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M Grant Teague Apr 2020
A Howl,
Distant but fair.
A Howl,
Prickles fine hair.

It is ethereal
It is sweet
Repeated in time,
It follows the beat.
M Grant Teague Apr 2020
Bed
Will it be empty?
Will it be cold?

Visions of choking stillness.
Visions of growing puddles.

This sacred place.
This capsule of love.
This shared space.

Will it scream,
While I dream?
Will it cry,
While I die?

Will we consume one another?
M Grant Teague Mar 2020
.
Slick, slack, sock,
With a withering wandering walk.
It clings and sings,
Against the stings,
Along the fog of smog.

Fond fuzzy fluff,
Soft soothing stuff
A wiggle, a puff,
A slip, a sizzle, a *****

Legs break and shake,
The world wakes and quakes
Yet we three, are free
Against the wall and waves
Of shock.
One of the few poems I wrote that I love... thought it was time to share it.
Before you say it, yes I know. The "correct" grammer would be my socks and I.
M Grant Teague Mar 2020
This is the time to give:

Eyes to look
Eyes to read

Ears to listen
Ears to hear

Hands to make
Hands to write

Voice to speak
Voice to sing

Heart to help
Heart to heal

Yourself to another
Yourself for another
As we are feeling alone it is time for us to create and consume. To teach and learn. To write and read. To love and accept it. This is a gift to do what we never have time to. To speak with those left behind by our busy lives.
M Grant Teague Mar 2020
Dreams have become me.
The only allowed plain.

To escape in dreams seemed lazy
I judged those that lived like this.

Take the bull by the horns.
Make destiny bow to you.

These are subconscious
These are naive.

Now dreams are where I find love
They are where I find confidence.

They are full stories
Shade from a scorching pain.

I drift and dread the dawn.
It brings shame and endless sorrow.

For a moment I can have joy,
For a minute I can be free.
M Grant Teague Mar 2020
One escape, one door.
Inside lies a closet.
It is dark, ***** and dank.

Not an exit.
Not a haven.
It is only a breath.

Hide without pain here
Under the concrete jugular
Among the dusty antiques.

No promises of peace
No hope of future
Only a chance at air
M Grant Teague Jan 2020
Drinking needles

Sneezing nails

What a meal!

Grazing glass

Snorting sand

Encore!

Licking razors

Sniffing teeth

Glorious vapors we feast again!
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