Category Archives: Poetry

Shit adds up at the bottom

My compassion is broken now. My will is eroded, and my desire stolen and it makes me feel ugly. I’m on my knees and burning. My piss and moans are the fuel that set my head on fire. So smell my soul burning.

I’m broken, looking up to see the enemy. I have swallowed the poison you feed me… but I survive on it, and it leaves me guilt fed, hatred fed, weakness fed.. and I feel ugly, and dead inside. Shit adds up at the bottom.

You’ve left me no choice but to go inside and rebuild what’s broken. Too much, too far, too late to lie down now. I must arm myself to fight you by making weapons out of my imperfections. It’s all I have left. There’s no other choice.

I’m shameless, nameless, nothing, and no one now. But my soul must be iron for my fear is naked. I’m naked and fearless. But I’m dead inside. You see.. shit adds up, now I’m dead inside.

Hatred, weakness, and guilt keep me alive at the bottom.

~TOOL

A Meditation on the Mind of a Host

By Chou Tung (Snow Reid)

Happiest of all are the guests
Sorriest are the servants
Half happy half sorry is the host.

Chunk upon chunk of meat,
Goblet after goblet of wine,
sent tumbling down their gullets,
Exhilarating to death the guests,
Worrying to death the host,
And tiring to death the servants.

Talking and joking,
Shaking hands, exhausting words;
Time flows by swiftly.
Does the host do all this just to please his guests,
or could it be that … Continue reading A Meditation on the Mind of a Host

Running to Paradise

by William Butler Yeats

As I came over Windy Gap
They threw a halfpenny into my cap,
For I am running to Paradise;
And all that I need do is to wish
And somebody puts his hand in the dish
To throw me a bit of salted fish:
And there the king is but as the beggar.

My brother Mourteen is worn out
With skelping his big brawling lout,
And I am running to Paradise;
A poor life do what he can,
And though he keep a dog and a gun,
A serving maid and a serving man:
And there the king is but as the beggar.

Poor men have grown to be rich men,
And rich men grown to be poor again,
And I am running to Paradise;
And many a darling wit’s grown dull
That tossed a bare heel when at school,
Now it has filled an old sock full:
And there the king is but as the beggar.

The wind is old and still at play
While I must hurry upon my way,
For I am running to Paradise;
Yet never have I lit on a friend
To take my fancy like the wind
That nobody can buy or bind:
And there the king is but as the beggar.