Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
The only person
She's ever been unkind to,
Is herself.

By Lady R.F ©2016
You promised me false hope
Then smashed out my teeth
Now I find it too hard to cope
Dragged along the razors edge

Once I was the perfect gentleman
I would open the door for you
Until you hatched a delicate plan
Now I slam it shut in your face

Listen to me shouting, "*******"
Middle fingers saying, "*******"
All this anger raging, "*******"
But I still badly need to *******

Kicking me so ****** far down
That it's too much to get back up
Left me in miseries lake to drown
Here alone with a bottle as my friend

Who ever said love was all a game
Well, that ******* got it all wrong
Because I only have myself to blame
Wallowing here in my own self pity

Listen to me shouting, "*******"
Middle fingers saying, "*******"
All this anger raging, "*******"
But I still badly need to *******
Copyright © Chris Smith 2014
The source of words
is the very source
of human thought.

If we are to under-
stand one another,
we must find the source
of our words.

The sources of
our streams of consciousness
are as varied as nature;
from the highest pinnacles
to the bowels of the earth.
The nature of the sources
matters little.
The highest may be polluted;
the purest flow may come
from the deepest spring.

Recognizing our own source
is essential
when our streams merge.
Our thoughts commingle,
and still remain our own.
In the foaming tumble
over the boulders
of daily living,
it is well to remember
our innermost selves,
like the river,
need the aeration
of an outlet and a
                                few
                            ­           deep
                                                breaths.

On­ce we have come
to our under-
standing,
we need not remain
below those we now
stand under.

(the beauty of words
is the very beauty
of human thought)
I turned eighteen, and the floor dropped out.

The summer before, the clean-shaven men
at concerts, the ocean, at grimy
gas stations, would gaze at me
with their sallow eyes and creep
closer, stuffing their tarnished
wedding rings into their pockets. I pretend
I don't notice the approach.

I'm sweetheart now, and the world is dying
to know about my day. The artless
small talk ******
my cheeks a shameful red--
always this crass, unsolicited
acupuncture.  

Now, I'm darling. I'm baby-- my
age the next delicate question laid
across their taste buds.

A year ago, I could blush and remind
them of my mere seventeen trips around
the sun, and off they'd retreat as if
the law were the only thing keeping
my clothes on my body.

The eighteenth trip has come and
past; from here on out
I fly alone, braving the flocks of
pitiful predators.
I feel it on the tip of my tongue
I feel almost giddy
It's like a secret that I just remembered
I want to get the wording just right
but it's too fuzzy to get the full details
So I try to focus on what I can
I try and write what I see
What I feel
What I hear or taste
I close my eyes
Lean my head back
Then the paddles hit me and bring me out of my dream state
The thoughts vanish in thin air
and I just know I was on the verge of something magic
It could have been a good one
Maybe in those few moments before waking from a dream
I can figure out what I want to say....
I feel like this about about a lot of poems that I never finish
I just know they could have been magic if only.....:)
Next page