Simple To Be
I try and listen to others,
the messed up generations,
I sit and talk, wear what's
left of my heart, on my sleeve,
because I want to trust this difficult
sense of unworthiness that I too
the world is not owned by anybody,
and I think a lot of people are just
and that goes right up, to the top!
there is no king in this kingdom
nor is there a queen,
royal is not the same as noble,
my heart bleeds when the whole
beautiful possibility opens itself up,
when I am alive and nowhere to be seen,
but by myself I feel certain origins,
of all people who have trampled this
lonely earth, and passed on,
a quintessence of blood,
and if my heart beats too hard, or I die,
or everything is dust, in the blink of an eye,
I need to scratch my tongue, taste blood,
urges soaked in spittle, i don't know sometimes
where to go - next?
why does hope, melt like wax? ,
Death I'd say your looking much thinner today....
what was that - your going to have a panic attack?
why despair, when there's absolutely nothing there...
that's the vacuum...
fear always finds another way in,
overturns what stability is left,
time - you beautiful rotten old thing,
always waiting to define me,
can't get my words out,
and my reason is spilled,
I push imaginary other me's off cliffs,
hurl them in front of trucks,
swallow whole chunks of vertigo!
yes the hieroglyph 'fear',
must know me...
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Comments about this poem (Simple To Be by GRANT FRASER )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
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