Love Poems

The poems I made here are love poems (the type of stuff you would give to your girlfriend on valentine’s day) :)

Black Tower

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The black tower, black tower; standing like an infinite spire.

Unable to tote what’s beneath it–unwilling to be made low–

Dead tower blowing in the breeze. A prison disguised as a castle; black tower, black tower—

And what is silence? Is it shadow?

Is it a mute maiden? Is it she? She and her silence?

If she is dead on the inside, then lo, the tower must be worse.

By a thousand leagues, for the halls are traversed, by a lifeless creed–

“I follow the black and white checkered floor tiles”, says she—black tower, black tower—

Black tower for the inmates, insane and inept, dutiful and doomed.

“I spiral down staircases.” further into the darkness say her—black tower dweller, all alone in the dark.

This nightmare is ever changing, and endless, it is a death sentence—Memento Mori—remember me; Death.

Unlocked by fear; the fear of us. We all, one and each, spiraling down.

The tower is filled with vagabond clutter; dressers, and dark doings. The black tower of rot; yet useful to dwell in.

Is it black tower of darkness, or black tower of harkness?

Standing like a poniard shoved in a bleeding brown arm—brown was the earth, poniard standing in the ruins.

Black poniard. Nowheresville incarnate—forever to sway and stand—

And this crippling ungodly loneliness is despair—returning unto me like a rubber band—

The Chaos Princess

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And her eyes are glazed, staring forth with a blank stare from the abyss.

She is mindless, she is bliss.

Unable to fathom her own mind; or her thoughts.

She is crazy, with a pretty face.

Unable to stretch it to form emotions, and yet her body is an oasis.

Aimelessly drifting forth, unable to coherently speak, for too lost in mayhem.

She is the east; the chaos of a hurricane, and her soul the west; a tornado forming.

She is unable to be whole, her own mind won’t let her.

Curvy from head-to-toe; inevitable.

She and Her Grace; Insane.

Her just walking leads to destruction; blissful and cumbersome, babbling in vain.

Every step she takes, grants her pain.

Dahmer folk incarnate; her thoughts are knives, stabbing her own skull—trying to get out.

Her hair tossed on ends; she is coming undone.

The Chaos Princess, the madness unyielding. This way and that way.

The same way skin rips to expose the dandelion yellow fat, so too does her mind, to expose the absurdist darkness.

She who feeds both wolves; naked and drifting. Which way is up?

Both Jesus and the devil shouts within her; she is the bear-trap, maiming men.

She is the catalyst; a contagion unto the first borns, and only the beginning—

Maybe she’ll see me again

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When I see you, I’ll say hi—it’ll shine when it shines; the moonlight.

The nose crinkles across her face when she smiles, in the San Diego sunlight.

Brown hair flows, like elven rows. And the heat from the summer is a heat from the summer’s glow.

And when I see her again, I’ll know when I know.

For it is her face; that is the west—far removed from the south.

She resides in the west kingdom; unknown to the forested over yonder—I’ll bother when I bother.

Love is a glass vase; it shatters upon the ground, when it is put to waste.

It never stays, it always fades—-it’ll decay when it decays.

And who is to blame? The man who forgets her grace—drinking alcohol to ignore her memories?

Or is it her—the phantom unsung.

Sometimes I wonder if my dreams are the real world, and the real world my boring dreams.

In my dream, I see about a hundred people strong; smiling along. Real clothes on them, with the detail in their hair. Their multitude of faces, like PVP on a minecraft server, there are millions of people here.

Beautiful dreams with girlfriends and kisses, only to wake up alone, in a mundane existence.

This place behaves as though, it forgot the plot.

What happens next? Does this world really end?

What once was 12 am, has become 1 am—now it’s virtually 3 am; me trying to squeeze every ounce of the day that begane—trying to find a belonging. Trying to erase the shame.

But whatever. Alas. It’s all in the past.

As for today, maybe she’ll see me one day—

Can You Hear the Soul on a Man?

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Can you hear the Soul on a man?

Gathering in the winds?

the soul, the soul—black soul deep down in the soul?

Like a midnight rider.

Come forth to ascend—motherland! motherland!

A child, a daughter, a father.

Holding hands in wonder.

For black was the color of her hair, and brown the eyes—

deep stoic ancestor eyes—it’s the same color as her skin.

Brown like the spear handle, thrown aloft.

