Biography of Frank Macias
Well my name is Frank and I was raised in a place called San Dimas. I enjoy making music(playing guitar, bass, harmonica, and more to come...) and i write songs. Im going to a school named Bonita high school but i don't think im enjoying this experience very much. For some odd reason i dont like being treated like a student.. i like being treated like a person..
Well anyways, im kinda new at writing poetry.. iv only been writing for one or two years so if you see anything i could improve i would really enjoy to hear your commentary. oh and if you see something you like it would be very kind if you complemented me because i am still unsure if im any good or not.
Frank Macias's Works:
The books are still in my head...
Frank Macias Poems
Weary wanderers wanders to the west Pilgrims punish the puny pest Seek the snake that slithers slowly little lice only licks the lonely
Motion Of Pulling The Fire Alarm
Feverish children running with joy All but one had fun, a little boy Left on his mind was the tiny farm And the motion of pulling the fire alarm
My Nice Little Patch Of Grass
The nice little patch of grass on my lawn Is always there for me, day through dawn Knowing it will be there I will sing this song Happiness never did anyone wrong
The young mind riddled with questions is pregnant with answers. For if one doesn't jump off the ledge of guilt, grief, or suffrage then how will one know what is or isn't positive? Following the latest trends for answers will lead to a premature ignorant baby.
The Good Guy
The wonders of children I enjoy Especially the skin of a little boy Girls aren't usually the ones for me Maybe because its the way they pee...
My mind is lost, My mind is found Empty pills, Fill my mind Looking for purpose, Like a hound Nothing is found, or too much to find
Amazingly He Never Bled
Many things left unsaid When the man lost his head Then his head smacked the floor This only closed more of his doors
My mind is lost, My mind is found
Empty pills, Fill my mind
Looking for purpose, Like a hound
Nothing is found, or too much to find
Secrets seem like the only way
Slowly seems to cut me in half
Clouding my mind into every day
Seems like my hands have nothing to craft