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 Sep 2014 Connor Reid
jt
Routine
 Sep 2014 Connor Reid
jt
Inspired by As I Walked Out One Evening by W.H. Auden

As I walked out one evening under the blanket of dark blue sky
Thinking about the week to come
Will the days be remembered, or rather wasted and forgotten?
Each tired child thinks the same thought.

Sunday nights slip into Monday mornings
Mondays slowly become Tuesdays;
Yet somehow the days become one
Each tired child unable to differentiate each day from the last

Wake up, brush teeth, brush hair, repeat.
Math, English, read, write, factor, and repeat.
Return home, work, eat, sleep and then repeat.
Each tired child thinks, “Is this really living?”

Stuck in a labyrinth of concrete
Routine forces every move
Taunted by the warm blanket left behind, only to leave a blanket of papers
Each tired child stares at the ticking clock.

Thoughts interrupted by bells at the same time
Routine consumes every thought
Each indistinguishable day
Where each child struggles to lift heavy eyelids.  

Same faces seen every day
Same places seen every day
Weeks blur into months, which in turn disappear in the minds
Each tired child fights every robotic move.

Closing doors and opening books
The teachers scream and roll their eyes
Where thoughts aren’t thoughts unless they are in Times New Roman
Each tired child strives to be heard.

As I walked out one evening under the blanket of dark blue sky
Thinking about the years to come
Routine is inescapable while spontaneity is a distant myth dreamt up in the minds
Of each tired adult who forgets what it’s like to be a child.
crystal - clean - clear - concise - cold
the juncture
the fracture
the untold stories
the harp crafted in mildew

so many things
so many many bits of things
square and curved and round things
and roads of never ending things
lots and lots and lots of things

the things would stretch
from here <
> way into the distance
to really really really
..........................................................­...................................  small things

dreams
defrosting
like tomorrow's chicken
waiting
to be cooked with love
unfold its
crispy juiciness

call me crazy
feel free
get in the queue
turn it up to 10
make yourself comfortable
gimme another shot
if there's something I do know

**we have time
 Apr 2014 Connor Reid
Coral
i cant forget
the juice of his lips
or
his touch on my hips
my apologies, but
a list full of wishes
brought me to this
reminiscence
of a gentle spring kiss
spring kiss poem poetry short expression emotion love
 Apr 2014 Connor Reid
Coral
I wanted to be the wind.

I wanted to be the wind flowing through each strand of his hair. I wanted to be the moon, bathing him in my light. I wanted to be his wisdom. I wanted to be the blush in his cheeks. The chill that traveled down his spine and the warmth of his soul. I wanted to be the itch underneath his skin when his thoughts were troubled. I wanted to be his consolation; and his isolation. I wanted to be the blur in his drunken vision. I wanted to be his dreams. I wanted to be his fixation in the night sky and the sweet seduction of his daylight. I wanted to be the plant that he watered with his kindness. I wanted to be the glass that tasted his lips, the breath that escaped his lungs and the oxygen that flowed through his blood. The stardust sticking to the walls of his veins. I wanted to be his lingering melancholy. I wanted to be the tears that once had the chance to live inside his eyelids. I wanted to be every door handle that his fingertips caressed. I wanted to be the saliva resting on his tongue. I wanted to be each and every heartbeat that kept him alive for a moment longer.
Can you understand?
Because I can’t.

I wanted to be the life that he questioned, the life that left him speechless. I wanted to be the information that he craved.

I wanted to be everything.
I wanted to be her.
I wanted to be me.
 Apr 2014 Connor Reid
Coral
don't**
ask me what i think about poetry
i never think about poetry
but
sometimes more often than others
words will creep into my skull
and dance around my soul
they'll bicker with each other
and grasp at each others hair
until i am forced to release them
from the damp of my fingertips
and exhale them
like the dense clouds of smoke
that they are

— The End —