Real Poetry (Why Not?)

Fate they say, is like the wind,
Before which we must stand.
And when it blows, it’s nice to know,
That you can hold her hand.

Because it’s a short, hard life that we must live,
And without someone special to give,
Your self, your heart, your love,
Life’s a damn hard thing to rise above.

So cherish what you have found,
And celebrate it on every single day.
Because too soon the wind will blow,
And we’ll all be swept away.

-

It’s a single cephalopodan eye,
Glistening, yet dull, devoid of life,
Its thoughtless gaze burns and tears through flesh.
It’s the color purple,
The color of beaten skin now bruised,
And of royalty, the oppressors.
It’s the stench of rotting corpses,
Of a meaningless and reasonless end.
Seen fair by the blind.
Proclaimed just by the mute.
With a final plea heard only by the deaf.
It’s a shrill cacophony,
The flautist unseen,
That grinds like the rough, wet tongue of the wolf as it devours the innocent lamb,
Its guardian, its savior, its shepherd unseen.

The jester’s verdict now law.

-

There once was a man from Nantucket,
And there was a hole in his bucket.
Although he did try,
The hole stayed awry,
So he decided to fuck it.

Couldn't help myself.