I hope my legacy sucked enough for you to remember me
as a tough-to-love punk,
with little to no energy
...haaa u got it all wrong.
If you thought I was sick in the head then, you were right.
Cause from here on out, there's nobody iller then me.
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
Sunday, May 22, 2005
Ain't Anger - 5/31/05
Anger truly is the breaking point
of all the fire in emotion.
Lost as to how to structure this
Just wish I could create indentations
with my fist right now.
Chains broken as fast as they were linked
and as egos grew larger, friendship began to shrink.
All that brotherhood shit you talked was no good
Just assumed that you would've understood
that there is always more in the depths
then whats seen on the surface.
I was wrong in my guess.
Those that think they're
bigger
faster
maybe taller,
should know that a bastard wont faulter
in this intensity.
I wont let this sequential degeneration be the end of me.
"Victoms, arnt we all."
And you've heard that saying... la la la,
the harder they fall.
Pray for the lose of your oxygen
for this is Soul Enigma's new rep and call.
"Always prevail."
If you dont like this
here and now
own up to your own feelings
before I leave you reeling in your own spit
after I bust up your lip, know that I explained
what was and wasnt "Insubordinate."
And you called it your own for shits
and giggles.
The laughs are paused.
Just in case anyone is confused as to my intentions...
Here they are;
To supercede all the hypocrisy I too often see,
to disallow fear tactics, for it's only a four letter word,
to live past these physical confines, for, when you die,
your body is gone. You soul is ejected thru your eyes...
This is why I ocassionally laugh at all the muscle bound punks...
Because, no matter how much you lift,
after death, it will never be enough to fight for your self-worth.
Not that there's anything wrong with havin' your cloths rip from muscle...
I just assume get 'roids ripped to be more powerful in the hussle of the struggle.
It's just that, we have to remeber..."What is strength without a double shot of wisdom?"
And answer is, it's shit.
That's why I make sure to bleed from this pen, in writin'.
Bein' ripped and suddenly losing your muscle?
Or bein' mentally strong and suddenly goin' shrimp? To me, that's more frightinin'.
Deal with it.
Can't keep everything I give.
I'm on a helluva trip
since the start
everyone gets sick.
Girls get loose
And everyone pukes.
Read the words spit
in anger
laugh for a bit
at this gibberish.
Then...set your sites
and never ever submit
to the pain
stress caked to the brain.
And as they look for a way to break you
and turn you insane,
keeo going
cause you don't play their games.
That's not the way.
The Charismatic Enigma is the new name
and I don't care if it is taken...
It's a fresh philosophy that says
we're gonna make it no matter how many
have to be foresaken.
If their a true obstacle, I break 'em.
Don't have a lot of hatred,
but lately I've read people
and been mistaken.
Wrong in how I saw 'em...
They were fakin'.
An impulsive thinker,
yet time to think it over.
Driven by cloaked pressure and
a four leaf clover,
to get where I'm goin'.
Self-reflections reflect true sin...
Not perfect and have never been,
but with all the smoke you're blowin',
you're
no one better fool
then
Mike O'Toole
of all the fire in emotion.
Lost as to how to structure this
Just wish I could create indentations
with my fist right now.
Chains broken as fast as they were linked
and as egos grew larger, friendship began to shrink.
All that brotherhood shit you talked was no good
Just assumed that you would've understood
that there is always more in the depths
then whats seen on the surface.
I was wrong in my guess.
Those that think they're
bigger
faster
maybe taller,
should know that a bastard wont faulter
in this intensity.
I wont let this sequential degeneration be the end of me.
"Victoms, arnt we all."
And you've heard that saying... la la la,
the harder they fall.
Pray for the lose of your oxygen
for this is Soul Enigma's new rep and call.
"Always prevail."
If you dont like this
here and now
own up to your own feelings
before I leave you reeling in your own spit
after I bust up your lip, know that I explained
what was and wasnt "Insubordinate."
And you called it your own for shits
and giggles.
The laughs are paused.
Just in case anyone is confused as to my intentions...
Here they are;
To supercede all the hypocrisy I too often see,
to disallow fear tactics, for it's only a four letter word,
to live past these physical confines, for, when you die,
your body is gone. You soul is ejected thru your eyes...
This is why I ocassionally laugh at all the muscle bound punks...
Because, no matter how much you lift,
after death, it will never be enough to fight for your self-worth.
Not that there's anything wrong with havin' your cloths rip from muscle...
I just assume get 'roids ripped to be more powerful in the hussle of the struggle.
It's just that, we have to remeber..."What is strength without a double shot of wisdom?"
And answer is, it's shit.
That's why I make sure to bleed from this pen, in writin'.
Bein' ripped and suddenly losing your muscle?
Or bein' mentally strong and suddenly goin' shrimp? To me, that's more frightinin'.
Deal with it.
Can't keep everything I give.
I'm on a helluva trip
since the start
everyone gets sick.
Girls get loose
And everyone pukes.
Read the words spit
in anger
laugh for a bit
at this gibberish.
Then...set your sites
and never ever submit
to the pain
stress caked to the brain.
And as they look for a way to break you
and turn you insane,
keeo going
cause you don't play their games.
That's not the way.
The Charismatic Enigma is the new name
and I don't care if it is taken...
It's a fresh philosophy that says
we're gonna make it no matter how many
have to be foresaken.
If their a true obstacle, I break 'em.
Don't have a lot of hatred,
but lately I've read people
and been mistaken.
Wrong in how I saw 'em...
They were fakin'.
An impulsive thinker,
yet time to think it over.
Driven by cloaked pressure and
a four leaf clover,
to get where I'm goin'.
Self-reflections reflect true sin...
Not perfect and have never been,
but with all the smoke you're blowin',
you're
no one better fool
then
Mike O'Toole
Saturday, May 14, 2005
Untitled rough draft - 5/14/05
Brittle bones
and I’ll break them if I’m forced
to be alone
My sanity divorced.
Blood stains
A fire fly, cursed.
And I’ll cry out when you die
I am in pain the worst.
Stronger then death, my blood vessals burst
from the emotions you put into motions
to make me regret
all these twisted notions
will take a lot.
Red in raw agression,
mutated from depression.
Recoiled impressions make me race
And this is bullshit
look at this pretty face
and how an angel fucking fell from grace
Bitter taste is left for you.
