Justin S Wampler

Justin S Wampler Dec 2021

Been here before,
done this a thousand times.
Yet still I find
something new.

Dec 2021

Eshwara Prasad

Untitled

In the poet's eyes, a flower smiles.
In the eyes of a miserable person, that flower is crying.
The world revolves around your emotions.

Justin S Wampler Nov 2021

Monosyllabic

It's true that I'm not there.
I'm not here, nor have I been.
I find that I fade, that I wave
in the wind like a sun dried flag.
I crack on the edge, I chafe and I chap.
The sky shines bright with white light,
and those rays beat me to a pulp.
I am baked, stewed, and steamed.
The crows' caws sound like
an old worn door hinge
as they start to come for me.
The coarse sound of rust.
Their beaks tear and gnash,
my crisp skin must be good.
They save my eyes for last,
on a mere whim.
Now I soar with them,
my dark wings spread.
I am not here, I am
not there.
Yet.

Justin S Wampler Nov 2021

Spring City

It was when time didn't exist.
We threw out the clocks,
and I didn't own a watch.
Couldn't keep time for ****.
It was when we tossed it all aside
for a drunken night drive
up and down the twisted skids.

We were an ode to recklessness,
a bitter song of youth.
We were truth,
we were soaked with it.
I focused on getting lit,
and not giving a ****
about anything beside
having a good ******* time.
We were the New Street crew,
the spot was only one room
but we had the bunk beds
and still pulled ******* too.

Both getting paid out,
at least until
the unemployment ran out
even then we still
kept on keeping on,
listening to those same ****** songs.
In that same ****** room,
ripping the same ****** bongs.
We were brothers back then.
We were brothers.

Clocks came back, life found us hidden.
I was waking up with burns on my skin.
I was waking up without anything
to keep me from going at myself again.
He saw that dread,
that the bitter voice in my head
always painted on my face
and it turned into a race.
A race to the end for me,
a race to be gone for him.
He was my brother,
and I was a freeloading *******.

Justin S Wampler Nov 2021

The mail lady

I see her every now and then, always briefly.
She's busy these days. Holiday season. Peak.
The little white van is gone before I know it,
she's in and out of it in a flash of packages.
A blizzard of letters.

She delivers them precisely, but not rigidly.
She flows, dances with deliveries.
She carries Christmas cards and bills,
her arms full of presents come early.
She brings pen pals to fruition,
she brings eviction notices.
She dances with deliveries.

I smile and watch,
idly sifting through my new envelopes.
Bill from my therapist, local tax reminders,
coupons for the hardware store.
Oh, and a birthday card from my Aunt!

I want to ask the woman in the little white van
if there's anything else for me. A letter from Dad maybe.
Foolishness.

Maybe I'll start buying more things for myself,
making sure to ship them USPS. Little tchotchkes,
trinkets or what have you, it wouldn't matter.
Just to have her dance my way more often.

Justin S Wampler Nov 2021

Untitled

I base my personality
off of other people.

Though I've been rather alone.

Who am I supposed to be now?

Justin S Wampler Nov 2021

Bliss

I envy the fools.
The plethora of vapidity
must come as a relief.
I want to be stupid.
I want to be dumb.
Free me of introspection,
grant me ignorance.
I crave idiocy,
I idolize moronic perspectives.
I've spent five years
practicing being dull.
Honing my imbecility.
Searching for bliss.
Hunting for mental silence.