Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
~
cracked compass
burning atlas
no sense of direction
on a drive about
the silent forests of the heart
egressing from the shadows
that hunt for us

foot caught on the accelerator
passing escapism's plateau
like a dissolving shelf of flashbacks
kept in a glass jar
it's normal to tire out
wondering who will it be
looking in the window?

the people at the wheel
are not on the payroll
they're pierced and sheer
on the surface
but their deepest parts
still inhabit bone
and slave for mere feldspar
once again human thoughts
turn to crystalline
and still they shine for us

signs are posted:
"a time for vanishing, lay it to rest"
until the unfamiliar sound
of the walls of Jericho
collapsing
breaks the momentum
quiets the traffic

we entered a promise land
on cruise control
with too many exits
and not enough things to see
we did not end up
where we thought we'd be
those eyes at dusk
in the rearview mirror
they hunt for us
they wait for sleep

~
Humanity is swiftly disappearing from the map.
I don't want to go a
gentle journey,
from convoluted to
convalescence.
I quit drinking again;
found love in
the psych ward.
She's my broken-winged
angel.
So much pain behind that
sweet smile.
She's drinking again,
and I can't fix her.
It hurts, like an arrow
through the stomach.

I have a rabbit that comes
to my yard.
She lies in the same
spot every day.
So much so, that
she has worn down a
place for herself--the surrounding
grass grows around her.
She feels safe.
I feed her spinach, and my
brother sings her
show tunes.
That's what we get
for having a drama
teacher for a father.
Thanks, Dad.

It's been an unseasonably
cold April.
I feel sorry for Harvey;
That's her name, thanks
again Dad.
I talk to her softly.
"Hi, baby--what are you doing?
Do you want to come in?"
She doesn't answer.  I'm sober.
I want to take care of her...
Both of them...
My two little bunnies.
It's cold, and the wind is
blowing hard,
beneath a mean grey sky.
Monster Under My Bed

    When that whole Christ as son of god drama
    played as a young catholic I was spellbound.
    When I was older skipping church smoking in
    the woods I doubted but still harbored shame.
    I gave up the holy ghost long ago but the scars
    remain and guilt is the stain follows me like
    shadows even in moonless midnight and I wish I
    believed in prayer to quiet Christ under my bed.
I can too rhyme
Most any time.
I know what rhymes with purple.
I cannot find
What’s in my mind
Because my brain’s a *******.

I know you heard
I’m one sad bird.
My sorrow’s more than double.
So let me bring
This one last thing
My life’s a pile of rubble.

I want to be
A perfect me
And be admired by many.
But first I sigh
And then I cry
And act just like a *****.

To rhyme is tough.
I’ve done enough
To win a crown of glory.
If you agree
To let me be
That finishes my story.
ljm
A bit of silliness for midweek.
I’ve learned to live without you
More and more each day.
I try to put a poem up
But get a Bad Gateway.

When at last I get on site
My write goes straight to ‘draft’.
Trying to get it on my page
Takes every ounce of craft.

Is it even worth my time
When everything’s a struggle.
When I can’t post the words I pen
I feel just like a Muggle.

Other places on the net
Will post the things I write
So I just may go over there
And tell Hello, Goodnight.
       ljm
Getting a little fed up.  Posting is such a grind it takes all the fun out t of it.
Next page