Steven L Herring

Steven L Herring Mar 2017

My tongue is a pitchfork,
but my words wait wantonly
for your eyes to process them.
They wait patiently on the page for you to ponder them.

Like little deadly daggers dipped in poison,
or honey,
or lust to drive you to touch yourself,
or someone else.

Maybe you want to touch me.
Maybe you want to caress my leg.
Maybe you want to punch me or hurt me instead.
Perhaps my words make you
want to make me
dead
for something that I said.

Maybe not though.

Maybe you just brush by briskly,
ignoring me and my words,
but how long can you ignore the devil?
Remember children.
The devil gets his due...
he always gets his due!

I wrote this poem with the power of emotions in mind. The "devil" is symbolic. It can be the reader's mind, or it can be the writer's words, but either way the words and the emotions that they evoke from the reader are what's important here. Thanks for reading!

Steven L Herring Mar 2017

This is not a poem

I love original poetry, but sometimes I feel like poets ruin their work by doing weird **** with their form and layout. There are a lot of poets out there who are clever enough to pull it off very well, but there are even more that just can't, and they sacrifice some of the best words I've ever read to a gimmick. It's sad really. Good poetry is art, but if you want to paint or draw, then do that. Don't **** perfectly placed palabras with weird line breaks, spacing, and alignments that make absolutely no ******* sense and ruin the message. It's all about the message, man. You dig?!

Just really had to get this off my chest. Not really picking on anybody specific. Take it as constructive criticism. Said with love...

Mar 2017

Willow-Anne

Alcoholism

She’s more fun when she is drunk
At least…until she’s not
Because she’s puking in the toilet
And regretting her last shot

She’s more confident when she’s drunk
Gorgeous and ready to score
Until she looks in a mirror
And feels even uglier than before

She likes herself more when she is drunk
Until that feeling goes away
When she is so far beyond gone
That her self-hatred comes out to play

She’s happier when she’s drunk
All her issues leave her brain
But they all come crashing back at once
And cause her so much pain

She likes the world more when drunk
It’s filled with so much good
Until one little thing sets her off
And she hates it all more than she should

She likes life more when she’s drunk
Her mind for once feels still
Terrified of losing that feeling
She soon wants to end things with a pill

But she can stop any time she wants
Or so she’d have you believe
Because alcohol makes her seem so happy
That is, until all her friends leave

Edit: (3/10/17) Oh my goodness! I haven't logged on in a couple of days and boy did I miss a lot!
I am doing my best to respond to all your messages and comments now! Sorry for the wait!
Thank you all so much for such an overwhelming amount of love and support <3 You guys are amazing
For those of you who struggle with addiction of any kind, hang in there, and I hope you all find the help and support you need <3
Best wishes to you all. And thank you again <3

Edit: (3/11/17)
Alrighty, so I just got a very long message that without going too into details accused me of poking fun at alcoholism with this poem. I would just like to be very clear that this poem was in no way inteaded to make fun of the illness that is alcoholism, and if it came off that way to anyone else, I am truely truely sorry. Words can not express that enough for I very much wished the opposite intent. Alcoholism (and addiction in general) is a very serious illness that I take very seriously. I sinceraly hope that anyone who is struggling with it gets the help they need and those of you who are in recovery, I am proud of you. Stay strong and continue to work towards it <3
Once again, my sincere apologies again to anyone who was offended.
Love to you all <3 - Willow-Anne

Steven L Herring Mar 2017

Who Am I?

I'm Bill Burr on a bad day.
I'm Mark Maron sober.
I'm Red ******* Forman
with both toes of my boots covered in your ****.

I'm a spinning storm
of hot tempered anger
throwing shade at you on a bright sunny day
and blinding you with the light of common sense
through your cloudy headed moment of stupidity.

Who am I?
I am the honest angel with a devil's backbone
in a moment of cowardice.
I am the tranquility in your search for land on a stormy sea.
I am Human, and so are you!

Mar 2017

L B

My Father's Daughter

I stood in the February snow
the freezing sleet
no boots
no coat
Steam wafting off my fury

My father read the lie
two hundred yards away
and walking toward me

So I owned it
told it
With a snarl
Without a flinch
Both knowing

I held my ground before him
and wore the red of his hand
on my face for a week

Thank you everyone for the views and comments.  The Daily was a nice surprise this evening.

There were five of us kids.  I was the only one who ever did anything like this.  It was like my father needed someone to stop him sometimes.

My father asked, "What are you doing out here?"
I lied,  "Getting some air."

http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1801472/the-mayor-of-wesson-street/

Steven L Herring Mar 2017

Lowering Hieghts

Summitt
Tortured
Torched skin frosty with bite
Mind broken on a stance
I can't dance,
but dead can,
so I kicked it
Down
Down down
I drowned today in a frown
It was mine and I wore it

like a pro

I'm a little "g" God with a pencil
Stenciled out god
He's not Catholic
He's not Baptist
He's not Jewish
He's not Buddha,
Allah,
Or living in some Shanghai Shangri-la
He's a premonition
Just a figment
Of your imagination
a **** poor attempt to keep you from
your own ruination

God is dead
and no one cares
Man's attempt
to quiet contempt
for life's pains
Shhhhh! It's a secret!
It's not a race,
it's just humanity
It's a lie covered
by colored
skin
It's buried deep within
on a cellular level

The only escape from life is death
The only escape from death is cancer,
and cancer isn't winning any support
for its escape from programmed cell death,
soooooo...

Mar 2017

Swasti Jain

The real beauty

There was a flower, blossoming on the shoreline. Beholding the serenity of the seas and criticising the rise and fall of the indomitable tides.

It swayed in the balmy air and loathed the dusty storms.

It adored the sun's radiance and mourned the moon's norms.

It extolled the aesthetics and execrated the wrongs.

It denied the nectar but appreciated the honeycomb.

There was a peyote, living in the dreary sands. Mesmerized by the great dunes, standing like a tomb.

Relishing the scanty rains with much aplomb.

It grows its roots in the search of water, many call it a coxcomb.

Such is the folk, unaware of the real beauty for so long!

- Swasti Jain

#appearance #discover #deception #appreciate #dontcomplain #poetryworld #realbeauty #adorethesoul