Oh to be trending with
Praise never ending
For poems I’ve shared on this site.

Likes and reposts give me
Reason to boast -
Justify staying up through the night.

Notifications are
Cause for elation;
The judges DO like what I write!

But a poem too plain
Causes heartache and pain, and
Is often my poor poet’s plight.

No comments, no hearts,
Silence tears me apart
As the view numbers start to get high.

Doesn’t anyone care?
Is it cause for despair?
Don’t they know how hard that I try?

And who really can blame us?
Our desire to be famous
Is a standard set forth at our birth.

Though it’s narcissistic,
We allow some statistics
To define the extent of our worth.

When I group words together
My soul is the tether;
I am sharing a part of myself.

The peril I fear
Is that no one will hear
As the words gather dust on a shelf.

So when the words are ‘bout right
I choose to quit for the night,
Add some tags, then I hit save and send,

‘Cuz when all’s said and done
We’re just writing for fun,  
Who cares if the **** thing will trend!
PwL   March, 2015

The Sun,
blood red,
led me to the evening
where on reaching end of day
it lay
tired,
waiting for the night to come and close the doors, but always some would pray for day to stay.

Never me,
I am glad to see the back of it, glad
to rid the day of light and flit
like a bat across the sulking sky
no skulking shadows there to bother me,
no Sun to tan the hide of me, the
night has keys to set me free.

Then
when morning hits me hard
one more
Marquis de Sade,
one more day fed
to feed
the Sun,
blood red
I wait
until
evening comes.

Sit still,

          amidst the quiet.


Let expanses of space
                                            and time
                                                                           pass your eye.
Connect

   the dots and

           trace carefully the


stars
                     that reflect
and refract

                                     your hopes.

                                            Bright lights,

wearisome nights,
                       a book or two.


Deep
   thoughts,
                              weather-beaten
                                                   panes

mirroring

   intertwined ways.


                          Divided by social

                                                  rejections and

personal

               imperfections.


         Wasting time
                                       buying
                                                           carelessness
                                                                                          to spare.
                                               An
                        excessive
    supply of
                        
                         confused
                                              but attempted
                      
                                 sorted thoughts.

Brought on,

                 begot
                        by none but
                                                      the heavens
                                                        
                                                          and

                                                                       unknown
                                                                          witnesses.


                                                                                                    A wispy haze
                                                                of broken
                                   hours and

                                                      long-gone
                                                                  days.

Purity
of mind
captured in
moments seen
and observed closely;
She's not just avoiding her
skin - she conscientiously won't
let them - in she knows a gem when
she sees one and refuses to be another grain
on the beach, but a sea of beauty further beyond.
She'll draw them in with her smile and her
defiance against being another skinny
leggy, blonde thing or a doll that's
life is pretending to be of worth.
She knows how to put on
a show of originality and
she's purer and more
beautiful than
the clearest
waters on
earth.

(C) 20/6/15

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

A
bone
slowly
woke
just
in
time
to
become
br­ok(en).
Once spoken,
there's no point
of lending an ear.
There'll be a violent
jerking of the wheel,
deceptive *** appeal,
and an unrequited (love).
Now, unwillingly,  it's open.
The rhyme is deliberately late,
but it's not tardy enough to satiate
Swelling lungs-we're just getting started.
Both for respiratory and broken-hearted.
Here, we speak of energy-specifically kinetic
Because you can't live in love and good faith
with right hemisphere real, and left prosthetic.
AND THAT'S WHERE THIS BEAUTIFULLY KICKS IN.
Picking up faster and quicker and clearer
and headlights have never come nearer.
But I'll be somewhat content lying at rest.
While lively and enthusiastic is best,
unemployed potential is all I can be.
It's something to unwillingly see.
You'll watch the clean breaks
as the marrow escapes.
As I steadily gush
onto pavement
you'll see
how
idle
I
can
really
be.
As
I

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.