Ballistophallic

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Gender: 
Male
Location: 
Texas, USA
Biography: 

Over the years, I have become many things. I am a writer, a rugby player, a singer, and a narcissist. I think you have to be a narcissist on some level to be a good writer, have to own your words but still be able to take the critics. I write for me, not for those that would read my words. I write to say what I need to in the most eloquent fashion, and while it may not always be well received, I know it's the best I can put out and that makes me happy.

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7 months 3 weeks

Submitted Content

The Trinket Seller

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Submitted by Ballistophallic on Sat, 03/10/2012 - 11:12

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Down the winding and dusty country road

Comes a man whose story has ne'er been told.

A shock of white hair atop his meager head sits,

His tan, furrowed brow mostly covered with zits.

He has droopy eyes that point in every direction,

And a score it has been since his last erection.

So, You Thought of You

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Submitted by Ballistophallic on Wed, 02/29/2012 - 07:11

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Chilled fingers on a white pillow case.
Open the door, leave here a disgrace.
You thought of everything, excepting me.
The losses you've gained won't let you be.

Old feats that reek of burning peas,
Tell the stories of your disease.
Untouched, living in darkened space,
Shove your eyes to the dying place.

Careless

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Submitted by Ballistophallic on Wed, 02/29/2012 - 00:06

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The careful thoughts in your head
Add to the proof that you're dead.
While you slept in unwanted peace,
Their hateful eyes brought you release.

Can the way you live be real?
Never did you have the mind to feel.
Only in darkness did you dream,
But you could die in that glass stream.

Trench Coat Philip

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Submitted by Ballistophallic on Sun, 02/26/2012 - 19:02

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There once was a man in a dark trench coat.
Ugly as the sun with a cheery lilt as he spoke.
Freckled of face, with a crooked beak nose,
He whistled and tittered where e'er he would go.
As a man he was not good at his station,
The women would giggle and snort in his general direction.

Final Tears

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Submitted by Ballistophallic on Fri, 02/17/2012 - 23:49

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Could warmer springs of evening stars
Realize the truth of who we are?
Nay, never has this truth been heard.
You say nothing with your empty words.

Flies south in winter does the sparrow,
As we transform selfishly to the narrow.
Closed off in words of beautiful hate,
To turn back now would be too late.

Oh, That I Were a Poet!

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Submitted by Ballistophallic on Fri, 02/17/2012 - 23:41

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Why the sadness, this long face?
You were treated the same in this place.
Honored with love, and given the boot.
Nothing is everything in a turkey shoot.

Life is but a bowl of warm ice cream,
Melted and stale, full of a cherry gleam.
The cherry is flavored, your own blood
To tempt and oppress those chewing cud.

The River

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Submitted by Ballistophallic on Sat, 01/14/2012 - 11:17

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I know of a man,
Let’s call him Stan.
He talks of grandiose plans
In his van…
Down by the river.

The plan, an ingenious way,
Spinning gold out of hay -
He wants to lead folks astray
In shadowed gray…
Straight into the river.

The Smyth Millhouse

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Submitted by Ballistophallic on Sun, 12/18/2011 - 17:38

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10 November

Dearest Brother,

Ballad of an Unhappy Ending

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Submitted by Ballistophallic on Fri, 12/09/2011 - 23:54

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Note: I found a folder of attempted poetry that I wrote ages ago (10 years, give or take based on the content of most), thought I'd post the more interesting (to me) pieces of my youth.

Perry the Pedantic Pachyderm

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Submitted by Ballistophallic on Thu, 12/01/2011 - 15:57

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Perry the pedantic pachyderm lived on a hill in a thatch-roofed hut. There were petunias near his pond and Perry loved them. He would smell them daily and enjoyed reciting their classification, Solanaceae Petunioideae, as he drank his morning water.

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