John McKinley Pride Jr. Poetry & Art

"Staircase of Forlorn Sunshine" Push the button kill the man Pull the trigger kill the man Pull the string kill the man That’s why I look up to you there’s no one left but you; so I look to you. There’s no one here but you; all the lonely people passing by my stair way; all the forlorn people wishing for another day. I don’t want to become some broken record on the turn table of life. Out on the street I lye wanting to pick my self up off the ground wanting and only wanting what I can’t have because it has all gone away with time as its reaper. That’s why I look up to you That’s why I depend on you I watch the sunset and then stare at the moon knowing there is a dark side there. I watch the sun set but I talk to the moon. There must be a reason why we are here There must be a reason to have no fear to die a peaceful death to die in a beautiful way is all I want. To live a happy life and say I am alright I am not part of the forlorn and I am no longer a passer by the stare

I know a weakness, I know a fear, I know discouragement and I know a tear. Hope waits at the door today; yet I lock it and turn away letting someone down today. The more I run, the more I'm blinded by the light of day creeping up like yesterday. The fear comes just like today, just one glimpse and I feel the need to look back. My soul becomes unknown to me; I'm scorched like a rose in the sun, burn, burn, burn before yesterday. So again I awake surrounded by the same light; the second chance in life to see yesterday as today. My hand upon the door feeling the urge to open to see what has fallowed me; a pain or fear I can not see for I thought it was living inside me. My heart in conflagration I want to know more as the door knob glows I poll away there is never a yesterday there is only today. The windows to my soul there is none; I am blind with frustration and hostility with what fervor I have left in me is dried up like dead leaves in the fall. I am strength and if you know

Word count: 110 Views: 1 This phase of life seems so frail to touch, a crushing wait that smothers some, but helps others breathe again. It all comes together or it all falls apart, each day different from the start. Kind hands that help scared buy past abuse, yet the ones who are unmasked wont waste there time. A phase in your mind, but it’s something that happens on occasion. A crushed heart, a tattered soul and skin bruised by a malevolent fist of hate. This phase, just like the next, is to forget about and always hope that they would regret all that they have done. By John McKinley Pride, Jr. ©5/2/’02

Word count: 139 Views: 25 This throne of thorns how long have I sat here and bled torment that seems to never leave me. I’ll pretend that I even care and walk away from it for a day only to seek it again for the love of a friend to find my way back tripping on a crack of hatefulness and jealousy that flows from those who try to take the heart out of every thing I do. My heart is big and full of life scared maybe but strong; stitched back together by seeing the work of those who are selfish and full of them selves. Oh, I wish I could bring the lion out of me some times but it always ends up been a cub of fear and the tears of a crocodile. By John M. Pride Jr. ©9/2/08

Word count: 130 Views: 14 Tired, broken, some how falling, some how never stopping, never knowing, what was next. How can I stay under this rock? This thumb that has no print, talking to my self and saying why don’t you move? Why don’t you shake away these inner blues, you call your personal hell? I quietly adjust my own ears so that I don’t hear my self say you can do better. Some must push on, some must stay happy with what they have, some don’t have to do anything and some must die trying. That’s my must in life, to spend the long days ahead, making up for all the things I didn’t do. Even then I’ll find my self, talking about these inner blues. By John McKinley Pride Jr. ©2/8/’05

Word count: 152 Views: 1 I’ve forgotten you, help me remember you, I have forgotten the past and the memories that I shared with you. So please don’t forget me, I have forgotten the bad things you did, I have forgotten the tears of my yesteryears; they all belong to you. What can I do? When your so far away and I forget you; so tainted is our past with the spilled alcohol and drugs, the blood that runs so thick through our families veins runs through mine as well. I was pushed away with my mouth taped shut like I had nothing to say. I just wanted to run far away; now I’m grown and I've forgotten the past; along with the wounds; so I have forgotten, let our troubles go, go far down the drain of the past, lets forget all the hurt; between you and I. By John McKinley Pride Jr. ©7/30/’97

Word count: 147 Views: 14 (I know this is a bit dark but I like to mix things up once in a while with a little darkness put in my poems) I am the arc I am the spark I am the power grid that feeds your hate. The flame that burns your love, the heat that dissipates the very breath you take; the fear that breeds your tears and poles the teeth from your smile. Glowing eyes I have none, horns and a tale I am not a trick or a treat; I am your failure. I am deep down inside you, the part of you that you won’t let out; the parts of you that you can’t let go or forget about. But I am here, I am always here and I am waiting for you to let me free. By John M. Pride Jr. ©11/6/08