Brown like the sword-hilt, carried aloft.

Can you hear the soul on a man? And if so, what color is the sound?

Is it orange like the sunset a’glow? Does it glow orange from the soul?

Red, like passion, or maybe blood?

White like cyan? Or yellow like a lion?

And what does the soul sound like? Is it jazz, smooth and chaotic?

Is it brass? Loud and heard?

Or is it a violin, with strings?

Is it drums, like the ones used by our first generations?

Can the soul even be heard?

Or does it make a soft ambient sound, as it floats or hovers about?

What color is the soul on a man, in this body we call a house?

And where is the sound?

Coming from deep within, or—

in the way of, and all around?

The soul is the soul is the soul is the soul, and everyone needs one.

Lest we walk through life empty handed.

Can you hear the soul on a man, dear beloved?

Red and White Flowers

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Red and white flowers together in a row; like a bow.

The red smells like a rose, with perfume mixed in; and the white like a dove, with cologne and soul within.

Because red is the handshake; like lipstick across the lips.

And white is the light; like the sky with the sun being kissed.

White and red rub together, red with a dye, and white like wool.

Come together to wrap around each other, red and white like the beach and the shol.

For the soul.

Red and white flowers, like red and white lilies; together in a bouquet, for me.

Red and white together tempting fate, and wrapped around like a scarf; like infinity.

Red with a brown middle filled with fur.

White like garment and cloth.

Together, pound for pound.

Red and white flowers together in a bouquet, for everybody around.

As We Were Once Wandering Souls

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When we die, there is nowhere to go.

We float in air, alone, lost and wandering; a wanderer, unsure of our own wandering.

Where the evil and godless are snatched up into fire; for there is no other fire.

Or the God fearing and loyal enter Elysium; for there is no other light.

We are surrounded mindlessly and relentlessly by the void of nothingness; floating in a lair that is not our own.

Like darkness in the skull—it at least has a home.

But nowheresville in darkness, is nowhere in limbo regardless.

We are bodyless, and roam beyond our control, longing for a purpose.

Just like we are all in life; aimless longing.

But the light will only shine on those who wander toward it; knowing it is the light.

A moth going toward the fire will burn up; so will we all falling farther from our heavenly Father.

Elysium is a gate with a password; and Jesus is the name.

Without it, we are lost; ungathered, and inevitably slain.

Like wheat for fire, we are all tossed in.

Unchained to sanctuary, and fodder in the wind, surrounded by the ever darkness in vain.

It is why we seek sanctuary; a home after we die.

We cannot bring the backpacks into the afterlife; nor can we bring our strife.

We cannot earn God’s trust through darkness.

We can only do so through life.

Brand New Podcast Interview up! Art Talk and Writing Talk!

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Hey bud! This is Gregory Thomas! Everybody’s Favorite Uncle here!

I have an amazing podcast interview up with the talented Tim Faulkner here!

Very awesome and informative stuff here!

Be sure to check it out and send your love!

Enjoy! Happy Trails!

-Sincerely, Everybody’s Favorite Uncle, Gregory Thomas

The Great Uproar

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The Light Among Other Lights shines down and gathers every willing sound.

Where the soul is taken up; into skies from the majesty is taken aback.

At the Sight of Sights, and the Sound of Sounds, swinging this way at that.

Where the mind gets coated in gold, and sat up high. Among others, awaiting their loved ones inside.

Where the soul gathers with other souls; there is music in the air, and there is, “The Air Most Breathable”, shrouded within this endless lair.

Where for once in your life, free is free with no strings attached.

Like a new man born again, are we happy few free and newly hatched.

Here, there is only light, that shines upon us. There is no darkness, no cold interior, or violence.

Just beauty, in the form of The Ever-Watching Iris.

The Rose of Andromeda (Andromeda’s Rose)

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The blackened day was as cold as the ice. The darkest darkness was bitter thrice. Yet she is the sun. She is the sun’s sun for the sun. Over and above me. The dirt and ground was like soot, cruel to the touch.

And her eyes from up above shine down the light in sword-form, to pierce the mud. The trees were just laughing stocks, only I am the jester. My mind was like paper, ripping from ends, and being torn by familiar hands. When andromeda reaches forth, she expands.

When the arrow pierces heart, the feathers on the soul stands. Like a man with a helmet on to block the blow against the mind, my eyes are like two doves escaping the skull, in the name of the seeker of her light.