Category : Poems

Sub Category : N/A

If I am imperative to time,
is it still true for one to say only time can tell?
Is time really meaningful to you
when you're a ghost locked in a shell?
'Quoth the raven' Edgar Allen Poe once told
His very soul and very heart are put forth into his work and until death;
many artists like him, alike never urgently have wealth nor worth.
His death is still a mystery and with a homie buried
now the tedious rambling man makes history.
I had ideas of what if the devil had stole his soul when he was zoetically cognizant;
which made him an excellent existing extant
giving many the key to their inner conquerships and accomplishments.
Though the devil may steal souls; we too plagiarize fragments of souls
from ones that influence us through time to fuel our own as time perceives to flow.
O then they are to be sold to the ones claiming to be the highest bidder.
Yes I know how this sentence seems but the idea is consumingly bitter.
To the ones selling to the highest bidder
you're the ones I may join so if I die I may not be old.
The cold college life seeks to seep through the boundless boundaries
and trickle its way down to the present. I still creep hesitant.
Those who commence to boldly walk forward into the abyss of nothingness
I commend you by tenfold because you followed what you were told.
Even though he's gone, it still rings in my ears;
stands out like a bright Marigold-
'Quoth the raven' Poe once awake once told.
What does it really mean?
I think it means that the Mephistopheles
is in fact a diffidently senseless fiend.
Time is something that takes time.
The very rhythm of a rhyme should fit the right style
to be hit at the perfect precise moment in a precise time.
But what if you don't know how to use time. This oh so precious thing called time.
If you wrote a poem without second guessing a word
do the message and meaning really interlace, interlock, or intertwine?
Thats why its so easy to just go on with life without thinking.
That's probably why you see young and grown men and women alike smoking and drinking.
Look into my eyes and you know when I'm telling the truth;
Hollow lives full and rambunctious desire throw money in the fire to soothe their limited youth
for it has no meaning for the meaning we find could come before, during, or after
we decide to throw away our lives for the nine to five.
This poem is nothing more than a prose; just something to get my perspective of my mind
to integrate into yours but your mind doesn't have to partake.
It's ok it might take some time.
A poem that just seemingly has no meaning?
It's impossible.
What's the subject of the understanding?
I'm sorry if I bothered with such broken literature
so I'm just gonna ask one question.
The one question I have may or may not be important but
has a relevance to the experiential apocryphon of time
which has no particular design but it is quite revealing...
How are you really feeling?