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I lost faith in faith
and belief in belief
when you broke my
rose color glasses.
I see evil people
lusting for control
of mankind in cages
dancing on stages
**** the unwanted
the old the gimps
hookers and pimps
darkies and spics
addicts on trips.
All boozed up on Chardonnay,
   swapping virginity lost stories
   drinking from ***** straws and
   holding ****** as scepters while
   ropes of ***** crown our heads.
   We puke and cry and wear our
   hideous bridesmaid's dresses at
   the wedding and catch the bouquet
   and send the married couple off to
   a honeymoon in the ****** Islands.
Homeless and roaming the
streets like an orphan.
It was the dead of winter, and
I was still alive—barely.
My ex-girlfriend let  
me crash on her couch for
a few days.
She didn’t smoke.
I did,
so whenever I wanted  
a cigarette, I went out in
front of her
apartment and lit up.
One night, bent on nicotine,
I entered the January thaw.
As I had my  
smoke fix,
a man with a  
huge Rottweiler slowly
walked by.
The dog caught sight of
me, and gave me a low growl.
The guy talked to
his pet like he was
his best friend.
“Leave him alone, that’s his home;
let him smoke.”
The dog knew better, and
glared at me.
He barked loud and vicious.
“Leave that poor man alone.
Let him enjoy his cigarette,
that’s his home,”  the man said.
A small dog began  
yapping in the distance.
The man said,
“Oh great, you’ve upset that little dog.
Come on, let’s go.”
The Rott gave me an evil look, and
sauntered off.
He recognized his own  
kind.
He also knew that there
was something different about me.
He could smell it,
almost taste it.
He knew I was a mongrel,
and a stray.
He knew I didn’t
belong.
I sit in the dayroom of
cell block one in the county jail at
4:30 am.  It’s quiet, almost serene.
All the other inmates are asleep.
I wait for breakfast: two hard boiled eggs,
a doughnut, juice and milk.  
Once a week we can order books.
They will deliver them today.
I’ll get Bukowski, Steinbeck, and Cervantes.
The remaining six days will
fly by.
When I’m released, I’ll go under
the bridge—steal wine and
stay drunk.
I’ll eat every three or four days.
It’s January with record setting
frigid temperatures.
Survival will be a challenge.
There will be the ex-girlfriend to
contend with.
I’ll try to get what little
clothes that I left at her place,
that is, if she didn’t throw them away;
she’s somewhat of a **** like that.
My two best friends that stayed under
the bridge with me, died a day
apart two months ago,
so, nothing but
ghosts and memories there now.
I’m going to miss jail.
We wanted to
play the ukelele
the way we
used to,
leaning up against a lampost
hoping to be noticed
by girls in pencil skirts.
times change,
fashions too
I changed
so did you.
listening to music I don't understand
from some band on broadband
and I can't quite catch the melody,
there must be something wrong with me
or just that I'm missing the ukelele.
 Mar 2023 Marcin Strugalski
Maddy
They sat on two branches
One above the other
Adorable as could be
Gathered bits of  canteloupe,nuts,and oookies into a cup
Found the tree and called out to them
Scattered the food all around the tree
They sat on their branches enjoying
Made an ordinary lunch extraordinary

C@rainbowchaser2023
Another visit to
Med Psych;
the withdrawals are
horrendous.
I’m emaciated and malnourished.
With the exception of
one meal every few
days, I’ve dined on ***** and
wine for my sustenance.

I check out a lap top from
the patient library, and
try to get the poems organized on
my flash drive.
Concentration is elusive.

The psych doctor decides
to have me committed.
She’s concerned about my
worsening health and depression.
I guess I can’t  
blame her, but what
bird likes a cage?

I try to talk her
out of it,
but she’s resolute.

The next day, just
as the deputy is
serving me the
committal papers, I have
a seizure—a bad one.
My lips turn blue.
I **** myself.
The doctors pump me full
of Ativan.  Everything is a  
blur for the next
week.
Slowly, softly,
my mind comes back.

I get a room-mate;
turns out he’s an
artist, a fantastic
abstract painter,
his name’s Chris.
Chris gets the activity
director to bring
him some paints and
other art supplies.

He goes to work;
stabbing the paper
with his brush—
makes it bleed with
color.  He’s a young  
drunk;
a madman and a  
genius.
I have my notebook and
my sword.
I pound out the word, the line,
my highway through this
silly society.

Chris and I talked
long into the autumn
night, locked in a  
cerebral prison.

The room we were in
was more like a Greenwich Village
beat pad than it was a  
hospital room.
I hold my
twisted angel while  
she sleeps,
her *** snug against
my groin.
I envisage her
sanguine
grin while she dreams of
domesticating me.
I can’t believe
that I never
noticed how
cute her mouth is.
It’s amazing—I’m spellbound.
I want to nibble on
those lips.
The way she
uses her tongue to
enunciate certain
words is sensual and
seductive.
I’m apathetic about
the topic she is reading,  
but while I watch her
mouth move, my ears  
hear Shakespeare’s sonnets.
Thanks for birthing me!
   If not for you I'd be an ink spot.
   The only thing I ask is you
   reduce me to my essence.

   Rid me of ******* verbiage
   and self absorbing preening.
   We know you've suffered in
   ways known only to you.

   Show my unspoken words;
   The ugly truths of shame
   that will send me to hell.
   Expose the heinous me.
~
A room lives in Zoria
And also the trees
At a critical distance
She seeks their shelter
An abiding solace
To wash free
To swim sea
Who can blame
The suffering of her stream
Whether it be
A time for hanging on
Or a time for passing
Let the waters come
And overtake her
Flooding her with
Safeguarding arms

~
For those suffering in Ukraine
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