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Sands of solitude
Final message in bottle
The deep sea swallows
Blissful Nobody Sep 2018
With you, I never earned,
The power, to intervene.
I feel invisible, most times,
It’s how, it’s always been .

You never gave me,
What I gave, without thought.
An ear for the stories,
Of the worldly wars, I fought.

This distance on the map,
Added to what, you outgrew,
This cup infused with my love,
Wasn’t the strongest brew.

I felt powerless, most times,
You were out of my reach.
There I sat alone, sighing,
Staring at stars, on a beach .

Did you look at the sky?
Feel the strings pull and tug?
Even if you felt it, ever so slightly,
A wormhole to you, I would’ve dug.

You decided for the two of us,
And cloaked me invisible.
You never gave me any power,
Over your life, to cause any trouble.

I wished, the promises you made
Didn’t come with an expiry.
Even in death, I will keep mine,
This love remains, my burden to bury.

I was so easy to put away,  
I never caused any drama,
Treated me like an acquaintance,
Washed me off your karma.

You stopped acknowledging me,
Moved on with your vice,
Who was I to intervene now,
And give you any advice .

You made me into a stranger,
I knew you, from many lives before,
I live this life without you now,
This hurt will last for many more.
Thought it should rhyme :)
my Father wrote poetry in younger years
of love and loss
of joy and fear
i discovered his work tucked away in a drawer
castaway drifter
returned to the shore

who was this man of sentiment
whose gift of prose is long since spent
who spoke so rarely
and laughed not at all
i knew him not
beyond the wall
that stood in stone
grew stronger with age
his soul now resides
in this book
on this page
01/07 - slightly revised
Thom Jamieson Jul 2018
"Over here"...
but nothing.
The scene continues
unabated by my presence.
Plastic smiles and lustful eyes
bountiful but not for me..never me.
In the mirror' s unforgiving gaze
I am unrecognizable
Replaced with a crude rendering
of my previous likeness
fashioned by children
with lumpy imperfect clay.
Silence replaces loving laughter
that used to follow my witty banter.
Silence and stares.  Sympathetic stares
tinged with smugness and fear.
"Over here...over here..."
still nothing.
I recently received a message from a composer named joe drzewiecki who was interested in putting this poem to music.  Here are the results.  I didnt know my words could sound so good. Thank you joe drzewiecki, I am flattered.

https://soundcloud.com/jomama-2/invisible
siinli May 2018
I saw the tears trickled down his face
Just like a spared crystal
Unrecognized.
I saw his fist, trembling
As if he clutched his own heart inside it
Shattered.
I saw his lips, shaking
As if he can't let out even a single sigh
Unheard.
I saw his love
Like a moon
It's a Castaway.
nani Jan 2018
dragging old shoes through the sun-kissed pavement,
dodging every fissure that scars its tar,
a wrinkled spirit urges to arise
from the bottom of a buried suitcase.

the wordsmith who spat smooth prose into ears
to calm the tidal waves marring dense chests,
abandoned the rib cage he resided
but won't stop pounding on doors for rescue.
Blois Oct 2017
What do you do if you get off the bed
and find that you haven´t finished
dreaming of the sea?

The problem with this dream is that
there´s always more sea to sink
than islands to be a castaway.

You are going to get tired of swimming, eventually.
Mayhaps you will come out alive of this,
or maybe it´s time to learn how to be a fish.
Vexren4000 Sep 2017
The lifegiving gourd,
Hanging heavily from a tall tree,
In a lone tropical paradise,
Waiting to fall and possibly,
Grow into a towering tree,
But most likely to be eaten,
By the castaway.

©BAS
Cup Noodles Jul 2016
I could spend an eternity
alone on this island
with only a string and hook
and still catch feelings
instead of fishes
TD May 2016
The dark pitch of night
swallows a white beach whole.


A light tower, a beacon,

holds hope captive, as it searches

wide-eyed, the waves beyond.


A volley ball named Wilson

teases the fickle, peeking shore,

with an open-handed face.


His rounded neck bobs, at the waves' inclination,

his gaze straining, lifting,

alighting on a striped base.


The perfect storm

laughs at the irony.

It is beneath him.


Rescue would've been imminent,
if Wilson had just been served.
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