BlacklightGuitarist
07-26-2004, 08:58 PM
This is, as stated above, a poem. I wrote it a few weeks ago, and I don't have a name for it, although I was thinking of calling is 'Bloody Long' because that probably sums it up....
There's a tip on the iceberg,
And they're saying there is hope,
There's a ship atop a black reef,
But they're saying they might cope.
Many whispers in the dark,
Many rainbows far too high,
Many wandering as nomads,
And a wanderer am I.
There's a black sky and a lighthouse,
But they still lie for me,
Coz I'm a rider and a thinker,
So that makes me anarchy.
Driving ever in the fast lane,
I'm the oil in the water,
I'm the evil coz I'm honest,
The honesty that you must slaughter.
There is blood all through the page,
Blood so salty from the tears,
Of a pilgrim lying broken,
Drowning out his wasted years.
Building houses on the sand,
Building dreams on fading sunsets,
Building me a life so bland,
A life of friends I call regret.
As the roof begins to plummet,
As the angels all take wing,
Is there no-one left to cry to?
There's no reason left to sing.
All the lights in the darkness,
Only fade into a dream,
And the blackhole spell I'm under,
Builds another thrill machine.
Empty words and empty papers,
Empty words from empty souls,
Enthused by far too little action,
Empty begging to be whole.
All the cards are on the table,
And the beds have all been made,
Sit around and share a fable,
That metaphors the life I crave.
But the fire lies so lifeless,
Like a highway in the night,
So we'll run around in circles,
As we have done all our life.
But they tell us there is hope,
As we're lying here alone,
Their advice falls on deaf ears,
Blind men drink on their own.
In the end, what is hope?
And how can hope be justified?
Coz all men still die alone,
Titanic's iceberg won't lie,
Judas never slept alright,
Alright.
There's a tip on the iceberg,
And they're saying there is hope,
There's a ship atop a black reef,
But they're saying they might cope.
Many whispers in the dark,
Many rainbows far too high,
Many wandering as nomads,
And a wanderer am I.
There's a black sky and a lighthouse,
But they still lie for me,
Coz I'm a rider and a thinker,
So that makes me anarchy.
Driving ever in the fast lane,
I'm the oil in the water,
I'm the evil coz I'm honest,
The honesty that you must slaughter.
There is blood all through the page,
Blood so salty from the tears,
Of a pilgrim lying broken,
Drowning out his wasted years.
Building houses on the sand,
Building dreams on fading sunsets,
Building me a life so bland,
A life of friends I call regret.
As the roof begins to plummet,
As the angels all take wing,
Is there no-one left to cry to?
There's no reason left to sing.
All the lights in the darkness,
Only fade into a dream,
And the blackhole spell I'm under,
Builds another thrill machine.
Empty words and empty papers,
Empty words from empty souls,
Enthused by far too little action,
Empty begging to be whole.
All the cards are on the table,
And the beds have all been made,
Sit around and share a fable,
That metaphors the life I crave.
But the fire lies so lifeless,
Like a highway in the night,
So we'll run around in circles,
As we have done all our life.
But they tell us there is hope,
As we're lying here alone,
Their advice falls on deaf ears,
Blind men drink on their own.
In the end, what is hope?
And how can hope be justified?
Coz all men still die alone,
Titanic's iceberg won't lie,
Judas never slept alright,
Alright.