Favorite Meal

That rough feel,

The slight resistance to my touch,
The rounded sides
The crossed brands
The squishy,
Coarse
Interior.
The grinding feel of seasoning
When you run your hand across it,
This is my meal.

What a savory smell,

That sharp stab
Of peppery delight,
The cool,
Soden
Earthy tones.
That hint of metal,
With a dash of salt and pepper,
This is my meal.

The juicy delight,

Given from that first bite.
The metalit tang of blood,
The light hint of salt
The soft,
Flavorful taste
Of meat.
With the primal touch
Of raw.
This is my meal.

With the vigorous bartenders,

And half-drunk patrons,
The rickety stools
And the rough,
dirty floor.
With shelves of liquor
Tiered to the ceiling,
And pints of beer
passed around by all,
This is my meal.
The cacophony of people
The slam of empty glasses
The laughter of all around
The rattling of mixers
The clash of forks of plates
The seemingly soft,
Quiet,
Ignored games
On tv,
This is my meal
Metaphors
To understand this world
You must first accept that
Cats are pigs with soul,
Schools are religions without preachers,
And a rose is hair with thorns.
If you first don't understand this,
then how can you
Call yourself aware
Of this world
When you haven't
Even woken to its principles.
Metaphors and Similes
A platform is as sturdy as steel,
Yet as fragile as a vase,
A package, as quick as the wind,
Yet unmoving as a sloth.
A resident is as helpless as a baby,
But as commanding as an officer.
A bar is a party,
But also a solemn dance.
A giant, a hero,
So quickly turned villain
And stress, a general,
That falls to common sense.
And what do a vase, a sloth, a commanding officer, a solemn dance, a villain, and common sense have in
common,
Jack shit
Time
Oh, how endless is this
This feeling,
Knowing i am but a speck amongst the backdrop
This crushing hopeless feeling
Defining it is impossible
The span of its chasm,
Uncrossable.
For it defines us,
For it laughs at our triumphs
And raises our young.
For this unspeakable
Unimaginable
Utterly undefinable
Thing is…

I waited
On the roadside I waited,
Such a dolorus task waiting is,
But it is a task that I designed,
So there I stood
With my cloak hanging from my shoulders,
Waiting.
Days passed
Then weeks
Then months
Then years
Yet still I waited,
And on that day, years after I had surmised
The fated traveler arrived
Humbled by disease,
Clothed in a dress of gossamer
As she continued onwards
I followed and stopped when she looked wary,
And offered her my carriage
And began our eternal journey

Oh- if he could see

That dog, that blind dog.
I wonder what he feels, being surrounded by death
If he can tell where he is just by the scent of decay,
If he can tasted the many tears shed
If he can feel the weight of longing
If he can hear the lost cries
If he could see,
Oh- if he could see these weeping willows
These barren paths
Those decrepit rocks
That drunken fence
That ominous gate
Those lonely pebbles
Oh- if he could see
Would he ignore the sorrow
Would he reverently watch
Would he chase the shadows
Would he leap the headstones
Oh- how i wish he could see,
This wondrous,
Depressing,
Crushing,
Holy place.