pride-ed
I write too damn much.... / A. A. J. Bradham, better known by the online persona "Pride Ed." / I'm just another depressed, borderline alcoholic writer who does manual labor during the day. / The only thing I strive to aspire to is to become a great writer before I die. This is my last surviving wish in life. / / A predominately write more darker poems now. Everything posted is in no order what so ever, date written, or alphabetically.
When his familiars’ pounced
a little too roughly on the davenport,
the mysteries of the cosmos
flailed about as his soft,
satin bag took a tumble…
Citrine and agate tap-danced
under the bed, as quartz
whizzed wildly through the air
like a shooting star. Opal spun about
like a fiery pirouette, and amethyst –
finding it’s way on the windowsill,
bloomed a kaleidoscope of larkspur
in the sun.
Dec 21, 2015
Dec 21, 2015 at 7:07 PM UTC
she
(*her 2am moods
were monotone
dialogue
on the receiver*)
is at her loudest
in sepia photographs;
fake smiles,
like shotgun blast;
her shrapnel days
fall silently
in-between
cheap perfume
bottles on the
night-stand.
in the drawer is
every memento
she seldom mentions
(*empty, jejune...
hushed
frustrations*).
with each exhale,
her pillow fills with
crumpled words
(*embellishment,
a waking hour's only
comfort...
an insomniac's
internal monologue*).
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 12:00 AM UTC
snuffed out;
on her breath,
a smoke as white as lilies.
i cannot stay here for long
in this charnel house…
the temple that was once her is
shifting,
buckling,
seizing,
burning….
there’s flames licking at the
roof of her mouth.
every vein
reduced to a
nasty, crackling rubber.
every fizzle, every pop!
my nostrils fill
with bile.
my bloated fingers claw
at the charring husk
in her diaphragm....
this time
i cannot escape society’s
witch trial.
Dec 17, 2015
Dec 17, 2015 at 11:57 PM UTC
but I’m just buckshot
caught in a sonnet,
and there’s just too many
shotgun shells
in my diction.
There’s gangrene
in my carrion verses;
each word, a gaping
wound of its own
shrapnel design,
puss-filled and leaking
through wrinkled
notebook paper.
A putrid smell instead of
cheap perfume lingers
on sealed envelopes, —
dried blood
in lieu of a wax seal...
waiting to be opened,
and pressed to a numb chest,
where the infection
can spread again,
and again.
Dec 17, 2015
Dec 17, 2015 at 11:55 PM UTC
i didn’t want their
endless white
with their
cold rooms,
and cold coats,
and cold pen-tips
i didn't want their
sunken IV bags that
resembled
Jesus Christ, or
Mother Theresa
i didn’t want the
pale noise
hammering about
inside my head...
i didn’t want it’s sterile
sadness
humming a lobotomy
Nov 20, 2015
Nov 20, 2015 at 10:58 PM UTC
Remember the days
when our soldiers were
bloated stars,
and we collapsed under the
weight of their misdeeds?
When the eons were multitudes
of bullet holes in our backs?
Betrayal outshined
loyalty in light-years…
Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 7:08 PM UTC
In anatomy class I took notes for you,
while 3am still had it’s way with your bones.
While labeling the patella on a diagram,
I remembered your skinned knees from last Friday
and the way you tricked everyone into forgetting
that you ever had a favorite pair of jeans.
As I jotted down the word ‘femur,’ I imagined
your own shadow straddled over you in
an endless edge of streetlight and crooked blinds.
The way you shuddered each time the teacher said
the word ‘coccyx’ reminded me of the night
you lost your virginity in the back of the library, and the
fact that your ***** stamp was the only thing
that your ******* ex ever loved. A car engine
from somewhere near-by muffled your moans.
Remember how the classics romanticized them
back there? Remember how they also lamented
over the fact that you bombed your midterms?
Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 7:06 PM UTC
For G. H.
The secondhand smoke on your old hoodie
is tendrils of disembodied electricity
mercilessly carving through my diaphragm.
Somehow, I envision ivy climbing the side of an
abandoned house in unkempt droves of static veins…
My throat is cruel in the way that it seeks you,
like in the way squatters seek warmth behind boarded
doors that won’t easily open up.
If we ever kissed, I imagine them dwelling both of
our atriums and airways simultaneously,
and zero degree weather would use our breath
to leave crudely written IOU’s on the only
window still intact. I’d think an angry ghost would appear,
and remind us why we’re there in the first place.
Even then, I’d still like to believe
you’d give me a light all the same.
Oct 25, 2015
Oct 25, 2015 at 11:29 PM UTC
This silent sentinel haunted by time,
Unearthly screams and violent crimes!
Abandoned; decrypted, this barren womb.
In darkling corners, a petrified tomb,
Where unbidden echoes hammer at the walls
As the wraiths creep on their hollow foot-falls.
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 1:26 AM UTC
on silver she flies
this delicate
mother-of-pearls
moon adrift
during the daylight
she's luminous
like snow atop
auburn branches
or like pale petals
from the sky
an ethereal
daydream
fluttering
on a
warm breeze
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 1:22 AM UTC