They ask you to dance to the music,
when in fact you are the music,
you pluck the chords, you sing the harmony,
you move to the beat of your own drum.
You stomp, yell, and hum,
Don’t just dance to the music,
be the music.
Alarming phone call.
Come to the hospital.
Hand on the door,
You’re not allowed in.
A woman’s scream,
My beautiful daughter has been born.
Two people, no where and everywhere
Took her home,
A gift from love’s kiss.
The hole in my heart can’t be filled,
A pain so large, I can’t condone.
As I watch my daughter grow,
From a far away window.
The darkness of his bite.
What will become of those already dead?
Life would be different if he could stop seeing red.
The lust for blood, the rush for flesh,
one thing is alive, soon to be skinned
Can you feel it all going to thy head.
Sundown, Orange sky,
Sundown, dark with the moon above thy head.
Vampyre, Vampyre, awaken from your rest,
The devil inside begins to lust,
Yellow eyes raging, as the lungs brush off the dust.
Dark inside the tomb, where he rests,
Wondering what victim awaits in his sleeping slumber of snoozing ease
As the monsters underground tomb begins to creak,
The breath of life gives his heart a squeeze,
As the thunder is loudest at day break.
Like a lightning bolt from Zeus, It’s awake.
Vampyre, Vampyre, his blood lust will soon appease.
Close the windows, and lock the shutters,
In hope for protection, and of your friends and families safety,
The devil is loose and ever so hungry.
Dracula’s wings, shade the moon and take flight.
Up, Up, Up, into the sky, far from the naked eye,
the predator stalks its prey,
to turn the living and feast before the day,
the beast no longer inside,
It works all night for the hunt is timed,
the able bodies sleep in a state of sublime.
The windows shut, never stopped the crime.
The victim lays with dreams of sheep,
not aware of the wolf at the chimney sweep.
Coldness flows up their spine,
The blood sucker begins the dark climb.
Down the chimney like old saint nick,
The beast begins his descent.
While the hairs on her neck become erect,
the vampire feasts on the innocent neck.
Like a snake it coils up, its fangs clench,
the liquid life comes pouring out,
Gulping the blood as it becomes more alive.
Spreading like a disease, the poison takes hold
the headaches come first, for the sheep in the fold.
the spinning is next, followed by the tremendous ach,
the transformation is almost complete!
thirsting for a taste of awakenings.
The friends and family terrified of the pain,
Wondering when the sun will come out and dry the rain.
Skin cuts, as the sun begins to hurt.
Burning like a fire caught in a steady wind.
A slow steady breeze begins to blow,
at first the lungs expand and break.
the wings begin to grow,
the blood spills out like the depths of Satan’s splendor
The demon has been born inside her.
No where to run, and no where to hide,
The devil becomes stronger one at a time.
The hatchling is left alone,
The family and friends no longer condone.
At night she spreads her wings to take flight,
Looking for her master, owner, in spite.
Only becoming what the holy say “rotten,”
In the cavernous depths her soul has been forgotten.
The devil’s work, the war for life has begun,
the dead bodies pile, while the awaken stumble.
Wondrous claims, and chauvinist’s reign.
The blind are naïve,
without the idea of fight, A tremendous plague of fright,
When will the Vampyre ever surrender,
as he becomes the master, the darkness becomes the hereafter.
Will our souls be remembered or be a wisp on god’s laughter?
Love can only cure the vampire.
A new shadowed birth.
While the scourge of the underworld walk the earth,
unaware of the heaven that god has left them.
Large illustrious mountains that surround the basin
Rushing water flows through the streams, giving life to those who can see.
The dead can only hope to resurrect and mend.
Without the vampire’s bite, they will never see the skies above them.
Moss gathers around the old aspen tree,
one starts its desires to be a part of Eden,
The cosmos, we wander, like a lost puppy looking for its owner.
The amazing discoveries we have yet to discover.
Satan’s minions have ascended the illusion of time.
Will the vampires of the earth, become worthy of the astrological signs?
We will never know the beginning or end,
May we hold one another friends among friends.
Brother upon brother, and men among men.
Are destiny is the heavens, let us begin.
