So each hand handled another
And gave a hand to the other
On the handiness
Of their handiwork
Friday is my day
To do what I want
Friday is my day
To go out and haunt
To fly into the night
To dance
To do some sightseeing
To entrance
To seduce the pants
Off mortal beings
Or to stay in bed
And watch the moon
As a graveyard
Green fog
Envelops my tomb
Enough to to raise
Even the most
Dead of dead
That not even the brunt swacks
Of the biggest blunt attacks
Will keep me down for long
Cause Friday is a day
To flaunt
Friday is the day
To do what I want
That I’m still out there, writing god only knows?
Under a sydonym of course. My writing became too weird. Too strange. Too gross.
So if you stopped on by looking for a sign. Here it is:
I’M OUT THERE, WRITING, DOING MY WORST.
BWUEAHA
HA
HA
I beat my fist
into my face
I drive it down
like a mace
To mask the real
pain that I feel
To scare the fear
away from its meal
Can no longer drink
to make me brave
Can no longer smoke
to drive the ghost
to their grave
Stuck in a desert
with the sun
putting pressure
smashing me down
In the sea of sorrows
silently smothered
till I begin to drown
Dreading the power
to make it all still
Ironic twist,
that
that resolve
would cure me of my ills
And so my struggles
continue
with no end
As I pummel my Boulder
to the bend
I lose focus and
drift into sleep
To let it roll back
into the deep
To awaken and see
that it was back in it’s place
To laugh at my fury
that it had grown a new face
Still working on it but I like the shape so far.
I’m Tired
So I close my eyes
The Grim reaper appears
And it lingers
Its fingers
Atop my head
Touch the triggers
woven inside like thread
Pulling at the lines
Of Dread
Deities worshiped for attacks of deafening blast
Now just a superhero and a mass of noble gas
Thursday was Thor’s day, and Zeus or Jupiter’s
It depends, because the Romans liked to borrow
Nobody cares, it’s the past, we are in the future
we only care truly that Friday is tomorrow
Wednesday is the royal day
Because it has the most letters
It sits on top of the weekday
Laughing at all the beggars
“Celebrate”! He proclaims
“for making it over my hump
“Just remember.” He explains
“You will be back next week, you chumps!”
Monday is gone
Tuesday is here
How many more
Till Friday is near
Monday arrives, back once again
Workers trudge with a little disdain
Un-recovered from last weeks pain
To do little task, for paltry gains
chugging along worn tracks, an a old train
on a circular path, that runs in vain
That arrives on Monday, back once again
Whrandom Writings 