Dustin Twiggs' Profile

Somewhere in Seattle,
There's a note within a bottle.
Scribbled on an old napkin,
... continued

The sun is trying far too hard,
To rush another day.
But I’m content just lying here,
... continued

Spiraling through the sanctums 
Of my saddened sense of sanity, 
I felt, just as my soul collapsed… 
A smile start to spread. 

Turmoil and futility 
Of living life’s fantasticals, 
Forced my limbs centrifugal, 
Creating positivity. 

The sighs and sorrows slip away, 
As I am shifting everyday, 
Into such splendors of psychosis, 
Smiling at your notions of lucidity. 

The give-a-*uck-o-meter, 
Doctors, clergy and the reaper, 
All failed to fix or fake their fallacies, 
And sit outside my cave as I gladly go insane. 

A simple man is plain to see,
With his heart upon his sleeve,
A life he’s built, completely free,
... continued

I couldn’t begin to guess,
What life really is,
I will die, as everybody does.
... continued

When no one is around,
The ghosts are free to play.
Dancing to the melody,
... continued

Approaching every battle, 
As though it were my last. 
Never giving up, 
It never is enough. 
Giving all I have, 
To everything I do,  
I'll always find my strength, 
In the deepest parts of me. 
Enough to get me through, 
But not to satisfy, 
Its the failures that I earn, 
That make my life complete.  

Sometimes I write 
About the ghosts 
That plague my life 
My heart 
And soul 

To bring them back 
To make them real 
And to restore, 
And try to heal. 

I give my ghosts 
Unending love, 
Trying to steal 
Them back to me. 
Away from those, 
Who’ve taken them, 
And away from him, 
Far, far above. 

My words of ink, 
And those with tears, 
The loudest ones, 
They never hear, 
They mean the world 
To me alone, 
Yet fall upon 
The deafest ear. 

Never heard 
Nor understood, 
The poems from our 
Poor broken hearts 
Are salvaged from, 
The shards of life, 
Remembering, 
The fullest parts. 

My lover waits for me,
Her heart I hear,
Is beckoning.
... continued

Somewhere there is a room, 
Crafted of rich mahogany, 
Where books and cigars loom, 
A literary tomb. 

And when the sun has sank, 
The ghosts of lovers meet, 
To peruse the tattered books 
And share a bourbon, neat. 

The softness of the glowing wood, 
A candlelight, and tufted chair. 
If still alive then leave they could, 
But truly now, they couldn’t care.