Word count: 95 Views: 2 I can hear it, these voices in my head. They seem close but I hear them far pounding, a grinding, and a tear ripping through my mind. I try to forget these sights, but they have become mine, imbedded in my deepest soul thrashing my morality till I can no longer walk the talk that I speak to others. My flesh speaking to my heart again saying in a whisper lie down and die, lay down and die weak child don’t even try just lie down and die. By John M. Pride Jr. ©11/22/’05

Word count: 215 Views: 1 Glistening sun light creeping through the silhouettes of these amazing elongated trees over the horizon of a day just born; every day seems to start the same; with a perfect sunrise that seems to be flawless to the human eye. It will all get better is what we say when in awe of such a sight; these things are what keep us rational when we have gone awry. Even the sunrise sooner or later becomes difficult to look upon when there seems to be more on the mind then invited. Glistening sun light seeping through the silhouettes of these amazing elongated trees; reaching up further than I can see; melting like ceiling wax in to the clouds of a childes imagination of dragons that roar and make pirates shiver lowering there flags. I wish I could see further than this; I wish I could see past the cemetery trees; past the darkened lines and blackened mood landscape. I believe I will one day see past all this bleakness and straight in to the heavens past the coldness

"This is what it is" This is what it is, life at a grand pace; the slow motion of a beautiful face mouthing the words that fill the empty space in your heart; thoughts of an angle make you tremble but the expression you see sinks your ambition. This is what it is, the spinning of the world that makes you go round the sound of tear drops that hit the ground, rising up in to trees of loneliness shedding the bark of isolation to show the bear real you. You are the center of all this and more, are you there? In heart and in spirit or is this all a mask to suppress your demons to the mass, to keep you from been the one who every one points the finger too. This is what it is, life at a faster pace more stress on the grace you once had as a child. Said are your skies bleeding clouds dry leaving worldly winds of whys? On the other side of the world I can hear you like a muse to my soul pounding deep with in myself finding the words I could not say but blurt out so rapidly when in

"Dong-tian Taoci" She was like winter ceramics; like porcelain to the touch; a poem about romance and love. Truly my angle from above; my dong-tian taoci; I’ll always need you; so promise me you will never let me go. Among the flowers and the trees; you are dear to me; so lost with out you. You brought new life to me opened my eyes so I could see; then you brought me to my single knee; could you forever love only me; my dong-tian taoci. By John McKinley Pride Jr. 4/25/’05

"Traffic Sign" Again these bad thoughts come to me like a nightmare with vengeance, holding back nothing but kindness; words flow from my mouth like a short vocabulary for thoughts who know not what they say when they say it out loud. How is it that we never really think before we say something vulgar and rude? Is it what this cruel world has taught us; words that flow with no meaning but the obscurity that releases them. From racist to hatred words they can come in any shape or form like a bomb or a dozen roses of death with peddles that are bleak words that flow but mean nothing, yet hurt those around us. So, as I sit in this chaos and hear nothing but the loud mumbles of those on the outside, I will try to keep my calm and drive on by not saying a word. By John M. Pride Jr. 3/13/05

"Snow Queen" Thursday faces; they come and go; but they melt in the snow by the end of the week. Down by the creek we go; Thursday faces in the snow, on white flowers are where they grow, beautiful and pale is her face; smiling with wonderful grace. Is this were I kiss her red bright lips? Her icy blue eye’s send me on trips and pierces my heart as she starring into my eyes given off eternal sighs. Crying snowflakes into a puddle of thoughts; turning them in to ice; leaving a reflection of her face but not a trace of her body. I can’t hold her, I can’t touch her, I see her and it hurts so bad not to be able to reach her, to hold her in my arms and kiss her red lips is all I need. Her breath feels cold as she whispers in my ear that she loves me, but, I still can’t hold her near, my snow queens faces in the snow. I just have to let her go, her Thursday faces in the snow. By John McKinley Pride Jr. 7/26/’06

"Where is The Thickness in Our Blood Line?" The lovingness The morality It all seems to sink In through the cracks of each generation; seeming to disappear with each blood line. The book seems to become thicker and the end seems to always be the same each chapter sad or sadder than the last. As the book grows the blood becomes water and it seems to dry up on the tools of the yester years with every birth forgotten. By John McKinley Pride Jr 1/1/09

