Insane Prattling
The ancient cliff dwellings burn,
The cast of characters change,
Waiting for my spirit to turn,
And the means to all rearrange,
The gambler walks far away,
Deep into the frosted night air,
They said once his name was Trey,
But no one really does care.
Underhill, who the hell is that,
Another poet with simplistic rhymes,
I hear his brain now went splat.
Just another victim of the times.
The raven flies south for the sun,
The graveyard closed for repairs.
All of the tales he has spun,
Yet still nobody stops and cares
Feathers from the rotted rooster,
Thrown back into his face again,
Needing some sort of spirit booster,
To lift him away from all his sin.
The night calls out to him in pain.
For he is at a loss for what to do.
Shown to him that he is insane,
The misery fills him through.
Writing of Vampires and evil,
Has effected his fragile mind.
All the unsalvageable people,
Truly has made him go blind.
The banshee calls him to come,
And give his spirit unto her.
Spiritually feeling so numb.
Everything now is a blur.
This downward slope sliding,
Started so many years ago.
With no one to do his confiding
This images that he doth show.
Molestation so very young,
Both man and woman alike.
Another song he’s left unsung,
At another open mic.
He shares nothing at all,
For he feels that it isn’t right.
To give in Satan’s call.
And share that horrific sight.
Bodies bloodied and bruised.
As a child and adult as well.
Two aspects have been fused,
Within his mortal shell.
Hiding in the night writing his lines,
Never wanting the truth to be known.
All of his mental land mines,
None of which are to be shown
You ask him to tell a tale,
He will share a line or two.
While hidden references sail,
Truth hidden all through.
Quote his word back to him,
It flatters yet enrages.
At times thing can get grim,
As he fills up yet more pages
Pain and betrayal once more,
When the rooster defiled his bride.
Reminding of his days before.
Tearing him up inside.
Where the hell did that come from?
Memories rush in to confuse.
More nights of being too dumb,
More substances he will abuse.
Tears hidden in the night,
Tears hidden in the now.
More flows as he doth write,
Nothing they change somehow.
The great white land shark,
Patrolling the inland seas.
Forever to leave its mark
On his hands and knees
Fear of crowds and being alone,
Though he faces his fears well.
Writing them out to be shown,
Maybe someday they will sell.
Monies invested in him and his word,
Speaking his poems unto the masses,
Volumes of work Vampires and Birds
Unto all socioeconomic classes.
But time has come to close this one,
And post all that this poet has said.
Retiring to his place away from the sun,
And to put this Vampire to bed.
By JToddUnderhill
© 2008 JToddUnderhill
(All rights reserved)
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