Exhaustion at its finest.

Noises blend together

And there is no room for kindness.

Feeling lighter than a feather;

Heavier than a bull.

Your being becomes the weather,

the weather becomes your soul.
  Feb 17 Ricki T
An Unconscionable crime
To live and love without you
Sad now to realize
a slow ghost
has no claim on time
I guess you filled up
A tic on this point
A fallen to sleep limb
came back
pins and needles.
For me
A grave only
flowers to high altitudes
nose bleed trickles
proof in deep red death hue
paint to make a sad story sway
And a lengthy jilted tilted stare
dead love gives a look
Hard to bare
  Feb 5 Ricki T
Pagan Paul
For some it is a poetic crime
to ever use an imperfect rhyme.
As the Emperor of enunciation
I embrace differing pronunciation.
So chain not words up in a prison
let them go with their own rhythm.

© Pagan Paul (Sept 2015)
Old poem I found in a notebook, previously unpublished.
I think I wrote it for another site where there were
a lot of snobbish 'academic' poets.
Ricki T Feb 16
You’re really rather tall.
I don’t care for that much,
not really at all.
I know little about you,
though you act like a pig.
You’re kind of a *****.
Your hands are big.
They’re the size of my face.
Too bad you’re a ****
‘cause your nails are short and my ******* are lace
This isn’t about anyone in particular, I just thought of the rhyme and found it kind of funny
Sometimes I write just to write

other times I can't sit still,

my body becomes shaky,

and against my very own will,

I write down my most personal thoughts,

and figures,

and illustrate my fears,

and suddenly it triggers

a waterfall of bottled up tears.
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