Choke on it while lips stay rich
moist while they are split open.
Relish in the spit.
...This man’s way of coping!
And a lot of people
don’t see
the insight
coarsing through my entire body!
Veins tested and tight.
The explosion shoots off the ladder
I had to climb to get away from you.
But I don’t play Shoots and Ladders.
I don’t play any games.
Rather cut this off at the roots and watch the aftermath
the splatter from your brain.
Violent behavior is not in my nature
but it is still in range.
This Metaphoric shit is ripped out and stripped of toxicity.
Proof that you took and toar a part of me!
The gore is far more then bloody.
Kept inside; this expression wants to be freed.
And I agreed, as I watched it all bleed off of us.
Future regression illustrated that it was not enough to lock this up.
You: A feminine razor, deep in my cut...
I don’t push you around like a slut.
Since birth, things have gone wrong...
So I’ll just go ahead and scream if you don’t like
the tone of this song!
And rotten responses rest when you
just don’t give a fuck,
so short on luck,
drained of value,
all of it sucks at the neck,
until it finally fouls you up,
cause she is rolling with another heartless punk to stab this heart.
Convinced that that’s the pure reason;
chains are snapped off during the frustrated grieving.
Stop with your fables
I just do not have the patience to wait through all this!
It turns to hate, which wastes my kiss.
Pissed and another curse helps
and another lighter would be nice,
to spark the fire
burn this down.
More then twice, I’ve played the clown,
made you laugh.
Held you when you felt trapped,
soothed you when you were geared to snap and pop off,
glued you back in pieces,
and sewed the fine cloth in you together with dedicated thread.
And you crushed on me before you crushed me.
Once upon a time, you were like an obbsessed fan of mine
and stuck in head
couldnt rewind.
Def, dumb or blind,
something is gone inside.
Blonde and blue with too much pride
to hit you,
ignoring the sucka punch.
Haaaaa true are the encapsulating, burning furies that are revving
within all that this blood-shot eye can feel.
No matter what, why, where, or how,
this is real.
My time is now!
Not to cut you down...But your stuck in the water and will probably drown.
You get so high, that you have to come down.
Razor blades, whips and chains...
Satisfaction teters daily
and I don't give a damn.
So tired of being admired
I just might set it off
on fire.
Mike O'Toole
and I’ll break them if I’m forced
to be alone
My sanity divorced.
Blood stains
A fire fly, cursed.
And I’ll cry out when you die
I am in pain the worst.
Stronger then death, my blood vessals burst
from the emotions you put into motions
to make me regret
all these twisted notions
will take a lot.
Red in raw agression,
mutated from depression.
Recoiled impressions make me race
And this is bullshit
look at this pretty face
and how an angel fucking fell from grace
Bitter taste is left for you.
Choke on it while lips stay rich
moist while they are split open.
Relish in the spit.
...This man’s way of coping!
And a lot of people
don’t see
the insight
coarsing through my entire body!
Veins tested and tight.
The explosion shoots off the ladder
I had to climb to get away from you.
But I don’t play Shoots and Ladders.
I don’t play any games.
Rather cut this off at the roots and watch the aftermath
the splatter from your brain.
Violent behavior is not in my nature
but it is still in range.
This Metaphoric shit is ripped out and stripped of toxicity.
Proof that you took and toar a part of me!
The gore is far more then bloody.
Kept inside; this expression wants to be freed.
And I agreed, as I watched it all bleed off of us.
Future regression illustrated that it was not enough to lock this up.
You: A feminine razor, deep in my cut...
I don’t push you around like a slut.
Since birth, things have gone wrong...
So I’ll just go ahead and scream if you don’t like
the tone of this song!
And rotten responses rest when you
just don’t give a fuck,
so short on luck,
drained of value,
all of it sucks at the neck,
until it finally fouls you up,
cause she is rolling with another heartless punk to stab this heart.
Convinced that that’s the pure reason;
chains are snapped off during the frustrated grieving.
Stop with your fables
I just do not have the patience to wait through all this!
It turns to hate, which wastes my kiss.
Pissed and another curse helps
and another lighter would be nice,
to spark the fire
burn this down.
More then twice, I’ve played the clown,
made you laugh.
Held you when you felt trapped,
soothed you when you were geared to snap and pop off,
glued you back in pieces,
and sewed the fine cloth in you together with dedicated thread.
And you crushed on me before you crushed me.
Once upon a time, you were like an obbsessed fan of mine
and stuck in head
couldnt rewind.
Def, dumb or blind,
something is gone inside.
Blonde and blue with too much pride
to hit you,
ignoring the sucka punch.
Haaaaa true are the encapsulating, burning furies that are revving
within all that this blood-shot eye can feel.
No matter what, why, where, or how,
this is real.
My time is now!
Not to cut you down...But your stuck in the water and will probably drown.
You get so high, that you have to come down.
Razor blades, whips and chains...
Satisfaction teters daily
and I don't give a damn.
So tired of being admired
I just might set it off
on fire.
Mike O'Toole
Wednesday, May 04, 2005
Beautiful Oblivion - 3/22/05
Midnight in a perfect world; /
beautiful oblivion lingers in darkness./
Cold in the heart of the spark that is lit.../
For, by itself, it is only nothingness.
Meaning lives on in the depth of mortal coil/
a concrete structure of day-to-day doesn't mix with it; like water and oil./
Emptiness, with a certain substance that is sure to ask,
"What does your Soul look like?" And has raw artistry propelled it...
...Only to crash? Gone in the sweep of oblivion, perhaps? /
Sacred only, is the impact of impressions, surpassing all time and space.
It is true, that one day, even YOU will forget your face, /
regardless of it's beautiful shape. /
Better to make your mark from the inside,
for, tattoos on the skin will fade into the earth, leaving only eyes of mind. /
No one can truly define the dimensions of such a blurred line of oblivion.
But rest assured, that in your body's decomposition, /
when all things that we find grand, are no longer there to find.../
In the midst of such beautiful oblivion and thus absence of life,
no concrete subject needs to ask, or find answer to...
"What does your Soul look like?"
###
Mike O'Toole A/K/A "SOUL ENIGMA"
beautiful oblivion lingers in darkness./
Cold in the heart of the spark that is lit.../
For, by itself, it is only nothingness.
