people say

so much for growing up so
much for quiet nights
the books i've read are all the same and
in the end
it never stops
wrinkled fingers on blurry faces and
the ink on my tongue is dead


i guess it's what happens when screaming streets
call out your name in vain
and bottles of whiskey in whispering tunes
can't help to drown the pain



Poetry by summerbreeze
Read 871 times
Written on 2006-08-21 at 15:18

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Zachary P. B.
the ink on my tongue is dead...

wow, when we cannot fabricate or illuminate we are dead in a way...

and bottles of whiskey in whispering tunes
can't help to drown the pain

as we drown ourselves in memories that haunt and kill and torture. oh sweet release, where are you?

very thought-provoking.

z
2006-08-25



A great piece written....welcome to the bay!!!!kissess
2006-08-24


D'Antay Web
there are times when the words of a poet speaks simply rolls off the tongue and evapourates into an aura of air and stimulated emotion;
'bottles of whiskey in whispering tunes' -
A great line, i felt. For me this captured a sensory moment; a mercurial nature of seductive spirits. Keep up the soul searching and writing, you're on to something great. peace and blessings.
2006-08-21