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 Jan 2020
muteD
‪I wish I could cut my brain into pieces‬
‪and not as a last resort.‬
‪Cut out the sadness,‬
‪the bad memories, ‬
‪the part that never listens,‬
‪all of it. ‬
‪The person looking back in the mirror ‬
‪is more than willing ‬
‪to give up anything as a sacrifice.‬

‪-mD‬
First poem of 2020.
 Jan 2020
Graff1980
Well, me and my guys
are tired and it’s no surprise.
We got to work all day
and never get enough sleep at night.
So, we drive exhausted
and work till our brains are fried.

It’s a slow suicide
with a sad decline,
buts that just how we get by.

With overtime here
and weekend work there,
if I ever see my kids again
they’ll probably be scared
cause I’ve become a stranger
to my kin.

It’s a slow suicide
with a sad decline,
buts that just how we get by.

I got high blood pressure
and now I am in danger
of a coronary event.
Man, I am so ill spent
with this fast food temperament,
cause I have been eating
junk due to its convenience.

It’s a slow suicide
with a sad decline,
buts that just how we get by.

That’s how I die at thirty-nine.
 Jan 2020
Graff1980
Many years ago,
I believed
death would be
a sweet reprieve;

That she was the lover
waiting for me
at the end of the lane.

I dreamed I would
no longer need to explain
in vain the pain
that invaded my brain,

and when I was wrapped in her arms
I would be safe from all harms.

With her cold clench and soft kiss
time for me would cease to exist
and I would dissolve into the mist
of being less than missed,
no longer noticed
in this miserable existence.

Sterile and disinfected
ready to be inspected
when my lover came to claim,

but I no longer deign
to daydream that darkly.
Death is not dressed so sharply.
Now it is more terror and barking
jaws snapping when I am napping
so, I awake in a start
with rapid beats from my frightened heart.

I used to be awed to the point of deafness
and though I finally express and confess this
I no longer long for or miss my mistress.

Death can take a number,
because for now I got this.
 Jan 2020
Graff1980
The river flows
As subtle as a golden rose
Scent straining to reach
Any receptive nose
Firing weird wiring
Synapses flare and glow
I fall into the clutches
Of what all dreamers know
Time and space is vast and fast
But I am small and slow
Beating back the wild waves
Shrinking as much as I grow
Such a sparkly little speck
How little I truly know
 Jan 2020
Graff1980
This is the comedy of life
I guarantee that by night
You will either laugh or cry

This is the tragedy
Life is full of irony
And all of it borders on insanity

And this my dear is the funny part
Life is so hilarious that it will break your heart
Before you even start
Another old poem from 2010
 Jan 2020
Amory Caricia
I love to dance
I like the way
The colored light just hits your skin

I love the way
It tends to stay
So surfaced, and just not sink in

I like how I can smile and laugh
I like how you can run a chat
I love how both of us can tell
We'll never make it close to that

I love to dance
I like it how
My every thought is in the now

I love it when
My guard is down
And all that I tend to allow

I like how that drink tends to sit
I love the way it makes me think
I know the paths that I might take
I love how it just makes me sink
happy and sad
 Jan 2020
Graff1980
One day ago
rays of gold
strayed from the fold
falling and following
paths unknown,
exposing things
unshown,
nourishing plant
ungrown.

Sometime
in the past
I sat back
and basked
in that
brand new light,
felt the rush
and blush
of new warmth
rising from within
ready for the sharing,
nurturing and caring
to conquer previous
shades of despairing.

Now, I am replenished.
My spirit once diminished
stands elevated and nourished
by the cherished light,
even though that glorious ray
has given way to the end of the day
and now I lay in evening shade,
I still sing its sweet praise.
 Dec 2019
Graff1980
Once in a December
when the bodies we remember
grow colder
while living loving ones
grow older.

Skin folds with time passing.
Memories fade far away,
unless we ask our parents about the past.

I use verses and flows
to go where we know
these shadows still exist.

Flickering images
faltering under the weight of
all the loved one
we have lost,
barely lit by the candlestick
that drip and drips
losing itself
like little flecks of sand
falling out of a broken
hourglass.

I know all this will pass.
My memories
and the ones of me
will fall and fade to ash
as the world we know
is incinerated
by the fires of time.

We will not be
the red phoenix
of which children dreamed.

No resurrection
of rebirth
on this blue orb we call earth.

All that was, is dust,
and all that will be
will return there shortly.
 Dec 2019
Graff1980
What a lovely red pen
that inks it way beneath
the parchment skin.
Till, all markings become
oh so, permanent.

Pointed penetrator
that writes precise
but terrible delights,
as delicious desires
obscure the facts
with flights of
fanciful abstract
creative acts.

With these
written confessions
I call back
to my past
and ask
where did I acquire
this brush
that paints with fire,
burning with bristling fibers
setting sunrises ablaze
as I begin each day
pursuing the same.

I deliberate
as others wait,
and use my time
to compensate
for this transient state
by trying to create
something that will
live just a little bit longer
then me.

All things change.
The pen becomes
the special brush.
Then in time
like all that I find
the things I use
to write my story
disintegrate,
to the waste of fate.
 Dec 2019
Graff1980
It’s not nineteen eighty-four
anymore but we are still
waging a non-aging
information war.

Still pushing mixed metaphors
in a malformed mob mentality
that leads us to this brutality.

This not Mortal Kombat
but war mongers keep bringing back
uncountable atrocities and fatalities
too numerous to count
as we drown in blood and sorrow.

We got the worst case
of a full human race
ground hog’s day
where no one learns
that we need to change our ways.

The pressure is building up
the boiling tops
of racist *******
just looking for
the perfect chance to explode
and drop their lava like load
of violence and destruction.

It wouldn’t take much
just a little more love
for all of us
even the lonely street people.

But it seems to me
that these hopeful dreams
are just coins in an empty fountain,
like I am the last one
up this fractured mountain
where compassion got dropped off
at the tippy top
and now it is just a blood smear
on the city sidewalk.
 Dec 2019
muteD
I can’t get comfortable.
I keep twisting and turning,
turning and twisting.
I hate this time of day.
It’s too quiet.
It’s too dark.
It’s too cold
and it’s too lonely.
My body wants to sleep
but my mind is too awake.
It’s awake and it’s screaming
in agony.
Wanting to be heard
but needing to rest.
Wrote this at like 3 am today..
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