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Vincent Topp Poems
Every little red riding hood Walks into the forest unprepared Who would expect the wolf When your heart is the unstained innocence.
Imitation Of Life
This world is my playground, mine I lockdown the borders, I push the island away from the mainland Detached myself through choice from this fiction called life The only realities I acknowledge now are at the end of my own fantasies
Rage Against The Apathy
When I wake up I ask myself one question, Who do I want to be today? Who do I need to be today? Do I wear my extrovert face,
Choose Choose Choose
Sneezing out solutions Coughing up emotions Stirring black coffee soberness Reality pinching me.
Modern Day Caveman And Cavewoman
The flames are laughing, arguing, seductive The words are whispered, shouted and mimed Adventure without the risks attached ‘How was your day? ’
To Be Continued
So I wait for the calm to rise As I sink into my author's throne My eyes welded shut My breathing clicking to attention at silences glare.
Long Time Awake
The mountains scratch the sky Birds of prey shield the sun from unprotected eyes Nature is secure Nature is the ruler.
Director Of My Own Life Story
I’m the writer of my own life story, But making up the plot as I go along. I’m the only actor in my own life story, No scripted lines, I’ll improvise.
There’s a wind that’s blowing in my face, As everybody else walk’s with ease, It’s trying to knock me sideways, It’s trying to bring me down to my knees;
Twice As Hard
Grown up in the business, Like their father and his father before. One was a natural, but the other bled sweat. They longed to shake off the halo,
My sleeping partner cruelly nudges me out of calm Eyes open the hunger and thirst rises like a roar Going through the motions like a lobotimised lab rat Waiting for the cheese to drop
Behind The Cliches
We are not good enough to be the heroes or the villains We are the jokes, not the jokers We are the stupidity to their genius.
Before The Clouds Move Over
Riding his purple Harley Davidson At a thoughtful controlled speed Along the dusty winding mountain top road Not long now, till he’s at his sanctuary.
All Black Sunset
So I play the waiting game No fresh surges struggling to free themselves The karma isn’t calling me anymore Mother nature’s in a strop.
Comments about Vincent Topp
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
Every little red riding hood
Walks into the forest unprepared
Who would expect the wolf
When your heart is the unstained innocence.
He lurks here in reality, not in legend, not in folklore
In the place where innocence is raped, stolen, buried
The soil is crying and whimpering if you listen close enough.
She knew where she was going
But did not feel the eyes of envy on her
Didn't notice that for every step forward
The forest was spinning on its axis
Where she thought she was going was not where she was headed
‘Princess run, run’ She thought she heard ...