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Psychostasis Jan 29
Sometimes I hear things when I drive
Most of the time it's car horns
Sometimes it's the screeching of tires on asphalt screaming to be stopped
I try not to focus on it because you shouldn't be distracted while driving
So I keep my hands on the controls
And my eyes on the road

Sometimes in the mirrors I see your face
Glowing faintly like some kind of ethereal movie image
Sent by a projector with a bad bulb
Sometimes I wonder if I drive alone or if you're there
But that train of thought sends my misled hands faulty directions
And I drift out of my desired lane

Sometimes I wonder if the voice coming from the speakers is yours
And if its the same voice haunting the air vents
Whispering lies into my vulnerable mind
I try to ignore them but it gets to me after a while
And eventually my glass house of bottled substance abuse and sustenance comes crashing
Leaving my hands to crawl on a broken field of glass and reanimated pains that slept dormantly at peace

So I staple my hands to the wheel
And glue my eyes to the road
And try my hardest not to cry and swerve into the first car or railing or tree I see
And pretend that face in my mirror behind me is just the trick of the light

I still think about the tree you hit
I never told you that we visited it once after you
But only once

I ran my fingers across the twisted and scarred bark
I studied the missing chunk of wood and felt nothing but an ache in the pit of my soul

I'd visit it again sometime if it weren't for the same reason I haven't visited you:
I don't know where to go.

Roads and highways and backwoods remind me of the cemetery you rest in
Each tree, each house, each street light and sign
All of it looks the same
Much like the gravestones creating the labyrinth you stay in

But if one day I do stumble across your grave
Or that tree
I'll bring you a grape soda and a blunt
And a Mickey Mouse for your collection
And we can talk again
Just me and you

Hopefully I get a response
Amanda Jan 26
I AM SO TIRED OF FAILING
AT THE BOTTOM NIGHT AFTER NIGHT
SOMETIMES I WONDER WHY I TRY SO HARD
I CAN'T SEEM TO GET IT RIGHT
I **** EVERYTHING UP ONE WAY OR ANOTHER
EXCEPT FOR WHEN I WRITE
The title of this poem is referencing the fact that this is posted entirely in capital letters haha. My bad.
Eternity speaks
will not be silenced
by shatter of glass nor falling rain

Eternity sees
will not be blinded
by flash of light nor midnight blackness

Eternity hears
will not be deafened
by screech of tire nor mourning's cry

Each fading pulse drops as rain on Eternity's Ear

Eternity waits
as I continue by
driving on to life undeserved

Eternity listens
to my stolen beats of heart
and borrowed years

while there, in that timeless place,
for two hearts now silent
Eternity sings
Mark Toney Dec 2019
Here lies the body of Jamie McGraph
Who decided to write his own epitaph
Thinking a selfie might make it better
While taking the photo he took a header
Off the edge of a cliff into oblivion
"Came to a sticky end" the fitting idiom
12/4/2019 - Poetry form: Epitaph - Copyright © Mark Toney | Year Posted 2019
Tracey Nov 2019
It felt surreal~
Lights flashing through the cracking
glass and I
could only think to myself
“Is this it?”
It wasn’t
And I’m ok with second chances

Watch me fly
Purcy Flaherty Nov 2019
The Art of the happy accident.

A happy accident is neither perfect or imperfect; it's a state of harmony, and sometimes what we call a flawed thing is simply something yet unimagined.
Creat good spaces for happy accidents.
John H Dillinger Nov 2019
I accidentally skipped 2 pages -
I have to go back,
a clean mess,
unabided,
I write something
and try to hide it.

Is it better if I rhyme it?

Well, I can't help myself,
it's like spotting patterns
in the stars,
once you've seen it,
there they are,
the beauty spots and scars.

A cliffside, strewn with wrecked cars.

But up it climbs,
smashing rhymes,
rattling the bars
of my cage
as I step out on to the stage
of the blank page

Avoiding the trap doors

It's filled with an opportunity
though, sometimes,
a sense of dread.
It can be a clear window,
dreaming futures, summoning
the dead

Bars become lines on the page instead

I use what imprisons me
to set me free;
locked in a lexicon,
I can breathe,
the blank page
is a forest of falling leaves

Where I can hear the echos of my screams.

So don't waste it.
nick armbrister Nov 2019
The readjustment was the hardest part
Not leaving the war zone
Or coming home back to his country
And to his wife and family and friends
But actually readjusting to the fact
That fact that he had no legs
He left them back in Iraq
Not as a war victim or injury
To a vehicle accident instead
His Hummer left the road and rolled
He was lucky to escape with his live
The medics took him to the hospital
It was touch and go but he made it
The army will pay for his recovery
And give him a pension
Plus a pair of tin legs
And keep him on the books
An advisory role for future wars
He did ok from his accident
But readjusting is still hard
This is his new normal...
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