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derailed-trains Oct 2018
it's like we never left mt. calvary
2018 is 2015 again
only my escapist mechanisms
no longer work
i get lost in this endless cycle
of troughs and crests
this constant pursuit for a home
is like a sickness that never gets better
these pathogens that have found
refuge in my heart have grown
ultra-resistant to the medicine
they no longer want to leave
why do i still wake up?
i've been asking for deliverance
for years but
i guess heaven is not a
wish-granting factory
and God is not a genie
do you miss our catching-up
sessions?
the ones where you ask me
if i can still get up
in the morning and
i ask you if you still
cry yourself to sleep at night
oh, right, those never happened,
because you never had
the strength to care
and i never had
the guts to ask
for time
and maybe that's why
whenever i try to write
it always ends up as
an apology letter
(that you won't ever get to read)
Pauper of Prose Aug 2018
As I scale the *****
I note the melody of the wind
With its sweeping symphonic shifts
My nails grind against granite
Before flaking and falling into the abyss
Yet I persist
Upward along the lone path
Where the air recedes like tides
And frost forms fellowship upon my eyes
Before seeking to turn my sore limbs, frigid
Icily assuring each ache is anchored in anxiety
Which stems from the worn clothes of society
Yet as I climb, the fabric is discarded
Like old styles of yesteryear
Now basking in all my naturalness
I finally summit, my thoughts thankfully descend
My heart lifts up its scepter and then my chin
Beating with Brilliance it grins
Furls up it sleeves and wordlessly begins
The work of healing from within
And aren't we awash in fear when we receive our climbing gear
Left Foot Poet Nov 2017
for the 111 yr. old young lady from Mars
<•>

fluids in, fluids out  

wake up at midnight, lips, throat, even eyes, California Death Valley parched, white crusted-stuck together,
it takes Poland Spring water from the Northeast to unlock the throat, ****** not sipped, from a plastic gourd  the chilling wetness slap to the body and brain screams metaphor, poem in there somewhere,

so what if it's spat-past midnight,
isn't this one of those soul-criticality's,
staying hydrated, (is) disco staying alive  

make sense to you?
the older I get, thirstier I am, could be I'm drying/dying out from the inside out,  
doctors clueless, but then again they don't reveal all they see out of poetic professional courtesy and they are tired of
yeah yeah yeah,
my professional courtesy answer to their  dire warnings repetitious  

tonight tho the metaphor runs strong like a mountain stream,
a Mt. Marcy beginning trickle growing into a mighty Hudson,
and the driving urge to drink, simple replenishment, birth fluid  
is strong transformed into words

water is words, the water is wide, the poems hydrate what's left on the inside, and the metaphor transforms itself again

water is words, words are water,  
the difference huge, the difference minuscule,
both pour, both refresh like a mother's body fluids,
all for one, one for all, and as closing time grows nigh,
staying-hydrated is primate

place a new cold bottle in readiness for my
3 o'clock feeding
11/14/17 12:04am
Lucius Furius Aug 2018
I left my mittens in the Smokies.
It was that night at Maddron Bald on the ridge
after we'd hiked from Davenport Gap --
12 miles, 4,000 feet.
The girl gave us icicles.
Dazed and breathless, we pitched the tent
and scrambled into our sleeping bags.
  
The morning sun felt good -- Sterling Ridge
on our left, Cosby far below to the right;
Mt. Guyot with its spruces and firs;
lunch at Tri-Corner ****; then down through
the rhododendrons and mud to McGhee Springs.
Raven Fork -- the beech tree, the icy water,
the boulders, the sunlight.
Cabin Flats and Smokemont -- the rain,
the people with pancakes.
  
Campfires, backpacks, flapjacks, barley;
sunshine, lichens, blisters, . . . wood-smoke.
Hear Lucius/Jerry read the poem:  humanist-art.org/old-site/audio/SoF_018_mittens.MP3 .
This poem is part of the Scraps of Faith collection of poems ( https://humanist-art.org/scrapsoffaith.htm )
I'm scarred from the inside out, with bruises that have no color
hidden tears from years of pain,
a lump in my throat  the size of Mt. Everest
No one knows my pain, no one cares
Each day in my head I hear my abusers voice telling
me I'm no good and calling me names.
This life I did not choose, I was born to my abuser
It's all I know, It's all I hear, I know no different.
These days will never end, and the pain will  never go away.
I must pretend that everything is okay, because that's how others want me to be.

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in progress
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