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I Know how the moon feels.


Used to reflect the haughty brilliance

of a star too arrogant to close

his eye to the night sky.


Does the sun not see the frozen

tears that stain her face?


I often wish to be cold and empty, too.

To pass- silent and unnoticed through

my own dark expanse.


To keep my thoughts,

my secrets,

my tears behind the black.


Yes! I know how the moon feels.
You will always be the broken

structure where I hide

in my hypocrisy.


Yes, I shall build my crypt

with your stone, and I

will be the mortar;


Stacking you high into the

shadows overhead;


holding you fast where I

deem is your home;


My mortar will hold you!


Indeed, it shall outlast your

stone;


Holding it's vague shape

in chalky, skeletal ruin while

men gaze, not knowing what

that shape could mean.


© Nathan A. Brock
My rage is a dandelion seed head scattering
to the wind; I can't catch
every piece.

Though, sometimes, one may float
into my palm, and I examine it to find
that the spiky yet soft hairs of the fury white drifter make no sense to me.


© Nathan A. Brock
My desk is a boring place.

I sit for hours scrolling through
long lists of emails, service requests;
barely enough coffee inmy cup
to erase the blur from my screen.

Ahh, my desk is a
boring place.

There’s a cat on my calendar that
stares at me in aperpetual state of
nervous anticipation,
as if awaiting my next movement
that it might spring out of view
and hide beyond the edge of it’s page.

But it doesn't- it sits and
gawks unmoving.

Outlook pings...

Yet another printer is down.
The same printer from last week.

What an absolute headache
printers are. But, at least it
relieves me of my desk.

My desk is a
boring place

When I return I may write a
line or two, but don't expect
too much.

Not from this poem.

This poem is a
boring poem.

© Nathan A. Brock
I've forgiven you countless times,


but I still fade into drunken moments

when my only company

is the light peaking under the door.


why do the dead task me so?


I have nothing to offer your memory,

yet it watches from silent corners,

waiting for... something.


I don't know what!


I have nothing for your memory!


Let it return to your rot, and

leave my nights to their own peace.



©Nathan A. Brock
You are a tequila sunrise
and I take my bourbon
neat.
Nathan A Brock Jan 2020
I saw her in an arts district tavern -
a simple pub of lesser classes;
not her people, yet there she was -
absently finger ******* her Iphone
with a sea breeze before her.

Her overwhelmingly basic presence
soured my bourbon with unpleasant
notes of disdain, but this city is free,
I suppose, and this beverly-belle
is free to foul whatever air she pleases;
just as I am to limit my tolerance
to those of my own station.

So, paying my tab, and boarding
the Metro , I retreated to my skid row hovel
where I continued to drink until
shadows blurred with tilting earth,
and my body sunk into carpet stained
with god-knows-what.

Not the place I dreamed of, but
at least I know where my place is.
I felt that I should give a small explanation for this. My father was a heavy alcoholic, so I often got to witnesses first hand how the substance can distort the mind and inspire blind hatred. The "I" in this poem is loosely based on him.
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