Meaning lives on in the depth of mortal coil/
a concrete structure of day-to-day doesn't mix with it; like water and oil./
Emptiness, with a certain substance that is sure to ask,
"What does your Soul look like?" And has raw artistry propelled it...
...Only to crash? Gone in the sweep of oblivion, perhaps? /
Sacred only, is the impact of impressions, surpassing all time and space.
It is true, that one day, even YOU will forget your face, /
regardless of it's beautiful shape. /
Better to make your mark from the inside,
for, tattoos on the skin will fade into the earth, leaving only eyes of mind. /
No one can truly define the dimensions of such a blurred line of oblivion.
But rest assured, that in your body's decomposition, /
when all things that we find grand, are no longer there to find.../
In the midst of such beautiful oblivion and thus absence of life,
no concrete subject needs to ask, or find answer to...
"What does your Soul look like?"
###
Mike O'Toole A/K/A "SOUL ENIGMA"
Coal Chambers Are Beautiful - 6/2/04
Hold up
eyes are red
dry from tears bled.
Extreme like mixtures.
Coal chambers are beautiful; should be
a standard household fixture.
Eyes may be attractive
right now, strictly a blur;
a scratched record of bad medicine’s stinging cure,
even though they look chill
when squinted-red makes vision obscured.
(It is) Frighteningly ill to be in her head...
Graffiti from Enigma’s depth and call.
Just like wasps stinging,
to fall to it for real,
as hell slept and scars healed.
Please don’t touch
just let them heal
and skin breath
regenerating
only coming off when sun burn pulls it
to peel.
Fighting with medi-SIN, to make insanity seal and suffocate
itself.
Alter-ego is connecting until separation
is numb to the way it once felt.
Lucy’s eyes are like one, plus one jewel.
Coal chambers are so beautiful...
Like you.
Mike O'Toole
eyes are red
dry from tears bled.
Extreme like mixtures.
Coal chambers are beautiful; should be
a standard household fixture.
Eyes may be attractive
right now, strictly a blur;
a scratched record of bad medicine’s stinging cure,
even though they look chill
when squinted-red makes vision obscured.
(It is) Frighteningly ill to be in her head...
Graffiti from Enigma’s depth and call.
Just like wasps stinging,
to fall to it for real,
as hell slept and scars healed.
Please don’t touch
just let them heal
and skin breath
regenerating
only coming off when sun burn pulls it
to peel.
Fighting with medi-SIN, to make insanity seal and suffocate
itself.
Alter-ego is connecting until separation
is numb to the way it once felt.
Lucy’s eyes are like one, plus one jewel.
Coal chambers are so beautiful...
Like you.
Mike O'Toole
Body Paint Complex - date unknown
Cool and relaxed
Shadows building a silhouette of cut muscle
and girth.
Thickness, to connect the severed wrists
of all artwork. Her Soul has it.
My Brother weaves needles in himself, to sew up
open patches of spoken words and thought.
I am a wonderer, the fighter
Crazy colorful hair, masked in the drawn lines of a
lighter, and pretty eyes. Drinking in life
I grab it by the balls
The one who does not hesitate to climb highest
ladder, and brace for the most orgasmic free-falls.
A little flaky, like a modern Artistic Predator
should be.
A wordsmith, who's more sane.... Or Less INsane,
then all those who circulate these blue veins,
pumping full of artistry.
Fresh body paint, glows!
Shadows building a silhouette of cut muscle
and girth.
Thickness, to connect the severed wrists
of all artwork. Her Soul has it.
My Brother weaves needles in himself, to sew up
open patches of spoken words and thought.
I am a wonderer, the fighter
Crazy colorful hair, masked in the drawn lines of a
lighter, and pretty eyes. Drinking in life
I grab it by the balls
The one who does not hesitate to climb highest
ladder, and brace for the most orgasmic free-falls.
A little flaky, like a modern Artistic Predator
should be.
A wordsmith, who's more sane.... Or Less INsane,
then all those who circulate these blue veins,
pumping full of artistry.
Fresh body paint, glows!
Last Man Standing (Medicine) - 11/20/04
Local name
Blood pressure pushing through the seam.
Veins explode, following a scream in nightmarish dreams.
My eyes bleed.
A grown man;
holding more depth perception
then most hellions can understand, or care to believe!
As it pours, the rhetorical inquires
resort to nonsensical theories of their God-fearing needs.
I know every fact
holding in my mind
barb wire confines.
I knew it was something extremely special,
being given these gifts, then being subjected
to traumatic tides and dark rifts.
Being so blind, some insist non sexual grind,
dodging
accountability for hypocrisy.
They will receive the Punch of Justice, in due time.
The right and wrong shall be clearly known,
if the veins in my head have to explode
Until dead!
The wrong will ingest all the excrement they’ve said
in the past.
SOUL has been born and bred to stand last, amidst the fallen and
stay whole among the broken!
In exchange of love, harsh words, too often, are spoken...
For that, all those will fall... Increase the dosage.
Mike O'Toole
Blood pressure pushing through the seam.
Veins explode, following a scream in nightmarish dreams.
My eyes bleed.
A grown man;
holding more depth perception
then most hellions can understand, or care to believe!
As it pours, the rhetorical inquires
resort to nonsensical theories of their God-fearing needs.
I know every fact
holding in my mind
barb wire confines.
I knew it was something extremely special,
being given these gifts, then being subjected
to traumatic tides and dark rifts.
Being so blind, some insist non sexual grind,
dodging
accountability for hypocrisy.
They will receive the Punch of Justice, in due time.
The right and wrong shall be clearly known,
if the veins in my head have to explode
Until dead!
The wrong will ingest all the excrement they’ve said
in the past.
SOUL has been born and bred to stand last, amidst the fallen and
stay whole among the broken!
In exchange of love, harsh words, too often, are spoken...
For that, all those will fall... Increase the dosage.
Mike O'Toole
Pierced Eye - 6/14/04
Drops streaked on eye
lashes licked in blood
- shot out to fly,
suddenly defy expectations of directing onlookers.
Shook blonde and looked at first, by said eye,
burning dry and craving thirst.
Teared up
dilated pupils will burst
with as much inspiration as the moment a virgin tongue
has willed itself to curse, and lick it’s body’s blood;
a suited-vessal of spit words and spit fire...
Passionate like the love for other fighting high-flyers
absurd in the flakiness of not staying with the herd.
Drops streaked on eye
dilated pupils,
BLURRED.
