Skip to main content

One Glass Too Many

One glass too many|

Better yet one cup too empty|

Overflowing wine burst from the edge|

The taste is bittersweet|

The outcome is delusion in the sheets|

Mass confusion in the streets|

The outcome is a body shattered|

Broken bones scattered across the street|

Breathe with an infected lung|

From the vision's inability to see the road ahead|

Abstract images counteract the reality of the beast|
Labels:

Comments

  1. DanielaAugust 2, 2011 at 1:32 PM

    I am so jealous. You are great at writing poetry! I really liked this one :)

    ReplyDelete
  2. Ed VillatoroAugust 2, 2011 at 6:32 PM

    Aww thank you, yeah I like how it came out as well. And don't worry I'm sure you can illustrate beautiful poetry. Just let ideas flow, they will come :)

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

High-Class Noon

I turn my tongue green with a pint of mint listerine. A blistered knee. Eyes bleed from the passing of a centipede. Don't stand close to me I erupt in a millisecond, conforming into a catholic priest. I stand high underground. The sounds of an orchestra swimming in the mud with the sounds of an orca. I boast I had it all, but now I can only hope that they don't take away my last adderalls. Don't test with a number 2 pencil, give me a red pen so I can pencil him in. And they call me a backpacker. Hike up your mountain till I find the erupting fountain and go for a deep sea dive, only to come back to land in the space of a spaceship, blasting off with my sins. High-class noon, blast off past the moon with a fork and a spoon, I went too far; now I need to rewind so I can get my piece of the cake, in a cheesy plate. Its an arms race to the finish line, my A.K. is too heavy to glide across, I could only make it past half of the track. I had to make a pit stop and grab my Tech ...
6 comments
Next Page »

Trapped in Dissolution

Her ability to feel no longer lingers from her inner chest| Replaced with an emotionless sense of the world around her steps| Instead of looking up she sees only the ground| Not the faces which once laughed and smiled| She built her own road to walk on| But nothing in the background| No grass| No trees| Only a deep black screen| Static hides the image| I once dreamt of where she would end| On a road with no hope| A slope hill heading down towards the abyss| I once heard laughter and joy created from those lips| Anger took her soul and wrapped itself around her shoulders never to let go|
6 comments
Next Page »

Excavating Thoughts

Excavating thoughts purge the deep swell in an abundant forest filled with catacombs| Think not of what to say| Rather| Think of formations and placement for your words| The expression expedite hidden phrases| A realm in multitude of scenic shades| Which fill stains and covers from edge to edge| Put in motion a rehearsed visual| Captured for later interpretation and judgement| A glory outdrew| A painting foreseen inside that thought| Once emerged from a projector working its way from picture to sound| From sound to dialects| From dialects to expression| From expression to memorized interpretations or unsightly inked writings| Exclusive to emotional reincarnations| Contemplation and relegation amount heavy loads| To collapse the foundation in which laid heavy groundwork| Obscure water waves regulate the sounds of prejudgments| Before seen in the obscurity of the themes| Awake from the thankfulness of your mind| And enter into the depths of the b...
7 comments
Next Page »