Poetry...or is it?

time after time, people write poetry when they're happy, and offer an enourmous range of emotions...not me. i write when i am sad...and tired...and lonely...i write dark poetry...makes me think...(some of its not poetry...most is lyrikal) this is a kollektion of things i wrote thru the past kouple years...enjoy

All in kronilogikal order


Come The One

Acoustic Riff Intro
Verse 1
One other man
He was wandering
Wondering where he's been.
He thought it out
While showering
Showering himself with gifts.

Pre-Courus 1
Kick out .. the influence.
Throw away the bad vibes.
Think it out .. think it's alright.
Beat it up with all your might.

Come the one that we deem necessary.
Come the one that thinks he's alright.
Come the one that wanders like a mercenary.
Come the one that digs his own grave.
Digs his own grave.

Verse 2
He told me damn
He was annoying
Analyzing his broken sins.
He worked it out
While cowering
Cowering from his wins.

Pre-Courus 2
Know how .. to cope with it.
Think loud and pay no mind.
Tune out .. your love-life.
Time it to your highs.

Guitar Solo
Back To Courus

Digs his own grave.
Digs his own grave.
Digs his own gra-a-a-ave.
Guitar Tuning/Distortion
Fade Out

Late 1997

Hate Is Peace, Love Is War

Moans, groans and a big unnngh
Sound of bomb dropping and exploding
Static, screeches sound in B.G.


Verse (Mumbling)
John met Mary, they had kids,
Peace reigned supreme as they lived.
Life turned dark, as John beat this wife.
The kids cowered small, and cried for dear life.
People come, and people go,
But no one thinks about what doesn't show.
Creeping in the dark are all the lies,
All the sins and all those who Cry.

Sex is life, and life hates death,
All the way, to the last breath,
Men battle, to settle scores,
Hate is peace, and LOVE IS WAR!

Verse Two
Society sets, sections and style,
Life is harsh, for our 2 child,
The parents kill, all hope for the norm,
All other children’s parents have no scorn,
Life is harsh, life is tired,
Vodka drinks have the adults wired,
Drunken fools beat on peers,
Get thrown around and kill without tears.

Early 1998 Spoken Word

The Man On The Stand

He sits alone, on the cold dreary nights. The Night of The Friend. His gaze streaks across the room as he beholds his mighty glory. His love of endless sound and tone weakens the patron’s mind. In his hand he holds a stick. For what, no one knows, except him, and two lonely children. Their glee helps him along, and their compassion strikes him as odd, for they too have love for the tone. The rats, with their feed, pay this man no heed, under the ever-glowing onslaught of light he had brought in by himself. His talent is wasted on the hungry rats, his love of tone destroyed. Few feebly show their gratitude, but all for not. He, himself, has almost passed over the hill of life, a cliché that is widely known. But the rats do not care, and on they gnaw, at the never-ceasing flow of food. After they dine, they shuffle themselves out, back into the harsh cold. Still, he makes clear the love of his tone, as the perpetual motion of vermin steadily moves. For hours on end he expresses tone, waiting for the end. His love of tone has been shattered by the negligence of the rodents. His sigh echoes loudly, yet no one notices. He is surprised by his impatience, but carries his tone.

He once again stops for his break, and sits down in a chair. As he looks out into the crowd, he rubs his near-black chin, the goatee he had grown was more in vain than anything else. He stands up to his full height as he reaches over to accept a cup of coffee, his 6’1" easily towers over a small female. He its seated back down, and his Levi’s 505s strain under his seat. He brushes off his white striped shirt with the back of his hand, and checks to see if his ponytail is tied. He takes another sip of his coffee and gets up again to create another rendition of the rats favorites.

As he sings the song about the man who neglects his son, thoughts of his own youth come to mind, as he was introduced to piano at 12, guitar at 13. His life now revolves around these instruments, and he is thankful for his love of them. The man taps his foot along to keep a beat and his boots make a small clicking noise, so again he stops to think. The work that he is performing now is a natural instinct, so he is not phased by other thoughts and seductions. He thinks about how his life had changed once he met his wife, how he learned to be proper, and now he is thankful, not for the change, but thankful to god that he had met her in the first place. He loves his job, his life, and his world, but cannot seem to shake the thoughts of another place.

"Bye bye Miss American Pie, pulled my Chevy to the Levy but the Levy was dry, and the good old boys were drinking whisky and rye, singing, ‘Thissll be the day that I die, thissll be the day that I die.’" - American Pie (Don McLean)



Verse 1
My mother tells me one thing,
My father tells me it again,
But the thing I listen most to,
Are the voices in my head.

The voices are smart,
And worldly on their own,
They help with my decisions,
And I'm also never alone.

Help me with my problems,
Help me with my grieves,
I need to figure out just what makes you tick,
You unknown mind thieves.

Verse 2
So you say that I should do it,
All my morals are not right,
But the thing that confuses me most,
Is the fact that you always have to fight.

Screw you, the voices in my head,
I really don't want to listen to you,
But of course you tell me instead,
That life means nothing unless I have you.


Verse 3
I'M BETTER OFF DEAD (very cliché, oh well)



(so please won't you just get out of my head?)


Mind Over Matter

Deep inside the thoughts we seek,
there is a place of we dare not speak,
the thoughts of reason, dark and grim,
reality wont let your mind sink in.

Tiiiiime, is not on my side...

Time is man made, so therefore is age,
God looks over his shoulder and turns the page.
If I didn’t know about age, would I really die?
I think that death is all in the mind.

Chorus x2
You learn more the hard way,
so why not take that road?
But is the hard way the hard way?
Or is that what I’ve been told?

We all make it that way so therefore it is...

Thoughts of tired weeping,
running through my brain.
Solmn oaths passed around,
Winding like a train.

Tiiiiime is not on my side...

If life is all that keeps us alive,
then what keeps us dead?
It’s the thought of death that makes us die,
I can get it through my head.




This is all my work and in no way is to be reproduced for profit. I, Josef Rosenberg, will come to your house and beat you senseless. Thank you.