Mike O'Toole
lashes licked in blood
- shot out to fly,
suddenly defy expectations of directing onlookers.
Shook blonde and looked at first, by said eye,
burning dry and craving thirst.
Teared up
dilated pupils will burst
with as much inspiration as the moment a virgin tongue
has willed itself to curse, and lick it’s body’s blood;
a suited-vessal of spit words and spit fire...
Passionate like the love for other fighting high-flyers
absurd in the flakiness of not staying with the herd.
Drops streaked on eye
dilated pupils,
BLURRED.
Mike O'Toole
Brothers In... - 7/7/04
The young;
impartially perceptive to harsh realities.
Different crews and cliques of kids fill the halls
and uptown.
Down my spine, a chill crawls.
Beautiful girls and liars who follow them, infest this realm.
A kiss on balls.
He who kicks out the first foot, falls
no soul to back him
no boots to stomp against the masses who mall & trample him.
What kind of example do his invisible allies assemble, in such sin?
I’m young & alive
‘going to take full advantage of this privilege.
Attractive inner core, and out,
with a natural knack, to explore the skeleton of words,
fight, and keep score;
die, and come back.
Eighteen years and counting
until I finally crack.
(My) Eyes spotted friends & blood brothers on sight,
together again, to light up another
night.
A makeshift rhyming meter, is in flight.
Believe
life is a fleeting element
death seems forever
existence held close, between breasts
an enigma, revealed in gradual dosage,
details, uncovered in cryptic undertone,
as are Mary Jane’s potions.
Van Reese’s mixed signals;
stewing in confliction, as her vibes find my ear and go in.
Soul Enigma grabs them with a fire, as hell spews out gin.
‘Spark my lighter to shock the senses
with self-inflicted pain, relentless.
There is a beat in the head, as I beat my own head
against odds, of mythological proportion.
Great, now I have another ominous headache
taking pain pills,
unlike the Ex., which drips on the cerebellum, down the spine.
Drugs kill, by your own will
our generation seems content to live their days blind.
The difference between SICK and ILL.
What if “rhetorical” becomes the thing in question?
I could not decipher the entire meaning in it’s existence.
With each passing day, no matter how I use it,
I lose some lively connection
and you can’t blame me, when I speak of resurrection.
If you were free to mold a timeline of life,
you would want to polish it’s reflection, too!
‘Rather plant my own garden, then wait for God to drop a clue
of how to cultivate the soil.
The dysfunction around me is so soiled
I’ve tried to kill the disease, but the bacteria refuses to be boiled.
And this mold only grows further, no matter how spoiled...
And they do not a thing.
These are only simple words
from a dangerously complex mind.
This is one approach to writing down thought, which I choose.
(I am) a wordsmith; vocabulary, tight in review.
Take these words home.
If I am the Devil, Hell is “home.”
Some segments of time, I feel alone...
Until I meet up with my brothers... Then we are
poetry-in-motion’s crew... Think it thru.
Mike O'Toole
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Please Critique This Poem
Comments
impartially perceptive to harsh realities.
Different crews and cliques of kids fill the halls
and uptown.
Down my spine, a chill crawls.
Beautiful girls and liars who follow them, infest this realm.
A kiss on balls.
He who kicks out the first foot, falls
no soul to back him
no boots to stomp against the masses who mall & trample him.
What kind of example do his invisible allies assemble, in such sin?
I’m young & alive
‘going to take full advantage of this privilege.
Attractive inner core, and out,
with a natural knack, to explore the skeleton of words,
fight, and keep score;
die, and come back.
Eighteen years and counting
until I finally crack.
(My) Eyes spotted friends & blood brothers on sight,
together again, to light up another
night.
A makeshift rhyming meter, is in flight.
Believe
life is a fleeting element
death seems forever
existence held close, between breasts
an enigma, revealed in gradual dosage,
details, uncovered in cryptic undertone,
as are Mary Jane’s potions.
Van Reese’s mixed signals;
stewing in confliction, as her vibes find my ear and go in.
Soul Enigma grabs them with a fire, as hell spews out gin.
‘Spark my lighter to shock the senses
with self-inflicted pain, relentless.
There is a beat in the head, as I beat my own head
against odds, of mythological proportion.
Great, now I have another ominous headache
taking pain pills,
unlike the Ex., which drips on the cerebellum, down the spine.
Drugs kill, by your own will
our generation seems content to live their days blind.
The difference between SICK and ILL.
What if “rhetorical” becomes the thing in question?
I could not decipher the entire meaning in it’s existence.
With each passing day, no matter how I use it,
I lose some lively connection
and you can’t blame me, when I speak of resurrection.
If you were free to mold a timeline of life,
you would want to polish it’s reflection, too!
‘Rather plant my own garden, then wait for God to drop a clue
of how to cultivate the soil.
The dysfunction around me is so soiled
I’ve tried to kill the disease, but the bacteria refuses to be boiled.
And this mold only grows further, no matter how spoiled...
And they do not a thing.
These are only simple words
from a dangerously complex mind.
This is one approach to writing down thought, which I choose.
(I am) a wordsmith; vocabulary, tight in review.
Take these words home.
If I am the Devil, Hell is “home.”
Some segments of time, I feel alone...
Until I meet up with my brothers... Then we are
poetry-in-motion’s crew... Think it thru.
Mike O'Toole
- Vote for this poem -
Please Critique This Poem
Comments
Licked - 6/4/04
(It’s) ripping at the torso
of lips
licked with alcohol
fighting with it, but
nonalcoholic.
Vibes :
dim
mellow
and sick.
“Nifty” is a new Neesa schtick
a study in contrasting dic-tion.
Words are never done
They live in my blood
and shoot out like overloaded gun.
Collapsing in eyes, until permanent residence
is justly won.
Never felt it like this before
and now like a nut, roaming the halls of the hospital,
stinging any crossed white walls I fling balls into;
trapped.
Now, holding energy for reserved relapse!!
I pulled away barbed wire to help your Happiness...
At least, trying,
while writing this just happens to kill droves of stress!
Alter Ego has a compulsive disorder, with which
I’m slightly obsessed...
The flow of words, wrecked...
Maybe this is one to forget?
