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Mark Wanless Jan 10
i see the nevermore
   again and again
never happened never will
   yet it drives my mind
to distraction of cognition
   what else is there
but a choice moment by moment
   a difficult task
Maria Mitea Apr 2021
they are invisible
there are always bridges
across the chasm,
annh Dec 2018
At least you knew who I was
And managed a smile
There was comfort in that
For both of us

But you didn’t know my name
You have always known my name
You have always been my mother
Now, it seems, I am yours

There is no comfort in that
For either of us
Andrew Rueter Mar 2018
One day I met a titular telepath
That made me do social math
After I took a brief bubble bath
Underneath his heavy hovercraft
That submerged my brain
Allowing no sign of refrain
Only the pain
Of the stain
Of his Rorschach test
Filling inside my crest

You cast a spell of thought on me
When you walk by so haughtily
I can't think
Only drink
Your Kool-Aid
Of a fool's blade

It should be considered a crime
The way you control my mind
I feel so pointlessly paranoid
And it's not the ****
You travel to an abysmal void
I just follow your lead

I live in a world of mass media
But you cut off my streaming
So I guess I won't be seeing them
And I can focus on dreaming
Of an amazing life starring you
And introducing happiness
I don't care how it's reviewed
The critics negate sappiness

I'm so afraid you will get rid of me
While I sit under your guillotine
That can't reach me in your grasp
But if I ever leave it'll be in half
I'm trapped in a precarious position
That I fear will carry us to collision
I put my ear to the ground and listen
For an approaching stampede
That will steal my cognition
Will those wildebeest thieves
Make a deadly incision?
George Krokos Jul 2018
The reality of any situation is a balance of subjective and objective cognition
which generally depends very much on one’s experience and predisposition.
_____
From "Simple Observations" ongoing writings since the early '90's
Ira Desmond Jul 2018
I do not think
my mind will hold

out much longer.
I forget basic

details of conversations. I
walk into the kitchen

and forget my reason
for having walked

into the kitchen. I can
discern now when

people are being
polite by not

mentioning the fact that
it is the third

or fourth time I've
told that story again.

I am thirty-four
years of age.

Thirty-four
years of age. Thirty-

four years
of age.

I love baseball perhaps
now more than

ever before. It
requires no

memory, no cohesive
narrative, each

moment when the
pitcher releases the

ball its own
microcosm—

its own tick
in an atemporal clockwork

flush with gears but
lacking cogs entirely,

a moment savored
and then quickly

forgotten, like
the taste of a

perfectly ripe summer
strawberry, smothered

by the sweltering haze
of a mid-July afternoon.
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