"Shot Gun Cupid" I am pail, you are cerulean and it looks like your going to drown. Why the long frown? Is this stupid? To bad I’m not cupid, then you couldn’t hate me, for my poem would be a hit. I’m the bullet in your gun, I’m the light in your refrigerator and I’m the one hiding in your shadows. There’s nothing to be scared of, trust me I’m not the only one with a gun. No I’m not the only one, the only one with a gun; I’ll pull the trigger of silence, then you will see my love. Don’t stare at the lights to long at the end of this tunnel you might go blind or to your surprise a train full of love might run you down. Where I hide you can not find, I’m the one in your shadows and there’s nothing to be scared of, trust me, I’m not the only one, the only one with a gun. By John McKinley Pride Jr. 4/10/’96

"The Grandfather Clock" My heart is flooded with tears, no one to drain this ache I hide; no one has died again and here I sit on the out side to watch it all from my side. Listen to the old clock tick as I slowly get sick; watch theme all fade away; so fast and it just seemed like yesterday they were so young and free. The sent of death is in the air, this time life seems so unfair and to the old man sitting in his rocking chair. His memories fade away, but after his gone the love will out last demise and forget the past it’s the future that never lasts and it will all go by so fast. The grandfather clock is set, time has begun at the stage of one and I am the reaper and here I sit waiting for you watching the great grand father clock. The bell tolls for every man who lives By John McKinley Pride Jr. 1/2/’96

"Saga of Obscurity" My love, you’re flying paste the moon and the stars, what’s there to fear but fear it’s self and what will be of you will be no more. The stars shoot past you like rays of light, the moon shining like a sphere of dreams in this long awaited space of nothingness. The stars like a swarm of fireflies in a jar of obscurity, knowing there is no safe place here, no shield of love or protection to seal tightly your thoughts of what this space really is to you. Neither I, nor any one else can take it from you; it’s your own to keep and hold to cherish forever this space between you, between me, between every one and It’s become a saga of rimes. You can’t leave this up to me, I could never bring you the sun light or the clouds of white that you so desire. Do you think of me? Do you think of any one at all? Your face so blank like a porcelain mask of still emotion; it’s a saga of shadows how you became like this. I do not actually understand this space between us t

"The Absolute" The absolute of the end is coming, catching up to what was necessary to life’s end to bring it’s beginning to start life’s wonderful trend. Falling from these sparks that burn in to the sky brighter than the stars on a molasses colored night. Slowly the darkness drips from around the moon; blue skies breaking through sunlight freeing me again; my wings blossom and I leave the ground. For that moment I am some one for that moment no one can be me, for that moment is every thing in my heart. By John M. Pride JR. 11/22/’05

"The Fall" These leaves fall down twisting and twirling through the air of a yesteryear breeze; covering the ground of a youth past. There is a peace found in the aluminous sun set on high; during the fall; is time for all; raped in a shawl; walking through the woods; all the colors match some grand blueprint of the imagination. Only in fall will she visit at all; only while the leaves are turning burning thoughts of our past. Feeling her kiss like dew upon the wet grass; carving are names in trees; feeling moor in love thane ever before; hoping the fall will never end. If it does, then I will remember the time I spent with her in the fall. By John McKinley Pride Jr. 12/30/’96

"Moon Light" Moon Light come on down, moon light come all around and come on down to me. Hear the bloody sound oh moon light, never hear a sound, moon light look at it all around and the stars seem so bright. The night becomes day, the day becomes night, and then you will see it; yes the moon light. Oh moon light, glowing, beaming bright and I just can’t help it anymore its beauty throws me off guard turning every thing I see so beautifully blue. The light comes down; down to face and you begin to fear the sight of day. Fall in love with the sight of night bring me this glowing beaming bright light and share it with me; frightened no more I can see it all around me this moon; moon light. By John McKinley Pride Jr. 11/29/’95

"The Untouchable Creatures" The mind. A simple cage for some. You can fill it with whatever creature you want. What happens when that cage is filled with something full of rage? When the creature in that cage is teased, and when the creature in that cage becomes not just a creature, do you dare open it? Do you dare figure out how to tame it, and do you dare try to find what makes it tick? What of your mind? It is but a simple cage as well. What happens when their cage is sat down next to yours? Will the creature start to mimic the other? Will the creature become docile, or will the creature in your cage go insane? What are we to become in this world, full of aberrant nature that thrives off sinful lifestyles of others? It is true you cannot touch the untouchables, but however they can touch you , not only through the physical aspects of life, but through the sites that are thrown in your face on a daily measured scale, thrashing your mind in a blender of tormented visions, e