Mike O'Toole
(transcribed strait from my notebook) :
“ha ha I win I got your pen to work!!!
hey mike it’s neesa ! great poem by the way.
you have a wonderful talent, keep it up and always believe
in yourself. you will go places !” - neesa
June 4 , 2004
of lips
licked with alcohol
fighting with it, but
nonalcoholic.
Vibes :
dim
mellow
and sick.
“Nifty” is a new Neesa schtick
a study in contrasting dic-tion.
Words are never done
They live in my blood
and shoot out like overloaded gun.
Collapsing in eyes, until permanent residence
is justly won.
Never felt it like this before
and now like a nut, roaming the halls of the hospital,
stinging any crossed white walls I fling balls into;
trapped.
Now, holding energy for reserved relapse!!
I pulled away barbed wire to help your Happiness...
At least, trying,
while writing this just happens to kill droves of stress!
Alter Ego has a compulsive disorder, with which
I’m slightly obsessed...
The flow of words, wrecked...
Maybe this is one to forget?
Mike O'Toole
(transcribed strait from my notebook) :
“ha ha I win I got your pen to work!!!
hey mike it’s neesa ! great poem by the way.
you have a wonderful talent, keep it up and always believe
in yourself. you will go places !” - neesa
June 4 , 2004
The Loop - 6/15/04
The heat : ON
So hot
beading bullets of stress bleed.
Old habits rot from their negative consequence.
Responding reflexes in me, tell to move!
Or move on.
‘86 and on...
Numb, after slick bodies merge.
Hate, be GONE.
Numb from such Love
new to the plain of thought.
Mind killing bad habits before they ROT.
STILL stuck...
Gone but not forgot...
Screwed for so long;
Eyes so shot.
Tripped before running begins
foot caught in the gap.
Falling in head... But physically, sitting...
Something fresh and new... On my lap.
I told you I’d become the first to adapt.
“He’s cute and relaxed... With words to keep reflection,
trapped.”
Time ticks on
Summer Blonde and back & forth again.
Stewing in my verbal artillery,
with a lot of blame, but less shame or self-pity.
Fearing, this may actually be some sick trend!
Lucky, at Level Eighteen, to have these friends
and brothers until the enigmatic end, and heaven
all the way thru the hell here.
Trading blows with “M.C.” and my life’s “Switching Gears.”
Just won’t give in!
Remember?
Critics shovel on dirt
...And it’s enough!
Body’s not dead until the soul is pulled & snuffed from
bodily restriction.
A man’s not a popper until there’s a pop addiction!
And so addicted to pop
that the buzz won’t be eased and can’t be securely stopped
in the path of security.
Raising hell with the Crew,
to slow the bell from triggering shocked response.
Let us do it again
a year goes around.
In it’s ranks, attempting to contend.
The fight is finally illustrating the bite in it’s bark.
Now strung sentences are no longer just talk.
Holding respect, but I’d rather stay, and stand at firing- lines
then go your way and take the Walk of Shame out of the gate
wether on the dot, or late.
‘Rather light a cigarette and do shots then
twist personal fate & coil up a dying, unraveling depressed state
almost roped ‘n tied, hanging there until all the tears have drip-dried, and every last Demon has died.
Publication of words, leaves them to be eyed by all able souls
leaving (my) insides empty, yet subtly whole.
Putting them out, leaves some of the warm fire cold and dim.
Writing what is in the mind
reclining; trying to unwind.
Youth flipping in midair
surly bold, in the layout of thought on scratch paper.
Hating the stressful tension of The Loop’s blur!
Back 2 School, and back again, even when it’s long gone.
Keep spinning till dead! Harnessing the momentum, to the end!
Mike O'Toole
So hot
beading bullets of stress bleed.
Old habits rot from their negative consequence.
Responding reflexes in me, tell to move!
Or move on.
‘86 and on...
Numb, after slick bodies merge.
Hate, be GONE.
Numb from such Love
new to the plain of thought.
Mind killing bad habits before they ROT.
STILL stuck...
Gone but not forgot...
Screwed for so long;
Eyes so shot.
Tripped before running begins
foot caught in the gap.
Falling in head... But physically, sitting...
Something fresh and new... On my lap.
I told you I’d become the first to adapt.
“He’s cute and relaxed... With words to keep reflection,
trapped.”
Time ticks on
Summer Blonde and back & forth again.
Stewing in my verbal artillery,
with a lot of blame, but less shame or self-pity.
Fearing, this may actually be some sick trend!
Lucky, at Level Eighteen, to have these friends
and brothers until the enigmatic end, and heaven
all the way thru the hell here.
Trading blows with “M.C.” and my life’s “Switching Gears.”
Just won’t give in!
Remember?
Critics shovel on dirt
...And it’s enough!
Body’s not dead until the soul is pulled & snuffed from
bodily restriction.
A man’s not a popper until there’s a pop addiction!
And so addicted to pop
that the buzz won’t be eased and can’t be securely stopped
in the path of security.
Raising hell with the Crew,
to slow the bell from triggering shocked response.
Let us do it again
a year goes around.
In it’s ranks, attempting to contend.
The fight is finally illustrating the bite in it’s bark.
Now strung sentences are no longer just talk.
Holding respect, but I’d rather stay, and stand at firing- lines
then go your way and take the Walk of Shame out of the gate
wether on the dot, or late.
‘Rather light a cigarette and do shots then
twist personal fate & coil up a dying, unraveling depressed state
almost roped ‘n tied, hanging there until all the tears have drip-dried, and every last Demon has died.
Publication of words, leaves them to be eyed by all able souls
leaving (my) insides empty, yet subtly whole.
Putting them out, leaves some of the warm fire cold and dim.
Writing what is in the mind
reclining; trying to unwind.
Youth flipping in midair
surly bold, in the layout of thought on scratch paper.
Hating the stressful tension of The Loop’s blur!
Back 2 School, and back again, even when it’s long gone.
Keep spinning till dead! Harnessing the momentum, to the end!
Mike O'Toole
Night's Life - 6/25/04
Rolling like rocks,
pillows shielding stress
comes in stock
half dressed from previous evening’s hardcore shock.
Overdosing on legal drugs that fuel the mojo
for underaged peoples.
They greet us, faster then the intentions that’re
dangerous.
With ample pains
and blush
Clique runs the gambit
while I’m tough to all teenage sh*t
tested enough to deal with it
embrace it to barable extent and KILL the excess
baggage
while verse helps to vent.
With a street’s length of friends
calling both our names;
call it Insubordinate, squared.
