Deeper

Hatred and malice
These are just a few
Selfish and lusting
Of those things which bring
Bitter and stubborn
The hammer to my hand

Once more I pound the nails

Deeper into your hands
The hands that love me
The hands that save me
These hands which I ever push away
Farther away
Farther away from where I need them to be

Lying and envy
These things hold me down
Curses and boasting
I struggle with my bonds
Prideful and impure
You alone bring me hope

Finally I will fall

Deeper into your hands
The hands that love me
The hands that save me
The hands I ever push away
Farther away
Farther away from where I need them to be

Stop pushing
Stop pushing
Stop pushing them away
These hands alone can save
Now I'll move my heart

Deeper into your hands

I use too many big words

I can confuse people
With my complex speech
So I now will write something short and sweet

Mother Hen, please count to ten
Or I’ll spit right in your eye
Please count the men inside the den
Who eventually must die

If there be eight, I’ll be too late
To kiss a lonely rose
If there be nine, I’m out of time
I needn’t kill one of those

You see, I must consume this trust
The maiden fair to win
This lonesome lust for rusty rust
As I embrace all vice and sin

So now I raise this lonely haze
A sword and shield in hand
Towards the den, with Mother Hen
To purge the frozen land

To my delight, under dim light
I count the soldiers, three and four
Seven and eight, almost right
Nine – yes TEN! I then prepare for war

Towards my feet, the first two meet
Their blood upon the ground
The next two fell, hard fast to hell
They hardly made a sound

The next man came, Tugda’lla by name
His blade was cunning and swift
But before his blow, the Hen did go
From those shoulders his head to lift

Three more came to purge Tug’s shame
But I put them in their place
One left, one right, before dawns light
The other lost his face

The next man fled, but Mother, red
Gave him hot pursuit
And took him down, removed his crown
Then dined upon her loot

This last man knelt, my presence felt
That something was amiss
He plucked a string, began to sing
And begged the Hen a kiss

Her neck she craned, her will had waned
She had been romanced
The last man thrust, breaking his trust
Mother Hen he lanced

Now bleeding red, She almost dead
Bequeathed to me her beak
I held in shock, an emerald rock
I had no words to speak

The den of men, no longer ten
In fury now did quake
The man and I thought both would die
When the den became a lake

Upon the ice, I hold this vice
Of beauty, green and rare
The man began, his sad song sang
Into his eyes I stare

He plucks his strings, and sweetly sings
And plays upon his lyre
Into his breast, Emerald I pressed
The minstrel fell in fire

Ten dead men embed the den
And so towards the town
I make great stride, with greater pride
Expecting my renown

In the tower the town’s dear flower
The maiden fair awaits
I now have power to rend the tower
The power of ten Wraiths

But Mother Hen, now killed of men
Possessed the only key
Her beak a stone, won’t open Rome
Is of little use to me

If I Were to Ask...

Alas, the Lady Loves in Vain! ~part I~

Ahh, there she sits, the woman who loves me!

How do I know?

Well my good friend, she told me thus.
It was one night whence I was her only security that her affections she did confess, and I must confess, that my fortunes have been frowning upon me ever since.

This scenario may not have been so ill-favored had she some redeeming quality within her person, but alas, I could not see past that nose! That nose, who's crooked, wart-saddled bridge seemed to be slithering like a yellow serpent in the sickly pale moonlight; that nose, whose cavernous nostrils put to shame any brazen, wine vessel in terms of circumference, diameter, and depth; that nose, whose singular, hair-blessed mole resembled some grassy-brown butte upon which some three or four sojourning bison ought be grazing. Alas, then did she the impudence to reveal her profile. It was after this careless gesture that I perceived, in the moonlight, that this edifice, ever-fixed to her visage, stoutly protruded some three or four inches beyond that bushy surface of her hairy, upper lip.

However, this was, perchance, the more-fortunate of her features.

Death

Death

Afraid and trembling humans are
Of death? A natural cause.
Just as birth, and yet we fear
To contemplate and pause.
They fear the thing that matters most,
The thing we all should pray,
Would come so quickly in this world,
And yet they run away.

They think about the end,
As a fearful, eerie man.
Clothed in black with hood on head
And sickle in his hand.

The blackness of their wicked souls
Has caused them all to hide.
From the creature who their souls he owns,
And made them dark inside.
They never know the meaning of,
This life, just live with trust,
That works of good, false deeds of love,
Will wash out their sinful lust.

They think about the end,
As a fearful, eerie man.
Clothed in black with hood on head
And sickle in his hand.

And yet we have seen hope, us few,
And are called to share it wide,
With all we come in contact with.
To drench God’s loving tide
On the shores of souls of men,
Wicked souls they may be.
The King commissioned us below
To spread eternity.

They think about the end,
As a fearful, eerie man.
Clothed in black with hood on head
And sickle in his hand.
But then the saved can show the way,
Of that loving caring man.
Clothed in naught but purple robe,
And nail print in his hand...

Tears Can Be Beautiful

Tears Can Be Beautiful

There is a beauty
Inside a tear
That few men can see
Because of fear
Afraid to embrace
Picturesque pain
For fear they’d erase
Everything but shame
But I have found that
There is a place
Inside my being
Where pain has a face

/Crying, Crying
Who can stop her crying?
Dying, Dying
She’s all alone
Can you hear her?
She’s calling to you
Love her, Fear her
But don’t let her fall
Draw her nearer
And her heart will dissolve
In you/

I see a woman
Standing alone
Head hanging lonely
No happiness known
Her eyes are dimming
With hot, dark tears
She walks by herself
For all of her years

She raises her head
And looks in my eyes
I see a soul that
Tries to disguise
But she doesn’t fool me
‘cause I see her pain
I wish she would trust me
and I would make her whole
Again

Johnathan Schofield

The Person's Pill

The Person's Pill

Why is it so hard to trust?
Am I so proud that I must,
Take life in my hands and start to shape
Some freakish creature of fear and hate

This creature will it's maker kill,
send his soul hard fast to hell.
Why then must I so oft' create,
This hound of hell, of pain, and hate?

I say I love you, but then I doubt.
I shun within, and look without,
And know full well what I shall find;
A sinner soiled, crude unkind

Now frustration spins within,
This pride, this self, this wicked sin.
A cloud of grey and bloody mist,
My conscience curtains, clenches fist.

A harder heart, I now posses.
A heart that hates, and loves you less.
Colder now, so cold, colder still,
The pain, the pride, the person's pill.