I can't escape my mind, there's a sickness growing Inside for these feelings I can't abide...im constantly looking back at my conscience it had provoked a fire in my heart in which cannot be tamed...when two worlds collide only one can be hung on the wall and framed...

Payday to payday
Is there any other way?
I’d call out a mayday
But what would I say?
I’ll pay it back someday?
But there is no way.
The outlook is gray.
Nothing saved for a rainy day.

Coins jingling in the pocket
Paper money makes no sound.
The coins are pennies and a dime
That I just found on the ground.
Some days my nest-egg can
Be counted as just a few cents.
I have grown used to living without
Much of a sense of recompense.

Payday to payday
Is there any other way?
I’d call out a mayday
But what would I say?
I’ll pay it back someday?
But there is no way.
The outlook is gray.
Nothing saved for a rainy day.

Nothing like any kind of income
About which I can easily brag.
No shiny stuff, never any bling.
No limo, no Rolex, no swag.
Though I did once dream of
Living in a ritzy sprawling place,
That kind of daydreaming is
For someone who won the race.

Payday to payday
Is there any other way?
I’d call out a mayday
But what would I say?
I’ll pay it back someday?
But there is no way.
The outlook is gray.
Nothing saved for a rainy day.

It’s often called The Rat Race
But I have a problem with that.
I saw a whole lot of fat cats
But I never saw even one rat.
I think it’s better to call them
What they actually happen to be.
They’re hard workers, underpaid.
They’re the working class, they’re me.

I hold your letters with such delicacy in the fear that one wrong move will destroy them forever.

It has to be said that
I've always thrived in dives
And stumbled in polite society
You see, I tend to talk too much
And laugh in all the wrong places
These modern eternals hate me
Because I smoke and I'm still alive
And I constantly smell of tobacco
So I'll stick to the dives
And the undemanding low-lifes
Who, like myself
Simply do not care

                             By Phil Roberts

I can be violent
I can be calm
I can wreak havoc
I can cause harm
I can be wishes
I can be dreams
I can be hope
I can be screams
I can be a lover
I can be war
I can be nothing
I can be more
I can be anger
I can be hate
I can be an enemy
I can be a mate
I can be a song
I can be a book
I can be a moment
I can be a look
I can be a quote
I can be a word
I can be silent
I can be heard
I can be Woman
I can be Wife
I can be Mother
I can be Life

by Arcassin Burnham


Old heads in the kitchen pouring drinks
for everyone,
Thoughts are on vacation and his body
blocked the sun,
Flowers from his home cause his thoughts
were made to run,
playing back movies his head when he
was a child having fun,
alone,
you have no idea,
this man is broken,
he'll fit the bill,
keeps his faith at home,
leaving but you won't be here tomorrow,
leaving but you can't cure all your sorrows,
your just one man,
we all understand,
your worth.

http://arcassin.blogspot.com/2016/03/leaving-tomorrow.html

It's too easy
my mind gets up and goes
it's too hard to relax
to know what to do
I'm stronger everyday
until I relapse
and think of you.

I wonder if the tree bears no fruit;
Would you climb it anyway?
I wonder if the sky is blank;
Would you gaze up anyway?
I wonder if the flower doesn't bloom;
Would you pick it anyway?
I wonder if you need not of me;
Would you still remember anyway?

All flat footed and slow drowning in syrup
flat lined poetry from a dead poets last breath
no more song to squeeze out your mind
because your heart refuses to budge
and so you drown real slow, slow, slowly
no more to sing of wonders awakening your heart
because your heart is dying, dying, dead.

Schizophrenia is a private cell
Reserved for just one in the depths of Hell,
A place without an exact location,
A damnation found in desperation

For an escape from feeling trapped inside
The spot you sought refuge and tried to hide
From vicious voices, all disembodied.
Solitude's precious, but also oddly

Does enough to make you feel too alone.
Perhaps you'll miss some voice's monotone
Droning that lectured, but still seemed to care,
Though some of those voices wrought your despair.

You mustn't forget some voices are real,
And yet, those can often cause your ordeals.

I've kept this pain away.
Held it at bay,
since the day
of Your
unwanted
touch.

Now You are old.
I take care,
as this is My loving
duty. Reversal of
roles.

Time has stilled
the tremors
of angst.
Turmoil and
discomfort.

Yet, when bothered,
Your harsh tones
enter My body
and heart,
unwanted.

Perturbation
with words,
accusations that
I was the
troubled one...

Grown Woman
that I am,
I find myself
11 years old
once again


Copyright © 2016. Christi Michaels.
All Rights Reserved