The Count of Silver

Time to get out of bed.

Did I tell y'all about the weird specificity,

the sourest of treats.

I had a panic attack and now my coffee is cold.

It just came to me,

a far cry from my high school days.

It’s illegal to kill a patient.

They genuinely thought they could fix it

for money or for themselves.

Why contain it?

These people don’t know right from wrong.

I love what I’ve read,

appreciate all the people who show real love.

Who the fuck does this?

I would like to sing for the dead.

That’s all.

Go ahead, start things rolling.

The old is gone.

lacomtessedargent:

The mother of a friend of mine passed away. Please donate if you can: https://www.gofundme.com/robbies-funeral-fund

Woops, meant to answer that private-like. Ah well.

The Count of Silver

haectemporasunt asked: nice! may i ask what your thesis is about?

It’s on mental disability in the anglo-norman ‘Lai d’Haveloc’ and the middle english ‘Havelok the Dane’

Good news everyone!

Hello everyone! I’m officially a published poet! My work has been included in the Z Poetry Anthology of International Indie Poetry under the name Jitschak Silbernberg!

You can find it here if you live in the US: https://www.amazon.com/Poetry-Anthology-International-Indie-ebook/dp/B01LYM0108/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1474900891&sr=8-2&keywords=z+poetry

or  here if you live in the UK or Europe: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Poetry-Anthology-Int…/…/ref=sr_1_3…

I hope you enjoy it.

And please leave a review if you buy it mentioning my name or the specific name of one of my pieces, if you would be so kind.

Also feel free to reblog this.

Adversus solem ne loquitor

Late night light-staring,

Eye ruining, sleep postponing.

Why wait for the apps to flicker?

Longing for that sign to pop up

Which informs that a sentence

Was typed in your direction

By someone possibly considered

A friend

But who can truly say.

There is just the longing

To reach out and touch

Not physically, but perhaps

That too. To be fair,

When the smoke, as it does,

Reaches into your skull with

Its thin, awful fingers.

When regrets rot you.

What meaningful truth is there

To be found in our hiding places.

They are like ghosts, those skype-bound

Well-wishers, those discordian chanters,

Those twitter birds, those tumblr voices.

What is friend cannot be brand.

There is no love in a mask.

Spirits are cold or poisonous.

There is no two in one.

The same old song is meaningless.

You might all just be as sand.

One might think to find a firm grasp

In you, but in truth, reach out

And all that is found falls through

The cracks in your hands.

Burn the eye in the fire
What compels the sparks to flee?
The smoke too flies ever higher
amongst murmur and star forgotten too easily.

White wine and black clouds
It is a feast among strangers
To those lonesome I’s there are no dangers
like the ruin of their walls like shrouds

There is no refuge in the sky,
Just the stink of ash upon the tongue.
Too much horseshit to decry,
Would rather speak than hold the dung.

The light fades amidst the embers
Leadening the air and turning it clumsy,
What is the last thing the chums see?
So worthless that no one remembers.