Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Kalliope Oct 2018
Everyday I come home
I eat dinner at
My table of selfpity
To watch old memories play on
My television of self doubt
Showering in jealousy and hate
Finally forcing sleep on
My bed of loneliness
Self destructive
I can't stop
I'm just a prop
Brian McDonagh Jun 2018
I squirm for rest,
But am caffeinated
With energy of mind.
My head and body ache,
But there’s an energetic spirit
I cannot control either.
I am mangled,
Twisted in selves
That even I don’t know.
All day today I felt the need to move and I couldn't sit still (could be the medication I'm on) and so I put my energy to use by writing a poem about my trial today.
Martin Narrod Apr 2014
There is not much more than lunch of your poor soul's gut. That which has hidden your chase,
Be it the same flurry you face, or the chaste, widowed band of loons
Supplicate snail-movements, while wading through the stiff lagoon.

Everything must, while the fissures grow grumpy.
While the dust settles inwards and the cracks fill with stuffing.
The particle stands stiff, while each nursery cries.
A pitter-patter of rain drops lurch the birds forwards towards flight.

Say the gumption to roost was the dork lit and idling,
Each abortion towards space, kept the rocket from flying,
Like the cannonball sneering, or the whistle of men
The trial and tribulations of the miserly pens.

If be swore the moors, concrete beds shuffle the snores.
Unlike any trumpet of nose notes or horns.
How each curious grumbler failed the ewe of his flock.
Lil' crock lodgers counting sleep  of each lot.

Who can practice commands, width that makes up a strake
In the morning the weir-men quaff each tea of their tastes.
Then comes to the rind, the hands each guided by eyes.
Stumps the bard of his nightshade in imported glass vials.

Show whomever the pleasure, the happy hell once began
Because under each gambit is the king of a lamb.

— The End —