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Schörde
My chords become swordsTiny little bladesFloating around in the airThey’re made out of pure soundDirected towards my enemiesWhich come at me in hordesI point and I prayI get on my kneesI plead with the lordNot to be seizedThe lord is not pleasedBut he grants my requestSo off with my headAnd now I can restFor I
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Da Lyricist Physicist
I’m a lyricist physicistAnd I aimed for the starsI was told I need to aim highSo I could buy shiny carsAnd score golf parsBut I don’t know whyIt seems like quite the farceI let out a sighRealise that it’s all a lieBecause it’s all the sameIt’s all the sameReaching for fameJust look how lame I
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Water Works; Eyesore
It has begun… The dam is blown. Water floods downwards, and the damned flood forward…
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World War Tree
Whos it gonna be? Good… god. For whoever you might be, whether a woman or a man or quite possibly a tree…
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Widowbaker, Kyoto
The end is nowTake a knee and bow The end is nighTake up armsLet out their last sigh … INTERMISSION … “Waiting at homeA mouth-wateringly delicious pie And a bubble bath with foamOh, but before you returnYou will surely DIE So you will not seeThe beauty that weHave preserved for thee No pie! You die!
McDream's Poetry 