“Trespassers not welcome” Gun Roswell
A heavenly garden beckoned strangers
A welcome sign at the gateway abrupt
All trespassers will be shot
Today nothing special
“Way too ‘blah’ to move” Gun Roswell
Today like another day, you see
Nothing special happened
The weather got the best of me
Siting in my chair, feeling crappy
It doesn’t matter if it rains or snows
Even if the cold wind blows
I always find my excuses
Those are better than being a looser
Doing nothing is an art form
If you lazy about without getting scorned
Find what ever reason
Hell that is hardly treason
Writing is sometimes hard
“Today too I do write” Gun Roswell
Ithought I was able
To tell any fable
But seems I was wrong
But I have to stay strong
It may not be a block
Just that I have so much in stock
Writing every single day
Without any time for play
But if I stop even for a moment
I will continue myself to torment
Write now or never do so again
Is how I my days spend
I am not giving myself slack
Due to so many years running amok
Not writing when the time was there
So now I have none to spare
But I need some rest too
Recharge my batteries just like you
But I am so afraid to stop
What if I really run out of luck
Writing is the thing I love
My outlet when life stops being fun
It seems a double edged sward
And I am still waiting for my award
So enough of this babbling
I will rest and later try dabbling
In some other type of story
Just hoping for a moment of this not to worry
Another day gone by
“Today I accomplished absolutely nothing, and that’s fine.” Gun Roswell
Another day, so many plans
Sitting in my chair, trying to figure out the perfect scam
How to get away with doing nothing
And still having to show a little something
My times a waisting
When I am chasing
Too many things on my plate
So why do I hesitate
I want to do everything
And end up doing nothing
Just thinking about it all
Makes my head blow into a giant ball
Trying to do a little at a time
Might, for some, be just fine
Unfortunately, I am not that kind
I would rather be flying
Being impatient
Being unable to choose
I will soon end up a patient
With everything to loose
Still sitting, a day gone by
It went on the fly
Oh why oh why can’t I
Enjoy a little leisure time
And do things Mañana
Sicko
“Times a waisting, when you are sick” Gun Roswell
Congested, achy, feverish, sneezing
You know that total feeling
When not one moment to yourself can be stealing
Just waiting in laying, for that body to be healing
When the outside noises are too much
Cannot even stand an other’s touch
Everything covered in sweat, but still freezing
And there is a constant in my ears, they’re ringing
But cannot answer that call
It must be some infection and puss ball
Cannot drink, nor anything eat
Just siting up staring in this seat
But then I fell like fainting again
So I need to go and more time in bed spend
Seems to be the trend
For this damn bend
Yes I really am sick-o!
Life?
“Time, is running out, for all of us?” Gun Roswell
Life, down the drain it goes
Always saying, maybe tomorrow
But that, never happens in time
Waisting time, seems to be just fine
Always the onlooker, never the one with life
Never taking, never giving
Around myself only spinning
Frozen, in a box, which never unlocks
Watching, other people’s accomplishments
Peeping, at their special moments
Feeling the burn and torment
Trying to shout, but nothing ever comes out
Is this life or purgatory
Or just another wasted story
Nothing gained no glory
Only strife and continued worry
Looking out from my grey box
Hoping a colourful rainbow to spot
Wishing for a tiny drop
Instead of a thundery storm
Stormy horizon
“Thunder is always a much welcome delight or fright? ” Gun Roswell
Red on grey linger longer
Anticipating thunder and rain, in magnitude ten
Best way, the day spent
Straight lines
“This is some sort of shadow play isn’t it?” Gun Roswell
Dark and light lines across
The concrete and water cross without hesitation
Try not to step on
Black
“The colour of my very soul” Gun Roswell
Cat as black as night
Omen or intuition, you must decide
Or, it’s just an animal
Spring Sunday
“Shiny, slow, Sunday” Gun Roswell
Woke up late
Did not hesitate
To jump outside
Feeling the open wide
Alas the hot air
Felt bad on my fair
And delicate skin
Because I’m a Finn
And not used to degrees
Over thirty odd seems
So now, sitting
Inside thinking
What could be cool
And no require tools
But there is nothing
To choose from
Sunday fun
It’s just a pun
Invented by
Someone who denied
The whole day
And went somewhere
Else to play
Rantings Of A Third Kind 