My o.c.d disorder is scientific term standard of obsessive compulsive disorder. But i like to call my disorder
old children disorder.
From all the grown boys who look like normal men
when i run across them.

never thought to see an advert for black magic
here on hello poetry

are they really a shaman
witchdoctor

or is it another tiresome scam
another tiresome scam

tiresome scam

can't say have found it
though trying every bit
now in broken wing

an eluding greying wish
one thread of missing piece
i'm still searching.

from all the cluttered mess
doors windows address
sky and trodden ground

beg this weakening arm
to have it hold it firm
what's nowhere to be found.

from surround's all the sight
daylight darkened night
milky way and stars

seek these rolling eyes
unravel from disguise
that hidden universe.

feebled though this mind
crushed by daily grind
inching to depart

might one day lift the shroud
hear its voice speak loud
reach the mystery's heart.

what's there to write about
a floor scrubber?

in the sun on my shoulder
its light plastic touch
polythene wrapper
gaily fluttering in the wind
breathing its last light of freedom
before consigned to lifelong prison
standing damp dreaming to dry
but for that fleeting time
it rests on my shoulder
comforted on flesh and bone
on the brief journey
from the shop to a nook
enjoying the glances of passerby
curious my carrying it
a hint of boast in my gait
flaunting as if a magic wand
the floor scrubber transient yet eternal
a glorious poem material
a poem name
and a man's declaration

there's no shame
doing your work
your way.

I wonder if birds count themselves lucky
To find themselves free in the sky.
Knowing they can escape up into the air.
They just have to spread their wings and fly.

I wonder what happens if they somehow fall,
And they find themselves bound to the ground.
Do they just accept their fate,
And fade away without a sound?

Or do they thrash and yammer
Until they can't anymore.
Then, just lay there and look up,
Remembering how it used to be before?

Do they fear that they are prey,
Another species' meal?
Or do they lose all their senses,
And choose not to feel?

I wonder if they're left just a little bit hopeful
That help may come along,
So they don't completely give up,
And try to keep themselves strong?

Or if they just lay there,
And wait for their eyes to close tight,
And slip away happily.
Surrendering without a fight.

I think, if I were a bird,
Who fell down from the sky,
I'd fight, thrash, yammer and hope..
Until the day I found myself capable of spreading my wings to fly.

Inaccessible protuberance
Stroketh mine aortic valve;
Submerging in earthly liquid
Except made of dirt and ground.

Floating out of mine carcass now
Not looking on behind;
Keeping mine discernment forward
None more physical time.

Alm's I shalt leaveth all
As none here art meant for me;
I died a million years ago
Tis, I'm sick of falsehood belief's.

Planet EaRtH is made of them
As exemplum is now the "norm";
I wasn't born in some hospital
I was hatched by God's adorn.

From whence I've come
I'll returneth as one;
Wherein the cherub babie's sit
In the blink of the sun.


©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry