Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
Tonight the moon stalks my steps,
it watches me with baleful stare
daring me to break my pact.

I know it wants a sacrifice
a body laid out on ice.
But I dare to return your stare.

These iron bars cast lines.
Lines I cannot cross.
Crimes enshrined in moonlight.

You stalk my mind, my soul, my dreams.
You keen to me, to be seen.
You beg more bad to be done, you stalk me when there's none.

My life, this pantomime
© JLB
31/03/2015
03:17 BST
I gave you up to see the difference a month without poetic words would be.
The truth is this, many images thoughts and musings went to die in a sea of letters, crying to be saved.
Cruel, though the exercise was, in denial I found a truth,
words are a doorway to understanding and acceptance.
Words truly are a universal bonding.
Unlike a pill repeated every four hours, words need to be taken continuously.
This I found was quite sublime, surreal and sensuous,
the addiction to sounds in words,
the addiction to vowels and consonants,
the addiction.
On holiday I read the in flight magazine and pictured myself in the basket weaving scene!
I sat and made a rhyme out of the ingredients list on a bottle of HP sauce.
My madness continued, with a limerick in the supermarket,
but they were not written down and they faded away like ink on a parchment.
So, gingerly I have returned to the sea of words to swim and describe the view from shore.
Before my addiction to words leads me to carve in my soft skin;
"Lexicographer is Legion"
"Lexicography is King"
© JLB
30/03/2015
21:19 BST
Stamp your foot in the dust of time,
all that remains is a print, a memory.
Some of us stamp harder, the imprint is clearer.
Their names remembered, their deeds become history.
Their print is set, stuck in time.

Those that softly tread leave a fonder copy in the dust,
but like all faint threads they fade from memory.
Tender footprints imprint on the heart,
their tread copying the rhythm of the owners heart.
Their print is set, stuck in time, forever entwined.
© JLB
29/03/2015
02:56 BST
If you looked into a human face, you would see them slowly dying.
Hair turning grey, wrinkles etching deeper.
The body's shell frailer day by day.
A bag of dead and dying cells.
A body doomed to die.
A meat bag held together by bones,
frail, brittle, breakable bones, bone china skeleton.
You would also see a human trying to defy death's clock.
Botox, facelift, eye tuck, tummy tuck, implants.
Makeup and perfume to mask the stench of death.
Shame.
Why fight the inevitable?
Dying to look young.
© JLB
06/03/2015
13:03 GMT
When did I become a notch?
When did I become a number?
When did I not matter?
When did I become the joke?
When did I deserve that blow?
When did I stop crying?
When did I lose faith in you?
When did I disappear?
© JLB
02/03/2015
18:53 GMT
It started with a glance.
An innocuous chanced glance.
Fate is a cruel mistress,
I was just the mistress.
I'm not proud of the fact.
I don't take pride in being your "bit on the side"
Part of me died when you told me you were married.
But, I couldn't stop being with you, that is,
until the glance.

Ever had the feeling that someone is watching you?
Well, I did, and I looked up.
There she was.
The wife.
I felt the colour drain from the room.
I wanted to run, but Karma had plans.
How alike we were, hair, build, our humour
the only difference were our eyes.
Mine, blue, hers brown.

That's how it happened.
A chance glance at a coffee shop.
We chatted, it would seem we both knew of each other.
I didn't know of the pregnancy.
You should have told me.
But then you knew I'd leave.
Mistress to a married man I can live with.
Mistress to a family man? No.
Even a mistress has some standards.

Over coffee and cake we conspired to rid ourselves of you.
The cake was the key.
And they do say the way to a man's heart is through his stomach.
Anti-freeze or Ethylene Glycol poisoning was chosen.
Embittering agent was nullified by the sweet frosting.
Our combined bitterness made fantastic cakes.
Acute kidney failure in 72 hrs, and, well you were told to stop drinking.
The only questions I really wanted to ask you were,
Do you remember who served you?

Were her eyes brown or blue.
© JLB
02/03/2015
11:08 GMT
When did sorry become throwaway?
When did remorse become a game to play?
When did I become an adult?
When did I lock myself in a vault?

When did life become so serious?
When did life become so meaningless?
When did you and I last cry?
When did we both ask why?

When did we re-evaluate our pain?
When did we measure our gain?
When did you and I remain,
Together,  forever, in emotion and shame?
© JLB
Next page