Dilated pupils in the ‘berbs
Blacks and whites, acting absurd
in spoken word
my broken grammar
and a curse.
X chromosomes are playful to
the beat of poetic pulsation.
The parking lot thrives at night.
Lives fight for flight in the midst of the party.
The beat; so loud, to the INNOCENCE passing by the block.
A dope assembly line of dope, provided by dope dealers
from High School
a pool of Underdogs, Fighters, and Heads;
the one’s who aren't Trust Fund Kids; basking in given riches;
corrupt like b*tches.
We’re all bonded friends,
clawing to sew up our life’s rips and cuts, with stitches
to tie up loose ends.
Inviting propositioned head, to ease the pain of any emotion in brain
this feeling of good, remedies any feeling of cain.
Partying
on vacation from depth
for now.
Trying to make two ends connect.
During the day, other worlds show off their clouds;
full and beautiful.
Youth attracted to destructive behavior.
Attracted to the beautiful...
Just need to lay with her...
To ease the inflammation of tired Insubordi-Nation and
beaten up artistic flavor.
Sins stay in parking lot
Then We walk...
Rolling like rocks,
allies shielding stress.
United, though certain philosophies are as stand-alone
as style of dress.
Cutting loose from curses,
for we are, in truth, lost
yet so blessed to have all this; insane party bullsh*t...
Indicative of the potential to risk it
for a single Poisonous Kiss with the Devil of the body
and Hell-spawn of mentality...
F*ck it... On vacation from depth in thinking... Remember?
This is our shady nightlife...
It’s not as is REALITY!
Mike O'Toole
pillows shielding stress
comes in stock
half dressed from previous evening’s hardcore shock.
Overdosing on legal drugs that fuel the mojo
for underaged peoples.
They greet us, faster then the intentions that’re
dangerous.
With ample pains
and blush
Clique runs the gambit
while I’m tough to all teenage sh*t
tested enough to deal with it
embrace it to barable extent and KILL the excess
baggage
while verse helps to vent.
With a street’s length of friends
calling both our names;
call it Insubordinate, squared.
Dilated pupils in the ‘berbs
Blacks and whites, acting absurd
in spoken word
my broken grammar
and a curse.
X chromosomes are playful to
the beat of poetic pulsation.
The parking lot thrives at night.
Lives fight for flight in the midst of the party.
The beat; so loud, to the INNOCENCE passing by the block.
A dope assembly line of dope, provided by dope dealers
from High School
a pool of Underdogs, Fighters, and Heads;
the one’s who aren't Trust Fund Kids; basking in given riches;
corrupt like b*tches.
We’re all bonded friends,
clawing to sew up our life’s rips and cuts, with stitches
to tie up loose ends.
Inviting propositioned head, to ease the pain of any emotion in brain
this feeling of good, remedies any feeling of cain.
Partying
on vacation from depth
for now.
Trying to make two ends connect.
During the day, other worlds show off their clouds;
full and beautiful.
Youth attracted to destructive behavior.
Attracted to the beautiful...
Just need to lay with her...
To ease the inflammation of tired Insubordi-Nation and
beaten up artistic flavor.
Sins stay in parking lot
Then We walk...
Rolling like rocks,
allies shielding stress.
United, though certain philosophies are as stand-alone
as style of dress.
Cutting loose from curses,
for we are, in truth, lost
yet so blessed to have all this; insane party bullsh*t...
Indicative of the potential to risk it
for a single Poisonous Kiss with the Devil of the body
and Hell-spawn of mentality...
F*ck it... On vacation from depth in thinking... Remember?
This is our shady nightlife...
It’s not as is REALITY!
Mike O'Toole
For Better - 6/2/04
Send a perfect realm
To save
Washing away cain-laced pain
Help to deglorify the Holy Grave;
far away from today.
Train plowing forward
my brain pushed toward it.
Stretched on by wit
that will not fail in darkest hour.
Won’t submit 2 negativity and the way it overpowers.
And I sit and write this
thinking deep in hurt & happiness,
Sweet Laughs & Sin.
Degeneration of the past days (are)
for the better of the resurrection's burst.
The burst burns
skin on broken bracelets
clasping tightly around tattooed soul.
It’s flowing faster then false adrenaline...
Aftereffects force moisture application.
‘Won’t let her give up
she hasn't tasted life yet
tears wasted on inverted tests; forced.
What do you take me for?
I have seen the rock bottom of bathroom floors
giving myself in whole, wither ready...
Ink flowing, or not.
Frustration penetrates any open wounds,
in the loss to articulate the thought beating in the
confines of your mind
Help set it free!
You can, regardless if, in that, you believe!
Look,
coldness is fueled up with warmth of care,
and positive words stick to your mentality’s ribs
and stay there, to drive the wheel
in hopes to heal your Emotion’s Divide,
which draws lines that hide the REAL.
With Smelling Salts, Smoke, and Rosemary...
Reviving beautiful theory.
Who transplanted ideas of writing fast?!
‘Only thing that’s needed is your thought.
Think about the pen-stroke last!
Throwing salt in the wounds that opened in me,
stings against cells that allow dreams to live before
the body leaves.
Look @ the way we act when confused with
“Clique celebrity” and values false prophets have said...
And soldiers have bled for me...To relish in
Government’s false fallacies?
Some secrets are spit out with fashionable lock & key
masked in the magnitude of being blinded in eyeliner
and unable 2 see.
Smear it across, like the culture; goth.
True definition? Lost
warped as it’s touched on by the culture; pop.
A poet, blonde in the ambition to shoot out depth
like endless magazines of ammunition...
Until all the clips drop and harmony comes to fruition!
Salty and squinted eyes, like red-washed orbs of
a life in fight.
In the midst of the battle,
collapse only on your own conditions & by your own will
I can’t let you stay strapped in, on firing lines, folded blind.
You’re too good 2 eat so much darkness.
“Here’s a lighter...SPARK IT!”
Brighten things up, with the light that could
be catching and incinerating your strife, right as I write!
It makes life okay.
Darkness does not.
Iced up and hot, the light soothes the life
just like you
to dance at the fired shots and be content to hop.
...Able to fix all that, in time.
Separated away and left on heels
spine-tinglingly real
exciting
Collisions of white & black, melting into shreds of
metaphor.
So Happy and Alive
able to stand...
