Thank you for visiting awickedcreature.blogspot.com.
If you've come in hopes of purchasing a copy of "A Wicked Creature," a collection of poems and compositions, then look no further than the "Buy Now" feature on the right side of the screen. It will take you to the PayPal website, where you can purchase your copy of "A Wicked Creature" today.
The cost is exactly $10 and shipping is FREE.
You must have a PayPal account in order to purchase.
Please feel free contact me if you have any questions.
Throughout the rest of this site, you'll find posts featuring various poems and compositions - some from the book and some not. Feel free to look around, if your heart desires.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Innocence Caught a Train
Innocence Caught a Train
The strap glides off my shoulder
We’ll regret this when we’re older
But my bed was never colder
As when I slept alone last night
And as I pull your body near me
I pray that you won’t fear me
For our minds aren’t thinking clearly
As our youthful lust takes flight
Your touch draws tremors in my skin
As I repress all thoughts of sin
But it’s a battle I cannot win
So why bother to try and fight
And with our bodies intertwined
I let my wondering mind unwind
In search of answers it will never find
There goes my wedding dress of white
The strap glides off my shoulder
We’ll regret this when we’re older
But my bed was never colder
As when I slept alone last night
And as I pull your body near me
I pray that you won’t fear me
For our minds aren’t thinking clearly
As our youthful lust takes flight
Your touch draws tremors in my skin
As I repress all thoughts of sin
But it’s a battle I cannot win
So why bother to try and fight
And with our bodies intertwined
I let my wondering mind unwind
In search of answers it will never find
There goes my wedding dress of white
Thursday, August 20, 2009
NEW BOOK!!! ON SALE NOW!!! UNNECESSARY EXCLAMATION POINTS!!!
Thank you for visiting awickedcreature.blogspot.com.
If you've come in hopes of purchasing a copy of "A Wicked Creature," a collection of poems and compositions, then look no further than the "Buy Now" feature on the right side of the screen. It will take you to the PayPal website, where you can purchase your copy of "A Wicked Creature" today.
The cost is exactly $10 and shipping is FREE.
You must have a PayPal account in order to purchase.
Please feel free contact me if you have any questions.
Throughout the rest of this site, you'll find posts featuring various poems and compositions - some from the book and some not. Feel free to look around, if your heart desires.
If you've come in hopes of purchasing a copy of "A Wicked Creature," a collection of poems and compositions, then look no further than the "Buy Now" feature on the right side of the screen. It will take you to the PayPal website, where you can purchase your copy of "A Wicked Creature" today.
The cost is exactly $10 and shipping is FREE.
You must have a PayPal account in order to purchase.
Please feel free contact me if you have any questions.
Throughout the rest of this site, you'll find posts featuring various poems and compositions - some from the book and some not. Feel free to look around, if your heart desires.
Friday, May 29, 2009
A sad one...
Cottonmouth
Death, o' mine conqueror
Purveyor of my sin
Please sit a while and chat with me
'Til I am whole again
Sorrow is but wasted thought
When left to fend alone
But blessed with proper nourishment
Becomes the perfect home
My patience grows much shorter now
Much like these winter days
Bundled up, but cold within
I am the boring blaze
I pray for my deliverance
To take me from this shame
And enter me through gates of Hell
Turning once to place my blame
I can stand that beep no more
The dripping now must end
Though my mouth can't say
My eyes convey
"Please pull the plug, my friend."
Death, o' mine conqueror
Purveyor of my sin
Please sit a while and chat with me
'Til I am whole again
Sorrow is but wasted thought
When left to fend alone
But blessed with proper nourishment
Becomes the perfect home
My patience grows much shorter now
Much like these winter days
Bundled up, but cold within
I am the boring blaze
I pray for my deliverance
To take me from this shame
And enter me through gates of Hell
Turning once to place my blame
I can stand that beep no more
The dripping now must end
Though my mouth can't say
My eyes convey
"Please pull the plug, my friend."
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
We Rose at Dawn
We rose at dawn. Actually, it was more like 9:30. But dawn sounds more dramatic. Damn. I’m already off to an inaccurate start. Let me start over.
We rose at 9:30. AM. Shoot. That doesn’t work.
We rose earlier than in days past. Eager. Anticipating. Yeah, that’s it. That works.
With everyone up and ready, however, we realized 9:30 was way too early. We could’ve waited until 11 AM or so. But where’s the drama in 11? I mean, that’s like brunch time on Sundays. Brunch is not dramatic.
I’ve really messed things up here, haven’t I? This is not how I wanted to start this. In fact, this is pretty much the opposite of how I wanted to start this. I wanted danger. I wanted excitement. I wanted intrigue. Now, it seems, all I have is brunch. Where the hell did I go wrong?
Screw it.
We rose at dawn. Eager. Anticipating. Our senses sharp. Our focus keen. Before us lay a mission. A dangerous mission. An exciting mission. An intriguing mission. We were the select few. Plucked from our everyday lives to participate in, nay, to helm this amazing endeavor.
Okay, I’m lying. I have totally derailed here.
My mom wanted me to go to the grocery store for some yams.
There you have it. In all its glory. No danger. No excitement. No intrigue. Just some candied yams that she forgot to buy when she had gone to the store the previous day to stock up for our traditional Thanksgiving Day feast.
