Danladisauri - Untitled

POETRY is a Lunch.

Not eating it is punch.

Today I must crunch

While sitting in hunch.

“I have no talent, it’s just a question of working, of being willing to put in the time.” — Graham Greene

Punk FRIDAY

Y’all, my little nephew, who’s nickname is “Cabbage,” wanted a “punk jacket,” like Uncle Kade’s. (EMPHASIS ON LITTLE, be nice)

So, I asked him what kind of patches he wanted on it, and this is what we came up with. Just need to sew the patches down and line the vest. I can’t wait to finish it and send it to him.

Poem as usual

The Lonely Traveler

Upon the road where shadows creep,

And silent winds their secrets keep,

A traveler walks with weary stride,

No friend beside, no soul to guide.

His cloak is worn, his boots are torn,

By countless paths and nights forlorn.

A faded map clutched in his hand,

A whisper lost in foreign land.

The stars above, his distant kin,

Flicker cold with light worn thin.

The moon, a watcher pale and high,

A solemn eye in an empty sky.

Through valleys deep and mountains stark,

Past rivers black and forests dark,

He treads where echoes dare not stay,

For silence knows him well each day.

His heart, a compass cracked and flawed,

Points not to gold, nor fame, nor God.

But to a place he cannot name,

A ghostly thought, a fleeting flame.

Villages blur in fleeting glance,

Faces fade in brief romance,

Words exchanged like brittle glass—

Fragile truths that never last.

Taverns filled with laughter’s roar,

Yet none to greet him at the door.

A stranger's smile, a fleeting grace,

Gone before it finds its place.

Storms may howl and tempests rise,

But none can match the storm inside.

His solitude, a cloak unseen,

Stitched with threads of might-have-been.

Footsteps echo, sharp and clear,

Markers of a soul sincere,

But none reply, no voice returns—

Just hollow roads and lessons learned.

What drives him on, what keeps him whole?

Not hearth, nor home, nor whispered goal.

Perhaps the ache, the endless roam,

Is both his burden and his home.

For in the vast, uncharted space,

Where paths diverge without a trace,

A lonely traveler seeks no end—

Only the road, his oldest friend.

And though his shadow walks alone,

It stretches wide, a kingdom grown

From every step, from every scar,

A testament to all he’s far.

So let him wander, let him stray,

Across the dusk, beyond the day.

For in his heart, the road runs deep,

A tale untold, a vow to keep.

And when the stars forget to shine,

And time dissolves the path's design,

His story, woven in the dust,

Will speak of roads, of dreams, of trust.

Not in the finding, but the quest—

A lonely heart that never rests.

I’m tired and I’m sick to death of being without you [...]

Graham Greene, from 'The End of the Affair'

Wish you would come back And whisper one more word.

Your absence is the starting point of Agony.

Indulge me to profess my inner intent to you

Gimme more love than I need so that I am stone as though a bird haunted by innocent kids

Gimme more love now,

more than a heart can contain,

till I turn to stone.

Stone as a lost bird,

winged yet weighed down by the sky,

drifting without flight.

Haunted by soft hands,

children chasing with laughter,

shadows full of light.

Hold me till I break,

warmth that shivers in my bones,

silent echoes loud.

"Spikes and Shadows"

He laced his boots with threads of spite,

A rebel heart, a flickering light,

Mohawk sharp, dyed crimson red,

Echoes of rage inside his head.

Leather jacket, patched and torn,

Symbols stitched of nights forlorn,

Chains that clattered, boots that stomped,

Through empty streets where shadows romped.

His mother wept, his father roared,

"This isn't you—you're something more!"

But "more" was chains, and "more" was loud,

A voice that shattered every crowd.

"You're lost," they said. "You'll fade away."

But fading wasn't punk rock's way.

So with a snarl and fists held tight,

He vanished deep into the night.

City lights like jagged scars,

Graffiti hymns, and broken bars,

Friends with names like Ghost and Snipe,

Living lives carved out of hype.

Yet in the echo of each show,

A shadow whispered soft and low—

Not from the crowd, not from the stage,

But stitched between his stitched-up rage.

The echoes grew, as echoes do,

“What’s freedom if it’s haunting you?”

No answers came, just static buzz,

A question left for who he was.

Years rolled on, and posters peeled,

The vinyl scratched, the anger healed.

But in his chest, beneath the ink,

A softer beat began to think.

One winter dawn, with breath like smoke,

He penned a letter, words bespoke:

"I left to find what I could be—

But lost myself to feel free."

No home he had, yet home he found,

In ink, in scars, in silent sound.

A punk, a son, a soul unbound,

Spikes and shadows, safe and proud.

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I miss everything about Graham Greene, love him so much... His writing about 500 words per day is so sort of bizarre.