Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
  Jul 2015 Micah Rion
phil roberts
Misty words billow in the cold
Pluming from their mouths
Quiet swearing and first smoke coughing
They walk close to hedgerows
Kicking the dew from the grass
As birds squabble over breakfast
And mushrooms are still socialising
They whistle the dogs to heel
All panting and wagging tails
Stirring the dawn damp air
For happy is the early dog
In these sumptuous fields

Now the business of dawn begins
Low sharp commands are uttered
Bringing the younger bounding learners
To a proper sense of purpose
And that high-toned cross breed
The sleek and swift lurcher
Is eternally proud and primed
This long-sprint racer
Takes inevitable chase
Without sentiment or concious cruelty
An ancient craft is practised here
With the dogs at dawn

                                By Phil Roberts
  Jul 2015 Micah Rion
lucy winters
Sitting in a smokey cafe
On a rainy Friday night
Next to a beautiful man
With a lazy smile

His hand reaching out for me
No answers lie behind his brown eyes
His touch does not tingle
The way you left goosebumps on my flesh

Beautiful brown eyes and a lazy smile
I smile back and swirl my whiskey
I don't believe a word he speaks
All I remember is your lies

I wonder as I look away
How terribly this has ruined me
When neither beautiful man nor whiskey
Does much to warm me

I wonder how long
It will take me
To regain the things I let you
Take from me

Even if I let him take me home
His touch will not fix what you broke
But maybe it will soothe me
Maybe another night,  
another beautiful man
Maybe another whiskey
Vous continuez à me dire que je suis à l'écart .
Solitaires années d'adolescence ont été rompues ma gorge
Si quelqu'un ici est un peu cher le mal
Il est probablement vous .
Vous continuez à briser toutes les règles il
Si je suis encore humaine qu'est-ce?
Lorsque son sur sa plus
Ce qui est brisé est brisé
ne fais pas d'erreur.
Micah Rion Jul 2015
You're delusional
You don't even know
You don't know me

You say you love me and I feel it
Becoming so confused and hurt
when you mistook my actions......

couldn't see my heart

.....or you refused.

Dimly, suddenly I realize
that the parts
you love so much are the qualities
and persona I have had to adapt
to stop the arguments....the pain
and constant constant blame.

No
I wasn't aware at first it was to
please you
you are a master manipulator
and you finally confessed you knew
a while ago,
that I'd do anything for you.
You knew before I knew.

Like the self-serving, egotistical, twisted
person I have discovered you to be,
you saw my love and slowly started to
mold me,
contort me to meet your needs.

And like the self-hating, twisted, narcissist
I am, once I noticed the sick dark places
you were taking me,
it was already too late.
You preyed on the weakness you
saw in me, and made me like the
fall from grace I now was an active part
of contributing to.

I'm only a fragile paper-thin
watered-down version of the me
I started to be
before you made me crazy.

I hate that I loved letting you.
  Jul 2015 Micah Rion
Sylvia Plath
I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it----

A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a **** lampshade,
My right foot

A paperweight,
My face a featureless, fine
Jew linen.

Peel off the napkin
0 my enemy.
Do I terrify?----

The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.

Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me

And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.

This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.

What a million filaments.
The peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see

Them unwrap me hand and foot
The big strip tease.
Gentlemen, ladies

These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,

Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.

The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut

As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

Dying
Is an art, like everything else,
I do it exceptionally well.

I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a call.

It's easy enough to do it in a cell.
It's easy enough to do it and stay put.
It's the theatrical

Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:

'A miracle!'
That knocks me out.
There is a charge

For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart----
It really goes.

And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood

Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.

I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby

That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

Ash, ash ---
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there----

A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.

Herr God, Herr Lucifer
Beware
Beware.

Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.
Next page