It is you, to take this hand.
Pills 2 pop in prescription?
it’s not worth the high, to drop
I don’t want your body 2 die
need you here , Alive
a gift, to just see in your eyes
that, in itself, is enough of a high!
Like artistry, crafted and ripped
train’s head-on collision, to speak Truth, in pure oxygen
NIRVANA...and CheeseRoxMyWrld again
though, I don’t understand the love for rubber bands...
‘Found my friends...They’re over read.
Now...Feel love enough, to birth your version of “THIS”
whatever “IT” is. Make the noise!!!
Everything beautiful, all in your eyes: Poetic Existence.
For the better... Living to drip your colors onto the body of everything touched. Make your mark. Emotion’s chord, struck!
Mike O'Toole
To save
Washing away cain-laced pain
Help to deglorify the Holy Grave;
far away from today.
Train plowing forward
my brain pushed toward it.
Stretched on by wit
that will not fail in darkest hour.
Won’t submit 2 negativity and the way it overpowers.
And I sit and write this
thinking deep in hurt & happiness,
Sweet Laughs & Sin.
Degeneration of the past days (are)
for the better of the resurrection's burst.
The burst burns
skin on broken bracelets
clasping tightly around tattooed soul.
It’s flowing faster then false adrenaline...
Aftereffects force moisture application.
‘Won’t let her give up
she hasn't tasted life yet
tears wasted on inverted tests; forced.
What do you take me for?
I have seen the rock bottom of bathroom floors
giving myself in whole, wither ready...
Ink flowing, or not.
Frustration penetrates any open wounds,
in the loss to articulate the thought beating in the
confines of your mind
Help set it free!
You can, regardless if, in that, you believe!
Look,
coldness is fueled up with warmth of care,
and positive words stick to your mentality’s ribs
and stay there, to drive the wheel
in hopes to heal your Emotion’s Divide,
which draws lines that hide the REAL.
With Smelling Salts, Smoke, and Rosemary...
Reviving beautiful theory.
Who transplanted ideas of writing fast?!
‘Only thing that’s needed is your thought.
Think about the pen-stroke last!
Throwing salt in the wounds that opened in me,
stings against cells that allow dreams to live before
the body leaves.
Look @ the way we act when confused with
“Clique celebrity” and values false prophets have said...
And soldiers have bled for me...To relish in
Government’s false fallacies?
Some secrets are spit out with fashionable lock & key
masked in the magnitude of being blinded in eyeliner
and unable 2 see.
Smear it across, like the culture; goth.
True definition? Lost
warped as it’s touched on by the culture; pop.
A poet, blonde in the ambition to shoot out depth
like endless magazines of ammunition...
Until all the clips drop and harmony comes to fruition!
Salty and squinted eyes, like red-washed orbs of
a life in fight.
In the midst of the battle,
collapse only on your own conditions & by your own will
I can’t let you stay strapped in, on firing lines, folded blind.
You’re too good 2 eat so much darkness.
“Here’s a lighter...SPARK IT!”
Brighten things up, with the light that could
be catching and incinerating your strife, right as I write!
It makes life okay.
Darkness does not.
Iced up and hot, the light soothes the life
just like you
to dance at the fired shots and be content to hop.
...Able to fix all that, in time.
Separated away and left on heels
spine-tinglingly real
exciting
Collisions of white & black, melting into shreds of
metaphor.
So Happy and Alive
able to stand...
It is you, to take this hand.
Pills 2 pop in prescription?
it’s not worth the high, to drop
I don’t want your body 2 die
need you here , Alive
a gift, to just see in your eyes
that, in itself, is enough of a high!
Like artistry, crafted and ripped
train’s head-on collision, to speak Truth, in pure oxygen
NIRVANA...and CheeseRoxMyWrld again
though, I don’t understand the love for rubber bands...
‘Found my friends...They’re over read.
Now...Feel love enough, to birth your version of “THIS”
whatever “IT” is. Make the noise!!!
Everything beautiful, all in your eyes: Poetic Existence.
For the better... Living to drip your colors onto the body of everything touched. Make your mark. Emotion’s chord, struck!
Mike O'Toole
The Fortitude - 5/13/0
Intestinal fortitude, cutting thru the floor
of the limbo between “False” and “True”
cutting thru.
Dedication is black & blue
seeing red for the passed trials of the past DAZE
old & new, private & public school.
Ha! A new set of rules to watch body paint dry to...
If taken seriously,
this fog will obscure the whites of their eyes!
Tangling reel-to-reel tape, trying to rewind
and back step?
We can’t go back, so what are we resurrecting?
What are you thinking?!
Why is there internal lecturing, if humor and depth have
fully swept thru?
Life and Death
still exist!
Life sticks like glue
Death bounces off the philosophical thought we conclude.
“Bunny” flasks and bad intentions segway to the INTERLUDE.
A free ride...???
“Why would we try and sneak thru?”
Who got into The Gates with a counterfeit stamp on hand?
This is the HUMAN, CREATIVE, realm.
Set up camp
build a crib to play in!
Writing...And being blinded by this scorching desk lamp
forget it...
Multiple hand cramps
you come so fast!
I write for blind eyes that absorb life
and can still, brag about what they see
forget M*****...? (Ha HAH !)
The graphic design can’t possibly equal
the magnitude of fun & games
dirty names.
Tripping off the time
TWELVE MIDNIGHT and still stuck in a pattern
stuck in the rhyme.
Paranoid feelings
what?
Who?
Strait.
Only a finger can blind any further
and curse her
out!
Scratching down the words to YELL AND SHOUT
with PRIDE, to feel so alive...
“Oh no! ...
I died...
Oh well...”
...And still fight to build a path
to strive on.
Here is a PEN
a love letter to this artistic blood-letting,
that, if allowed, will never end.
Follow me into the flames
the Pit of Passion and Desire
the rush received, from barely cutting the right wire.
Bombs explode, in creative mentality.
Flowing dreams push thru demographics of urban or suburban.
Segregated confines are taken down, breaking rugged lines
in this artist’s state of mind.
This is,
IN MOTION, Poetry and Reality
A beautiful scar... Inked in time.
Mike O'Toole
of the limbo between “False” and “True”
cutting thru.
Dedication is black & blue
seeing red for the passed trials of the past DAZE
old & new, private & public school.
Ha! A new set of rules to watch body paint dry to...
