theman080
02-05-08, 11:45 AM
Pen Cemetary
I’m awake…
Stories swirl, epic in magnitude, a catalogue of such
Feelin freshly refreshed, minus the tag-along of rust
My hand aches to embrace pens, my eye glimpses the skin
Decomposed wit bones shown, this dark author is legit
Imagine my insight to the undead now, a zombie classic assured
If I can afford drastic reforms that get me back to the norm
Long enough to earn some paper then come back to his form
Cuz no employer’s a sick voyeur who wants shattered and torn
Massacres worn upon his workers, that’s I tactic he’d scorn
So I climb up out my casket, in a fashion of force
Not known to me as an obese playwright with a pension for food
How long has my corpse rotted, I’m plottin, checkin this crude
Make up that’s made up, my skin sporting a grayish hue
Dangling lazily from my bones, but they’re too, decayin true
No matter I have a classic, an society embraces art
As I walk through the forest dark carvin the stories arc
An outbreak of some sort? That’s cliché and needs a sabbatical
Nonsense, the catalyst can be overlooked if the substance is masterful
Radical differences from the genre I could ponder, for instance
Perhaps the zombie’s aren’t spreading as rapidly by the minute
Still, the onus falls on characters and the protagonist that I craft
Maybe an escapee from Pen’s Cemetery that actually isn’t bad
Or an army of zombie intellectuals could be a satire I suppose
Whoa, let me slow, I can make out a cabin down the road
This deep in the forrest, the renters may not frequent it much
So I sneak to the front, could write for months, a sequence I’d love
I’m seepin with lust, the cabin’s upkeep assured that the tenants gone
Either that or a lazy bastard inhabits this messy lawn
And the castle that’s attached to it, the door’s locked, I rap at it
No response to I dip over to the window and bash it in
It cuts my elbow bone a little bit but no pain sizzles it
My boney fingers pull my inside my Ivory Tower I’ll be livin in
Its upkeep is meek, no peeps but **** speech indeed
If it has a pen that bleeds, I’ll plant seeds and schemes
The first room was decorated by spiders as I investigate
Packed boxes so old that death would be a better fate
Stare straight at a staircase that callin but I hesitate
“Leave” Somethin shrieks, as cold chills penetrate
Im bold still anyway, glancing around like Manson’s in town
The voice continues to echo, but my visions interrupts
Creepin up the stairs a giddy ****, this classic is a must
There’s sketches on the walls, old portraits in this fortress
As Im forcin every step, its painted AUTHORS, what a fortune
Beaming at their ideas, with their hands chained to pens
And a formidable stack of papers housing created gems
I made it then!! God gave me life’s gift to write swift
Im thinking as I sight this light and step quite slick
There’s a slender glimmer shimmering from the second floor
As the light traces my corroded skin & kisses on my deadened pores
Make a mental note of that when describing the first wave
Of zombies who curse lames of braves that turn slain
Damn, my eyes widen and my cologen-less lips try to smile
As slim white paper is stacked in the finest pile
Atop of a brass desk, the ball point pen I’ll grasp next
Attack text in a sec but I just take in the moment
Shed a tear of mud, so now my brain can be focused
Basically soak it, I sit comfortably, ready for fast writes
As I think of the title, but I adjust the lamp light
It tickles my skin as I pen it, a silky smooth white
WAIT…the grayish hue is lost, its too trife
My weight returns in excess, my clothes are tight as knots
The paper turns into a blank screen, welcoming writers block
My classic is gone, no material for the scribe except memories
Of a false fate, as I return to Pen’s Cemetery
...I doze
I’m awake…
Stories swirl, epic in magnitude, a catalogue of such
Feelin freshly refreshed, minus the tag-along of rust
My hand aches to embrace pens, my eye glimpses the skin
Decomposed wit bones shown, this dark author is legit
Imagine my insight to the undead now, a zombie classic assured
If I can afford drastic reforms that get me back to the norm
Long enough to earn some paper then come back to his form
Cuz no employer’s a sick voyeur who wants shattered and torn
Massacres worn upon his workers, that’s I tactic he’d scorn
So I climb up out my casket, in a fashion of force
Not known to me as an obese playwright with a pension for food
How long has my corpse rotted, I’m plottin, checkin this crude
Make up that’s made up, my skin sporting a grayish hue
Dangling lazily from my bones, but they’re too, decayin true
No matter I have a classic, an society embraces art
As I walk through the forest dark carvin the stories arc
An outbreak of some sort? That’s cliché and needs a sabbatical
Nonsense, the catalyst can be overlooked if the substance is masterful
Radical differences from the genre I could ponder, for instance
Perhaps the zombie’s aren’t spreading as rapidly by the minute
Still, the onus falls on characters and the protagonist that I craft
Maybe an escapee from Pen’s Cemetery that actually isn’t bad
Or an army of zombie intellectuals could be a satire I suppose
Whoa, let me slow, I can make out a cabin down the road
This deep in the forrest, the renters may not frequent it much
So I sneak to the front, could write for months, a sequence I’d love
I’m seepin with lust, the cabin’s upkeep assured that the tenants gone
Either that or a lazy bastard inhabits this messy lawn
And the castle that’s attached to it, the door’s locked, I rap at it
No response to I dip over to the window and bash it in
It cuts my elbow bone a little bit but no pain sizzles it
My boney fingers pull my inside my Ivory Tower I’ll be livin in
Its upkeep is meek, no peeps but **** speech indeed
If it has a pen that bleeds, I’ll plant seeds and schemes
The first room was decorated by spiders as I investigate
Packed boxes so old that death would be a better fate
Stare straight at a staircase that callin but I hesitate
“Leave” Somethin shrieks, as cold chills penetrate
Im bold still anyway, glancing around like Manson’s in town
The voice continues to echo, but my visions interrupts
Creepin up the stairs a giddy ****, this classic is a must
There’s sketches on the walls, old portraits in this fortress
As Im forcin every step, its painted AUTHORS, what a fortune
Beaming at their ideas, with their hands chained to pens
And a formidable stack of papers housing created gems
I made it then!! God gave me life’s gift to write swift
Im thinking as I sight this light and step quite slick
There’s a slender glimmer shimmering from the second floor
As the light traces my corroded skin & kisses on my deadened pores
Make a mental note of that when describing the first wave
Of zombies who curse lames of braves that turn slain
Damn, my eyes widen and my cologen-less lips try to smile
As slim white paper is stacked in the finest pile
Atop of a brass desk, the ball point pen I’ll grasp next
Attack text in a sec but I just take in the moment
Shed a tear of mud, so now my brain can be focused
Basically soak it, I sit comfortably, ready for fast writes
As I think of the title, but I adjust the lamp light
It tickles my skin as I pen it, a silky smooth white
WAIT…the grayish hue is lost, its too trife
My weight returns in excess, my clothes are tight as knots
The paper turns into a blank screen, welcoming writers block
My classic is gone, no material for the scribe except memories
Of a false fate, as I return to Pen’s Cemetery
...I doze