing for ink to mean something.
read by the right eyes,
written with a female hand,
in black ink,
on white. . .
black and white-
gives a ring of truth, no?
gives that touch of hope.
there’s that word again:
hope.
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