the addictions that
afflict so many
Addictions of all
shapes and sizes
So many lost
six feet of
sex and intrigue
Unable to resist
a deadly sin
She ventured away
from her perch
to see him
up close and
She was lost.
during the times
his mouth was
not on hers
Absent hands of
sustain the fix.
a special hell.
Reserved for those
Without his words,
falling from lips
that rivaled heaven.
for another fix
drug of choice
for long legs,
in his fingertips
she can't touch.
To taunt her
times of rebirth
A burning hell
as the time
No longer divine
yet not quite
For her demon
to slip in
the back door
in the midnight hour
For a fix
with poetic words
that have branded
on her newly found
You burned across the eastern sky, luminescence lost in a tail of a comet.
My eyes, gently lit by dawns fingers, faltered with such beauty.
Dead ferns, alight with dew, took a breath in frigid morn.
Fen doused in moonlight - haunted with ghost trails.
Can you feel this fear
Orchestrated by a tear
Made by a scared thought
Pushed by what the mind taught
Listen now to this trembling story
Illustrated by a apologetic sorry
Compacted by a mirror broken
Agony of those words never spoken
Time came when terror made a mark
Erupted to ignite this morbid spark
Darkness becomes a tad complicated
The puzzle is never solved.
They are looked at and pointed at
by children who don't know
that we're supposed to pity them.
Oh Son, Oh Daughter
they have Autism!
Oh, I feel so bad!
The straight jackets and shocks
have turned to stares and mocks.
They didn't to choose to be born this way
a piece of a puzzle that doesn't fit.
We look at them and thank God that its
Its not me.
But the indifference doesn't work.
We thank God that its not us.
But do we ever feel any empathy?
If you could imagine having a retardation
never really fully understanding anything
A chromosomal abnormality that would
affect your whole life forever.
Having to be watched
always having someone taking care of you
you would never have any independence.
Autism seemed to be their name
It wasn't their name.
There is much more to them.
These people used to be tortured
people thought that they had a demon inside of them
that we had to get out.
What we never realized was that
the real demon was us.
do you care to walk the darkness of alley
under the pitched moon of soul cries
haunting is wake upon the darkness alley
fearing a tremble to the spine
cold is the winter dark by misty smoke
lingering in the air surrounding dark
dormant in the still by the lamp post
flickering is the light above the dark alley
by the ghost of poet soul is
circle in the alley by midnight doom
by the gate by dark
BY Deb Harman ©
August always leaves
a humid message as it
skips itself off the calendar.
It tries in its beginning to
be as sweetly pure as July,
entering upon us with
innocently blank blue skies,
but one can spot if looking
the orneriness in its eye.
Two-a-day football practices
and marching bands
gathering to create new steps,
the drumbeats can be heard
by townsfolk as harbinger of
September's impatient knocking,
August stopping that with
its ratchet acts of humidity
attacks and thunderstorms,
the kind that lack cold rain,
warm water rising fog
condensation on the windows
inside insufferably hot cars.
Yes, August, speaks for itself
through the cascading sands
of its 31 days, preferring to ignore
September's insistent cuffing
for as long as it can.
You don't know how lucky you are
You're innocent from the terrible things I've been through
You're the fucking cheerleader
And I'm the fucking freak
You fell in love with a creature incapable of loving back fully
And I fell in love with a fragile fairy so trusting
Here we go again
Into a story told a thousand times
Into a poem told with a thousand rhymes
Here I go again breaking another heart
Here I go again tearing my soul apart
For something I think I deserve I make myself incapable of loving myself or another