Sunday morning,
the air froze, the dahlias
once bloomed angry,
now they shiver and sigh.

Autumn breeze, faint but still,
the padded ghost-steps
of your laugh, running wild,
like vintage photographs;
scattered Polaroids of
my memory - a smile here,
a grimace there.

How the heat of
emotions buries itself
in the clothes of yesterday,
How difficult it is to
fetch from the seams.
The needles only *****
at a faint feeling.

I wonder; do you forget me
as winter forgets the living?

Because once an old man
told me I had sad eyes

Sunsets melt to chalky lines,
like cigarette stubs, they died
when you met her.

These days only my fingers
remember summer,
I touch the hearts of others
to warm them too.

My voice wind chimes,
the eulogy of the storm,
when I breath your
name I shudder...

And listen-
because I am in
the echoes
of her, of us.

Frost bites at an empty hand
Snow covers and empty land
Hats cover hairless heads
Tombstones cover the freshly dead
Familiar faces wear stranger's smiles
I've been lost for many miles
My old home forever lost
A new one found, but at what cost?

a good poem comes
from a destructive soul

agony
   pain
     heartache

every emotion
ripped to shreds

   spewed words
filled with contempt

   words that burst
from outlined fonts
to explode
before the eyes
of the willing

we seek those
who are desperate to grasp
just one sentence
of pure and utter
depravity

we don't want
   sing song

we want descriptive
paragraphs
that come from
a war torn
soul

we want
battered feelings
left to wither
and die
among the fingertips
of a keyboard

we want the depressed
degenerated
perverted
mind
to produce
a colorful, kick in your face
strangulating
paragraph
that swirls, flows
and cascades
into the thirsty heads
of the *******.


we want good poetry.

and we want it now.

Keep me away from the happy ones,
Believe me, I'll make them sad,
In their naivety and ignorance,
They've found a light,
I won't switch it off, for them,

And for all the things I'm rightly accused of,
Being a sadist won't be one,
And I do not want to graduate into it,
Let me be,
For their happiness, and my own

I have cultivated this person,
I have known this person,
And been on the receiving end,
Before I switched sides

For reasons you will never understand,
And have no doubt, I expect you not to,
Please,
Just let me be

Politics
At least that what they call it
I call it lies.
I call it The Cold War
The Holocaust
The war between the states.

I'm here to help you
At least that's what they say
But all I hear
Are all the broken families
Cries of children that haven't eaten
The graduate that is jobless and depressed

I want to be your next president
But from all of their mouths,
All I hear is
I'm here for my own gain.
That's all I hear
From every **** politician.

I always seem to have needed lots of time
To stare......at nothing
I went through my entire education
Staring through windows
At nothing much
Indeed, the essence of a good stare,
Is not to focus on anything
But to find that comfortable place
Where thoughts can wander
To find nourishing places to dwell
Where poetry is born

                                     By Phil Roberts

My heart is full of silent screams
Of anger and of pain
My eyes are always filled with tears
Day, after day, after day
My hand reaches out for help
But all that’s there is empty air
So I fall down into darkness
Where no one can hear me wail
I feel like a wild beast
Locked inside a tight cage
I claw and tear at the walls
And show the entire world my rage
I shall never know the bliss
Of silence in my life
All I feel are the wounds
Made by a sharp knife

It won't stop for a minute,
It won't keep pace if you slow down,
I didn't need more proof of its insanity,
When I realised,
This world keeps spinning, around

salty tears
fall into my glass of wine
offering a foggy sense
of composure.