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  1h Woody
fearfulpoet
I’m tired of my hands


<>
and my hands are tired of me,
the never ending pick up, put down choring,
without a end date lease or a by your leave,
if I never see a ***** dish or a poem unfinished,
my hands will be permanently attached
in one of them praying emojis

tired of my big mouth so wide,
saying **** notions like love you,
and love no more, so just shut it,
nobody’s somebody don’t care,
stick to whether the weather gonna change,
and if you’ll be sleeping in
the bed or the couch

tired of brain worrying,
brain farts polluting the atmosphere,
things I won’t do nothing about,
words gone to hell, climate change arguing,
poem titles that are body-less horsemen,
no useful good to no-body without
hands and feet and words in between

tired of my hands smacking my head,
and the headache that’s sure to follow,
tired of talking bout if it might rain someday,
man,
I am tired
in places I ain’t got no earthly reason,
and no words to say hey,
I’m tired of my hands
(and most everything)
<>

8-24-19 2:28pm
  13h Woody
r
Shine on you blacknight
like the dark light of a dead star

deep as a black well
drawn from my memory

clear as a mirror
over the mouths of the dead.
  Oct 3 Woody
r
Love can be like
trapped light
existing like dusk
the likes of which we can't see
physical but not optical
gravesites for stars
a waystation for dreamers
a delta to cruise through
paradise on Sunday
cold as ice on Monday
a hundred pound block on tongs
with a butterfly at its center
your temple of madness
or the Egypt of your ***
lands of mystery
an island of death
proven theories of sorrow
your lineage, children, tomorrows.
  Oct 3 Woody
r
She is mathematics,
bare necessity in numbers

Curvature and roundness,
symmetrical circumference
lies in the rise of her hips

A tanned half moon,
a breast

A pose

The fall equinox begins
in the shadow
of the small of her back

Night looms beyond, below
connecting beauty's dots

Her body reclines,
hand resting between waist
and hip, an impasse

Head at rest
held by soft hand.
Woody Sep 28
I don’t know what to do
when a hard man cries

What can you say
that’s not a lie

The wounds of his war
are not rhetorical

There’s no metaphors
for pain that he can’t share

And there are no words for
tears in a thousand yard stare

I’m about as useless as a doctor
or a smile at a Veterans Cemetery.
For my good friend J.
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