We were born,
To be or not to be,
Ripened from the rays of the sun,
and boiled from the particles in the ocean,
We are not to be diagnosed and put into a shell,
To be the rotting survivors of a dept driven country,
To silence the jazz of hundreds of feet marching towards income,
We were not born to be the pill popping, cigarette burning, yellow teethed nations, decaying in the light.
To be a softer sensitive mobile everlasting,
Bursting from the rockets of progression, and overcoming the candid fat programmed in our bodies.
Let ideas whisper through the ears like a wailing drum, and a screeching banshee.
We were to arrive without time, and without being crammed in a sock drawer never to shine,
Let the electricity flow through the inner sarcophagus,
Awaken past the dirt and worms,
To be the all seeing entity of Cronus, while the spirals of the universe continue to spin.
We were born,
without hands for gloves, and feet for shoes,
punctured through the embodiment of the gods,
and left to the moonlight, and to the day.
gobs of pollution sprayed through a hose unto the dead,
While young flood the streets looking for something to believe in.
The pharaohs of our time must smile upon us, we are their own private joke.
Children play with rubber diseases copulating one to another,
The playground never imagined to be without the stretching tall blades of grass.
To be locked in a cage, without antithetical beliefs like a copy machine with never ending ink.
we are not to be the lackadaisical demons jumping for television remotes,
The reverence of ants in a line have more relevance then us in our time.
We were born,
not to shout at those who appear weak, or demise the poor,
As an elephant never forgets, grief becomes what we are at best.
Do not stand upon the branches of trees with the fingers reached towards the clouds,
Be the branched fingers that shoot like a gun towards the red violet horizon.
We are to be happy, and let us be one,
Do not only dream, but become what we dream.
the chaos and destruction will poison our land, but we can be a different sort of man.
the man that we were born to be,
let us come out from the womb with our arms raised to the sky,
Bloodied, and pure like the lone wolf’s howl to the midnight stars.
We are, so that we can be.
fighting for us to all be free.
Is war the last possible creative act?
The proprietors of banks looking for gain against the weak and poor.
The building up of disagreement to the point of anger and rage,
Until feelings are no more, their importance goes up in flame.
Fire from buildings, smoke for clouds, and blood like water.
Evil? or possibly jazz music from Satan’s mouth. The night looks darkest in the light,
as the body toll raises from each day and night.
Music from the marching drones, the bombardment of homes, and the destruction of souls.
Fight, fight, fight, until the battle is won,
The destruction is creation through the mad mans tongue.
The end is nigh, the light is black, and the black is absent
Until the charred and boiled flesh of the poor crisps in the embers.
The blood boils, and the sanity unravels.
War creates the greatest of troubles.
The automobiles assemble with the tools of intuition,
Missiles and tanks, Motorbikes crank, with letters from loved ones whispering “come home.”
The cracking of bones and the fruition of stones.
The more people die, the same become born.
All apart of the assembly line entering our homes.
Wouldn’t mankind rather create then destroy?
Or is destruction apart of the creation moving in the motion of Fibonacci’s spirals?
One must understand that with life comes death, and with light comes dark,
the moon is nothing without the sun,
but one must die without being buried in a tomb.
All coming from the totalitarian creationism, for gain and wealth must start from one man’s debt.
One man, can be the cause of such great death.
The names are remembered through memorials, like a cold breeze on a November morning.
The flowers picked for respect, left at the graves of men that no longer exists.
And yet those flower’s death’s are all symbolic of the life’s that have been plucked.
Though existence is the greatest creation, War seems to be the last possible form of our extinction.
As September reigns, text books are made.
A short paragraph seems to justify the death of man.
As children study a date and time period of are forgotten lands.
Only to teach them that death is not to be feared,
As life is only a stepping stone to something larger, a beautiful unknown.
No, life is not to be forgotten, and the unknown will stay begotten.
Logically I assume that we must all live for today.
There are moments in time,
that I feel this DARK world
would rather have the appearance of love.
Then the actual SWELLING of the heart,
the mind BENDING mood,
The LOSS of breath,
the dance of courtship,
God! I hope I’m WRONG.
