mutteredthemuse - Hello Poetry

Are you moving? or just re-locating? I hope you remember to pack all of you... Or perhaps that's exactly what you've hoped to have left behind- of course starting over is nothing truly anew. Maybe you just need a vacation or a change of view perhaps try re-decorating with things that are not really you. Just don't set up shops or make your bed with security blankets- the stock you take fluctuates in interest. Why do we bother to clean pick-up, dust and preen? Oh, how these routines are so boring! Perhaps that's why we travel and plan- do all that you can Change it up, try something new- feel free to live richly and take it all in. But as you lay down your precious head wherever you choose to keep your bed rest assured you're always home no matter where- how far or long you may roam.

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Nov 24, 2014

Nov 24, 2014 at 7:36 AM UTC

Where Are You?

Are you moving? or just re-locating? I hope you remember to pack all of you... Or perhaps that's exactly what you've hoped to have left behind- of course starting over is nothing truly anew. Maybe you just need a vacation or a change of view perhaps try re-decorating with things that are not really you. Just don't set up shops or make your bed with security blankets- the stock you take fluctuates in interest. Why do we bother to clean pick-up, dust and preen? Oh, how these routines are so boring! Perhaps that's why we travel and plan- do all that you can Change it up, try something new- feel free to live richly and take it all in. But as you lay down your precious head wherever you choose to keep your bed rest assured you're always home no matter where- how far or long you may roam.

31

Brain is dead heart is bled heavy chest interrupted breaths grave moments crashing sobs temples throb ****** torture wax-paper wipes comfortless needs paintbrush umbrella wrestling pillows writhing limbs screams inside loud as red hands tick and tremor long and never pitiful depths of mire morose prose lingers instead.

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Aug 22, 2014

Aug 22, 2014 at 6:09 PM UTC

The Woe I Know

Brain is dead heart is bled heavy chest interrupted breaths grave moments crashing sobs temples throb ****** torture wax-paper wipes comfortless needs paintbrush umbrella wrestling pillows writhing limbs screams inside loud as red hands tick and tremor long and never pitiful depths of mire morose prose lingers instead.

21

There are grapes in my path This abundant trail now invisible as if we never were Here, to pick and preen, salvage and reap for pleasure and pain I picked you some flowers, I baked you a pie, labors of love with your own hands connected to earth. Breaking backs, and clinging sweat Under wool, denim, straw, and cotton Keeping more out than simply the sun Depleted soil Exhausted soul Bursting with juice Bountiful and hand chosen And you in a hurry just drive by Dust in the wind Skin of clay mud Day after day, A boulder among the rows Hunched in fields Blistered and callused Searching for more Ripe for the picking Migrants moving Servitude by season Benevolent harvest Handpicked strawberries By chocolate covered hands destined from birth closer to earth.

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Aug 22, 2014

Aug 22, 2014 at 6:08 PM UTC

The Grapes In My Path

There are grapes in my path This abundant trail now invisible as if we never were Here, to pick and preen, salvage and reap for pleasure and pain I picked you some flowers, I baked you a pie, labors of love with your own hands connected to earth. Breaking backs, and clinging sweat Under wool, denim, straw, and cotton Keeping more out than simply the sun Depleted soil Exhausted soul Bursting with juice Bountiful and hand chosen And you in a hurry just drive by Dust in the wind Skin of clay mud Day after day, A boulder among the rows Hunched in fields Blistered and callused Searching for more Ripe for the picking Migrants moving Servitude by season Benevolent harvest Handpicked strawberries By chocolate covered hands destined from birth closer to earth.

33

Shhh! I'm straining to hear (I admit, this is my greatest fear) thundering, rolling silence boulders loosened parched from a dry spell not able to find the words to tell nor a drop in the hollow well a writers ramblings that freely clutter thoughts, ideas, those clever lines I mutter All taken for granted, perhaps there's just nothing more needing to be said, it never before felt like a chore Comfortable as clockwork, like a heartbeats drum Absent, broken, chaotic ideas now that make me look dumb A river of words, a waterfall of passion, that carries me taken by the current now lost at sea Dry and dammed, a beavers work, also called 'writers block', a place where evil idleness may lurk Reassured by friends and family to not worry it will be back and come in a flurry But they don't hear the voice or comprehend inspiration is not a choice Yet I should confess I am responsible for this lazy mess It's not as though I haven't tried "I wrote a little today," I lied. Sterile white paper mirroring my thoughts, blank stares inky shapes, pixels, sans serif, no one cares Interrupted by any distraction Even the most tedious jobs holds some attraction Mopping, scrubbing, fluffing, dusting Acid in those scribbled notes on torn paper rusting **** in chair with rolling fingertips like the roll of a drum Waiting for that muse, my writing voice to come...

0

Aug 22, 2014

Aug 22, 2014 at 6:01 PM UTC

Suffering in Silence

Shhh! I'm straining to hear (I admit, this is my greatest fear) thundering, rolling silence boulders loosened parched from a dry spell not able to find the words to tell nor a drop in the hollow well a writers ramblings that freely clutter thoughts, ideas, those clever lines I mutter All taken for granted, perhaps there's just nothing more needing to be said, it never before felt like a chore Comfortable as clockwork, like a heartbeats drum Absent, broken, chaotic ideas now that make me look dumb A river of words, a waterfall of passion, that carries me taken by the current now lost at sea Dry and dammed, a beavers work, also called 'writers block', a place where evil idleness may lurk Reassured by friends and family to not worry it will be back and come in a flurry But they don't hear the voice or comprehend inspiration is not a choice Yet I should confess I am responsible for this lazy mess It's not as though I haven't tried "I wrote a little today," I lied. Sterile white paper mirroring my thoughts, blank stares inky shapes, pixels, sans serif, no one cares Interrupted by any distraction Even the most tedious jobs holds some attraction Mopping, scrubbing, fluffing, dusting Acid in those scribbled notes on torn paper rusting **** in chair with rolling fingertips like the roll of a drum Waiting for that muse, my writing voice to come...

34

The night falls heavy in its hours Afraid of the dark corners of your mind fear what you may find alone in the space between you and vast nothing openly suffocating a blanket of night you fall asleep fall in love fell for it when burglars creep and crawl with malice lovers steal kisses and tears that fall like night In hazy dark cities lights blur through salty tears busy streets empty years Safe and sound of silence is golden memories Behind you lingering in the shadows of loneliness loudest at nightfall

0

Aug 2, 2014

Aug 2, 2014 at 9:54 AM UTC

After Sunset

The night falls heavy in its hours Afraid of the dark corners of your mind fear what you may find alone in the space between you and vast nothing openly suffocating a blanket of night you fall asleep fall in love fell for it when burglars creep and crawl with malice lovers steal kisses and tears that fall like night In hazy dark cities lights blur through salty tears busy streets empty years Safe and sound of silence is golden memories Behind you lingering in the shadows of loneliness loudest at nightfall

33