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Eric W Aug 2018
Take me into the depths.
Show me the underwater beast,
the Leviathan, the oceanic Medusa,
the wet, slithering, Hydra.
Let me breathe in the sick algae,
and bury my eyes in floating sand.
Fill my lungs with coral and stone,
and grind my feed to stumps
so I never escape.
Bind my hands with a seaweed embrace,
and let me bite the fisherman's hook,
fool such that I am.
Worthless drifting piece of trash
cast into the ocean tides,
starved of affection,
and bitter in the world.
Drag me down into the depths
and leave me there
where I belong.
Eric W Aug 2018
I mourn(ed) you in pieces
like all others I love.
Denial was brief -
how could I imagine it any differently?
Anger was flashing and red-hot.
Some still remains.
I asked God why
as if I would receive an answer.
I did.
I was cast into a pit,
notably of my own making
as it has always been.
I have reached outward,
but maybe
maybe I'll just stay here.
Eric W Aug 2018
Deep in dream states
come visitors of the past
and beyond.
Perhaps to say hey,
maybe just to see how I'm doing;
I always enjoy their company.
We've laughed, cried, loved
and forgiven.
There is peace in our actions.
I like to think my visitors
experience just what I do,
and that, on some level,
we are still connected.
Maybe that is but a fantasy
or a dream within
a dream.
  Aug 2018 Eric W
Edmund black
I just can’t help noticing
So many poets
With splits hearts
The hearts that cries out for help
Yet I’ve noticed
The silent sounds
From the comments
The words you’ve  never said
Not a sound is heard
As they’re desperately crying for help
Their tears are falling for us
Their words crying ink
To be touched and set free
we must open our eyes
To their writings for it has a tale to tell
A glimpse of the roller-coaster of emotions
going on through the poets lives
But many go unnoticed
So I prayed
We can noticed their cries
And shield them from dangers unaware
And try to see yourself through the poets minds
Sometimes I ask myself
Are they truly In need of help
Or Is it just writings
And since I don’t have the answer
You don’t know the answer
We must and should
Reached out
Yes it is true
It’s not  our profession
But it is also true that
We are all God’s creatures
And the great book says
help those who cannot
Help themselves
So next time you
And you and you
Notice a writer
Crying out for help through their ink
It won’t hurt to send
them a few words
of encouragement
A few words of hope
Or maybe just a good morning
Sometimes goes a long way
let them know
Life is precious
It has its ups and downs
But it always gets better
As I expressed
It wasn’t long ago
When a phone call saved my life
Maybe you’re the last word
the poet is waiting on
Before they’ve reach a dead end
It’s too late
Eric W Aug 2018
If you cannot even think of death,
how do you expect to ever face it?
What roads do you walk down
with face cast down
as stones you dare not throw?
--I am no different-- [strike-through]
I remain tempted to say
I am no different,
a common pattern in my thoughts,
but, in this,
I certainly am.
I am not scared
(anymore)
to hurt another,
monster such as that I may be,
are you?
And what unnecessary hardship do you cause
in your ******* excuse for
compassion?
You did not let me off easy.
You hooked and gutted me like a fish
unworthy of a reason why.
But, unlike you,
I am unafraid of being hurt.
Maybe we were too different
after all.
Eric W Aug 2018
I am transparent.
My words,
made of glass,
betray me.
Written 6-9-18. Thought this was incomplete, but maybe not.

As always, I am betrayed by words.
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