So now I was called into service on this brisk Thursday morning. The sounds of pots and pans clanging and crashing filled the air as the smell of roasting turkey enveloped the house. No one really ever ate the turkey. It was there for Mama Jenkins. Mama Jenkins wanted turkey.
“You eat turkey on Thanksgiving,” she’d say. “You don’t eat ham.”
The rest of us ate ham.
Honey-baked ham. With crisp, crunchy, brown-sugary edges. Oh, those glorious ham edges. Edges that, if I may be honest, have always fooled me into thinking that I enjoy honey-baked ham more than I actually do. I mean, the meat’s good. Don’t get me wrong. But I’ve always put honey-baked ham up on some misbegotten culinary pedestal as the prime example of what my tummy craves when it comes to big dinners. But I think it’s those edges that clouded my vision all these years. I admit today, for the first time, that honey-baked ham is not the end-all, be-all food dish that I have always claimed it be.
It feels good to get that off my chest.
I’m really off track now. Yams is the direction I wanted to go with this. But alas, I’m careening into diatribes on honey-baked ham, for God sake.
Onto to the yams…
We rose at 9:30. AM. Shoot. That doesn’t work.
We rose earlier than in days past. Eager. Anticipating. Yeah, that’s it. That works.
With everyone up and ready, however, we realized 9:30 was way too early. We could’ve waited until 11 AM or so. But where’s the drama in 11? I mean, that’s like brunch time on Sundays. Brunch is not dramatic.
I’ve really messed things up here, haven’t I? This is not how I wanted to start this. In fact, this is pretty much the opposite of how I wanted to start this. I wanted danger. I wanted excitement. I wanted intrigue. Now, it seems, all I have is brunch. Where the hell did I go wrong?
Screw it.
We rose at dawn. Eager. Anticipating. Our senses sharp. Our focus keen. Before us lay a mission. A dangerous mission. An exciting mission. An intriguing mission. We were the select few. Plucked from our everyday lives to participate in, nay, to helm this amazing endeavor.
Okay, I’m lying. I have totally derailed here.
My mom wanted me to go to the grocery store for some yams.
There you have it. In all its glory. No danger. No excitement. No intrigue. Just some candied yams that she forgot to buy when she had gone to the store the previous day to stock up for our traditional Thanksgiving Day feast.
So now I was called into service on this brisk Thursday morning. The sounds of pots and pans clanging and crashing filled the air as the smell of roasting turkey enveloped the house. No one really ever ate the turkey. It was there for Mama Jenkins. Mama Jenkins wanted turkey.
“You eat turkey on Thanksgiving,” she’d say. “You don’t eat ham.”
The rest of us ate ham.
Honey-baked ham. With crisp, crunchy, brown-sugary edges. Oh, those glorious ham edges. Edges that, if I may be honest, have always fooled me into thinking that I enjoy honey-baked ham more than I actually do. I mean, the meat’s good. Don’t get me wrong. But I’ve always put honey-baked ham up on some misbegotten culinary pedestal as the prime example of what my tummy craves when it comes to big dinners. But I think it’s those edges that clouded my vision all these years. I admit today, for the first time, that honey-baked ham is not the end-all, be-all food dish that I have always claimed it be.
It feels good to get that off my chest.
I’m really off track now. Yams is the direction I wanted to go with this. But alas, I’m careening into diatribes on honey-baked ham, for God sake.
Onto to the yams…
Monday, January 19, 2009
The Brink
The Brink
Be still
Wonder
What chance have I?
From under
So eloquent
So dear
Is it cold to touch?
I fear
May grace
Be instilled
May dreams
Be fulfilled
Walk on proudly
Eyes keen
Senses sharp
Dead
No in between
Lest we all question
A greater design
Have our minds stopped wandering?
Or was I left behind?
I once moved
Within your circles
Without so much
As a leery eye
Now I’m no longer welcome
Passed over for the young
The spry
Heavens open
Drops descend
My surroundings soaked
I miss my friend
It is so simple
And so clean
So effortless
And pristine
Bladed gently
Against one’s skin
Crimson trickles
I miss my friend
My eyelids struggle
I feel my teeth shrink
These edges I have walked
But never past the brink
A brain argues with itself
A slow hum becomes a din
Roaring gloriously now
And still
I miss my friend
All the years
All the tears
All the parts
Torn asunder
Leave me here
Leave me dear
But please
Be still
Wonder
Be still
Wonder
What chance have I?
From under
So eloquent
So dear
Is it cold to touch?
I fear
May grace
Be instilled
May dreams
Be fulfilled
Walk on proudly
Eyes keen
Senses sharp
Dead
No in between
Lest we all question
A greater design
Have our minds stopped wandering?
Or was I left behind?
I once moved
Within your circles
Without so much
As a leery eye
Now I’m no longer welcome
Passed over for the young
The spry
Heavens open
Drops descend
My surroundings soaked
I miss my friend
It is so simple
And so clean
So effortless
And pristine
Bladed gently
Against one’s skin
Crimson trickles
I miss my friend
My eyelids struggle
I feel my teeth shrink
These edges I have walked
But never past the brink
A brain argues with itself
A slow hum becomes a din
Roaring gloriously now
And still
I miss my friend
All the years
All the tears
All the parts
Torn asunder
Leave me here
Leave me dear
But please
Be still
Wonder
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