"To Find the Insane" Where does the mind start to die? Where does the mind start to unfold like a book of memories unwanted? Where does it start to take shape? Where does the mold break into pieces? Every mind differs in every way, a plethora of labyrinth guided truths and falsehoods. Where does ones reality become psychopathic fantasy? Where does the change take its course within them? Are they without any reality at all? The path of one mind opens to you, not able to see all the moves that betray your common sense of morality. The challenge of carnage lies in front of you; your mind will deceive you, and leave you flustered in a cluster of doubts. What is your reality? What is your fantasy? Who is to say that the mentally insane are sick, and not the ones who think they have it together? Who treats those who treat the insane or are the insane treating them? By John McKinley Pride Jr 7/27/10

"The Fine Line between Madness" The sight in my head will not leave my psyche. All my dreams are meshed into long nightmares. I have seen things that only morticians can stomach, and pictures, pictures, thousands of pictures I have taken of things that only animals are capable of doing. Blood; I have seen my share of others blood my friend; thanking God that it is not my own or my loved ones. To sleep without waking, to somehow put a curtain over the wall of faces in my mind, would only mask the reason why I am here. To come face to face with the monsters is the hardest part to feel some kind of sanity, while you are behind the looking glass into their tirades and moments of complete dead silence. Some how, I must tame the dark side inside myself from becoming like them. It is what separates us from each other, that line, that fine thin line between madness and the cliff into our own burning hell. By John McKinley Pride Jr 8/11/10

"The Accent of Death" The mind bridges the gap between the sane and the insane. What eats the brain into submission that takes over its transgressions, cutting off the transmissions which raises the questions? What makes friction between the skull and the spine, makes the picture clearer inside, deep where things hide a shatter of diamonds, a prism of thoughts, and a tunnel of hallucinations that clamber times walls? Bridges between realities. Bridges between ones fantasies. Bridges burnt down by pure insanity. Bridges from right to left to let them tell you who you are. Is there a bridge to clarity? Is there a color for every mood? Don’t be the one who creates the gap; be the bridge to clarity. Show them all who you really are. Toil with them; leave them clues. You are immortal; no one can stop you. There will be no one before you, and there will be no one after you who can cheat death like you do. Go ahead; take the hand of demise, and watch your numbers grow. It does not

"The Two Sides of Me" An Ode to this day, not like any other; But separate from so many before it, the gliding rain turns to snow with out a warning. The silent drips of dew fall into the river were the leaves flow amongst the ripples of the mirror image of this rising day. A sword of my imagination lifts up from the reflection of this woman dressed in white that I once saw at a funeral for my arrogance. It could be my death that she is handing me or it could be my victory that makes me whole again. Which fate is it that I am reaching for? Shale I become king or shale I drowned in my own pride. Victory can be my demon or it can be my angle, which shale it be asked my reflection. Humility and my sanity could never hold the guilt forever in my mind and heart; they would throw me amongst the sword of humbleness. By John McKinley Pride Jr. 2000

"Turning of the Leaves" These leaves of change they turn me every time, change the color of my mood, change the thought of my mind. My heart out rates me and the blood is not as thick as it once was, but it out does me every time. This excitement sleeps inside of me but my actions out rate me and these leaves have turned, falling from silhouettes of weeping trees in the sunset of disarray. Disillusioned by this smile again and disarmed buy my own thoughts, I turn like leaves through the many changing seasons of mood swings. Embraced by the logical things to love again the turning of the leaves By John M. pride Jr. 11/23/05

"The Mushroom" If the dark drives you mad’ Then you could never be a mushroom. If secrets drive you crazy Then you could never be a mushroom. If you don’t like been fed muck by those who are above you, Then you could never be a mushroom. If you could never stand been stepped on you could Never be a mushroom. America we are mushrooms. By John M. Pride Jr. 11/9/08

"My Small Silver Spinning Planet 8" A small silver spinning planet enough room for one; no one else is allowed here; just me, my self and I. It is so crowded here on this planet of mine; where the sun always shines because the rain misses every time. A rime in the blustery weather as the music falls from the trees. Seas of lilac crash against the metallic mountains; I see an expression in the water and it is not my own; is this the lake of fire were souls come to rest and speaking of souls; were has mine gone? Some wear lost in the glowing green clouds above. Falling rain drops of love, hit my unfamiliar face as I fly like a dove soaring with wings of gold on this little spinning planet of mine. These eyes see miles of nothingness no one to love and no one to hate on my small silver spinning planet 8. By John McKinley Pride Jr. 11/18/’96