If taken seriously,
this fog will obscure the whites of their eyes!
Tangling reel-to-reel tape, trying to rewind
and back step?
We can’t go back, so what are we resurrecting?
What are you thinking?!
Why is there internal lecturing, if humor and depth have
fully swept thru?
Life and Death
still exist!
Life sticks like glue
Death bounces off the philosophical thought we conclude.
“Bunny” flasks and bad intentions segway to the INTERLUDE.
A free ride...???
“Why would we try and sneak thru?”
Who got into The Gates with a counterfeit stamp on hand?
This is the HUMAN, CREATIVE, realm.
Set up camp
build a crib to play in!
Writing...And being blinded by this scorching desk lamp
forget it...
Multiple hand cramps
you come so fast!
I write for blind eyes that absorb life
and can still, brag about what they see
forget M*****...? (Ha HAH !)
The graphic design can’t possibly equal
the magnitude of fun & games
dirty names.
Tripping off the time
TWELVE MIDNIGHT and still stuck in a pattern
stuck in the rhyme.
Paranoid feelings
what?
Who?
Strait.
Only a finger can blind any further
and curse her
out!
Scratching down the words to YELL AND SHOUT
with PRIDE, to feel so alive...
“Oh no! ...
I died...
Oh well...”
...And still fight to build a path
to strive on.
Here is a PEN
a love letter to this artistic blood-letting,
that, if allowed, will never end.
Follow me into the flames
the Pit of Passion and Desire
the rush received, from barely cutting the right wire.
Bombs explode, in creative mentality.
Flowing dreams push thru demographics of urban or suburban.
Segregated confines are taken down, breaking rugged lines
in this artist’s state of mind.
This is,
IN MOTION, Poetry and Reality
A beautiful scar... Inked in time.
Mike O'Toole
Open Microphone - 6/23/04
[Open Microphone ]
open, all alone...
Focus on words
block out stress.
Simplicity with a message is worth more
then impromptu metaphor.
The Pen’s Ink is flowing from the Body’s Veins
paper, easing pain.
Tired stereotypes and clichés hurt my faith in Art like this...
Watching Open Mic. sessions tenses nerves,
for, if you go up,
you represent the passion of a Poet’s tears & sweat dripping
from every pore, thru out all of their years.
Take a risk and put pen to Sign-up List.
Say anything you feel, except this.
With a paralyzing beat, comes a spine-tingling chill,
providing an evenly timed framework,
regardless if you choose a style that’s rhymed
or a stanza-driven poem, autographed with tradition’s name.
Famous poets?
Hell,
barely know them!
But emotion...
Emotion?
I always know it!
I own it
and owe it, to Creation’s loins!
Even when this seems like a game, with a questionable point.
Hip pops in surgically repaired joint
This becomes Train-of-Thought...
Prose of a Weathered Man.
Anger threshold, gnawed at until soft
Patience nearly lost.
SO sick of being judged by elders
for Youth,
when my articulated expression can only IMPROVE...
age fuels and hits peak
then, losing the power of COMMODITY, due to loss of
mental prowess;
no longer unique.
Ignore outside NONSENSE
then future confidence will no longer look bleak
sit back
watch the JADED, NEGATIVE people crash in defeat
due to closed minds, blind faith, and senile sickness.
Would you hear this, if there was more like it?
Steel spikes in hair and neck
limping from displasia,
resulting in loose gate.
cannot stop the CREATIVE ENERGY!
Adrenaline possessing beautiful body
bodies of artistry
a body of work
a worked body
a work in progress!
Need to take THE CHANCE
the Point of No Return is blurred.
If anything, Open Microphone is the inanimate object to own
craving animation
Lazurus Complex
INSPIRATION IS ACTING AS BLOOD
Words are oxygen, enstilling life
just as LIVES in your EYE!
Focus the FUEL... Emotion is the UNDYING tool to utilize.
Cries of FIRED ADRENALINE overpower in your CONFIDENCE; clear!
A fighter of broken elements. ‘Earned time to pause on MODESTY.
“The Champ is here...The Champ is here...The CHAMP is HERE!!!”
Mike O'Toole
open, all alone...
Focus on words
block out stress.
Simplicity with a message is worth more
then impromptu metaphor.
The Pen’s Ink is flowing from the Body’s Veins
paper, easing pain.
Tired stereotypes and clichés hurt my faith in Art like this...
Watching Open Mic. sessions tenses nerves,
for, if you go up,
you represent the passion of a Poet’s tears & sweat dripping
from every pore, thru out all of their years.
Take a risk and put pen to Sign-up List.
Say anything you feel, except this.
With a paralyzing beat, comes a spine-tingling chill,
providing an evenly timed framework,
regardless if you choose a style that’s rhymed
or a stanza-driven poem, autographed with tradition’s name.
Famous poets?
Hell,
barely know them!
But emotion...
Emotion?
I always know it!
I own it
and owe it, to Creation’s loins!
Even when this seems like a game, with a questionable point.
Hip pops in surgically repaired joint
This becomes Train-of-Thought...
Prose of a Weathered Man.
Anger threshold, gnawed at until soft
Patience nearly lost.
SO sick of being judged by elders
for Youth,
when my articulated expression can only IMPROVE...
age fuels and hits peak
then, losing the power of COMMODITY, due to loss of
mental prowess;
no longer unique.
Ignore outside NONSENSE
then future confidence will no longer look bleak
sit back
watch the JADED, NEGATIVE people crash in defeat
due to closed minds, blind faith, and senile sickness.
Would you hear this, if there was more like it?
Steel spikes in hair and neck
limping from displasia,
resulting in loose gate.
cannot stop the CREATIVE ENERGY!
Adrenaline possessing beautiful body
bodies of artistry
a body of work
a worked body
a work in progress!
Need to take THE CHANCE
the Point of No Return is blurred.
If anything, Open Microphone is the inanimate object to own
craving animation
Lazurus Complex
INSPIRATION IS ACTING AS BLOOD
Words are oxygen, enstilling life
just as LIVES in your EYE!
Focus the FUEL... Emotion is the UNDYING tool to utilize.
Cries of FIRED ADRENALINE overpower in your CONFIDENCE; clear!
A fighter of broken elements. ‘Earned time to pause on MODESTY.
“The Champ is here...The Champ is here...The CHAMP is HERE!!!”
Mike O'Toole
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