Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 Mar 2013 Genna Peterson
Anne M
He had a name
to do something,
but he chose
a pseudonym instead.

Forsaking the syllables
that bound
him to history,
he protected
her vacillating pride.
 Mar 2013 Genna Peterson
Anne M
Climb into novels
From the nook you’ve built.
Forget glasses on your head
And tickets in your pocket.

Make getting up
A game of Russian roulette,
Beat the clock back by hoping,
And stare down your own reflection.

Diagnose yourself with madness,
With sadness or fear,
And find the medication
That soothes you.

Break the silence
That encases emergency
With the syllables that
Comprise your name.

Be a mantra
If you dare.
Create an OM
Out of static.

Listen intently to radio silence
For a message that hasn’t come.
Chinese finger trap yourself today.
It’s okay to be alone.
Working on it...
You found a hole inside my head and covered  it with thoughts
Then watched the ways that I'd respond whenever I got lost
Insipid mind I deemed my own, according to your words
The ones that kept on telling me it is as I have heard
Convinced I'm in agreement with the arguments you've made
I place my arms beside myself and take my life away
And what remains before your face is nothing but my shell
An empty vessel you can fill with every kind of hell
So test it out and draw, design, my flesh is but a tool
That I may choose to leave behind for someone else to rule
One day I went fishing, unloaded at the dock
And picked up on the sadness that the earth was giving off
No matter where I wandered, I always felt its pain
It matched the kind inside of me for it was all the same
The day had passed so quickly, the night would soon be here
Intensify despondency and make me disappear
I knew I needed something, the thought had not caught on
'Til weariness displaced my bones in ground I walked upon
from a conversation I had with someone about fishing as a child
you’re lucky, kid,
pretty lucky,
too lucky,
remember that,
kid.

you’re lucky
that nothing has ******* up too bad,
and that you born into a whole freaking lot,
and that even though some ****** things have happened
(what with Christina and the depression and the cancer)
that you’re still not bitter about them.

maybe it’s that you know
how lucky you are,
or maybe you’re just smart enough
to enjoy good things when they
happen.

either way,
you’re luckier than most.

you’ve had love,
from the day you were born to just moments ago,
and you’ve seen the world and all of its beauty,
and more than anything you appreciate it all,
at least to some degree.

but you’ll get greedy, kid,
start thinking you deserve the sunshine
and blue sky and other simple pleasures,

but nobody does, kid,
the human race traded in for that long ago,

we wanted more, and we got it,
but we’ll never be clean of what
we had to do to get it.

so be happy, kid, be happy,
because you are
lucky.

you’re luckier than most
and your luck isn’t going
to stop soon, hopefully.

stay smart
stay alert
stay focused

don’t let this
go to waste.
I am experiencing a problem with my poetry
I do not know what my next step will be
Wobbly

Stumbling

over syllables and web pages
I am shaking and vibrating
Spot light is blinding
on life's stages
I keep forgetting my lines
So I speak of shoe laces
in leveled metaphors
and the look of their flesh cases was ageless
Yet, I can't stand their faces

Not on this or that knee

It is anxiety
I thought it was mild but its becoming severely
annoying. Faults and fractures
flake my stature
like bark from a tree

Just start running

Evading
Something I do not want to face
Slave trading, soul maiming
while their raiding
I am hidden in the shading
of planets in space
We're all black in this place
No superiority nor disgrace
Just aiding
the next broken person
so they can have a chance in the race.
This is a poem about writer's block. Until I am ready to face my next inner challenge my poetry will suffer. I notice it suffering now.
© March 18th, 2013 by Timothy R Brown. All rights reserved
 Mar 2013 Genna Peterson
Anne M
We’re peripheral.
Bystanders rubbernecking
as our bodies commit
high treason.

Too caught in the frenzy we've created
to count the mounting casualties,
we remain unconvinced
of our burgeoning criminality.

We accelerate to keep ourselves from breaking,
shift gears and clutch
to these moments
just to feel the release.

But when the collisions cease,
we’re pried apart,
torn free by the jaws
of daily life.

As our eyes clear,
the sirens sound
and the wreckage
overwhelms us.
Next page