I can’t believe in a world that only cherishes the APPEARANCE of love,
instead of the real melodic bliss of it.
But the nights grow darker, and the wars continue to RAGE.
The hate begins to bubble like a BOILING pot over an unstoppable flame.
I might ask a QUERY?
Instead of all the dripping blood, the back stabbing pain, and window Shattering loss,
Can we not see a way to love?
In conclusion, I’m a HOPELESS romantic.
There is a frequency that we don’t see, a special vibrating color floating through our bodies,
Its elaborate ploy is not harmful, but evolving the way we see, the way we think.
Let us open the door and let it in, let it sink.
One can only hope to feel the enormous weight of color rushing through the heart,
The emotion is only the start.
The beating of a drum, rushing blood, driving the wheel to the mind
Like a loud catchy song, or a bond never to be broken between loved ones.
Two friends hand in hand can change the world, but without the frequency all is lost.
The special guidance of our subconscious, I pray touches all of us.
All of us have a great power, although the guilty keep the tides at bay.
Plaguing us with sex, violence, and the ever existence of the difference of race.
If we focus on the animal in all of us, we will never set a pace.
Never grow, never progress.
Open up the subconscious, turn off the ignorance because a great lie is that we are in bliss.
Monkey see Monkey do, is not a future I want for me or you.
May we walk a different road then our fathers,
Let us stumble, and stub our toes,
For it is only through failure that we will grow.
The Tragedy of the Muse By: Cam
A woman once told me that I am nothing more than anthropomorphic. Somehow I was not amused.
“We are daft and true, and fill our bodies with food. There is nothing else for us to do, you however are a hapless muse.” Spoken by delighted people, vigilant on sea wearing passage. The vessel we all sail on is only in turmoil when we are away from home on a hundred year voyage.
To the creatures and beasts who spew malice drudgery and fill the thoughts of our culture,
like a bucket on a rainy day. Enslaving with each drop, continuously overflowing until the rain stops.
Over-consumption becomes normality, I ask where are the hand cuffs?
Perhaps we can find something more to give life too and continue growing.
isn’t it true that all must need to consume? But how much consuming do we need to consume.
Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could make our own food? Much like photosynthesis for the Superman.
No more killing of animals, those that appear anthropomorphic much like myself.
Baaa! The sheep whimpers. May the people on the vessel echo the words eternally so that we will not forget the beauty of the sound when the sheep goes to the ground.
The artist is being eaten away,
and the muses are crying.
Fucking Blank Page
Twine wraps around my aging body,
too tight, the circulation is cut off. Purple skin.
Pulsating, beating, dead.
No embrace from the feel of something different.
I’m terrified of life, because life has chewed my soul down to rubble.
and I’m still alive.
So I sit, I won’t brave another attempt.
The storm, the one where Christ awoke and with a wave from his mighty hand it stopped, ceasing to rage on.
All the fisherman saved, while his legacy grew.
a different storm, My storm, capsized the boat and Christ never awoke.
He drowned. I drowned.
The twine around my throat, wrapped around until my body croaked.
The waves they crashed my lifeless limbs against the aging rocks.
Blood stained the sea, while sharks took bits from my abdomen.
And everyone wonders why I keep to myself. A hermit, without any notes.
Loner, Loser, trapped in a four walled sanctuary, television blaring.
Fucking blank page. My Legacy dead.
Laughter fills the great hall of my pulmonary.
Smoke rolls in like the great adversary.
Polluting and drugging the alveoli,
While the milk and coffee soothes the burn,
The thought of you is all I yearn.
Isn’t it enough that the young never die?
Or is it the crazy that live forever?
Either way young and crazy is a concoction that I’d like to try.
Wouldn’t it be marvelous to sign up for that kind of life.
Her words echoed through the prison bars of my mind.
It wouldn’t be life if you weren’t by my side…echoing, shaking, echoing through out time.
The children gather, as steam rises into the cold winter sky.
The trees grow, the birds sing, and the lilacs paint a surreal scene.
How nice it would be to stay young, How nice it would be to grow old.
The two differ, but are seen throughout time as a lie.
The universe is a blessing, and the beauty is unrelenting.
Life is our gift, and love is the prize.