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Yes I am a beautiful disaster
In my wake leave a bittersweet taste
A special kind of love in soul
Most of it goes to waste

I long to stop disassembling
Pieces one by one
My demons have spoken
They warn I've just begun

Hiding in the silence
I am too afraid to share
Do not like the way opening up feels
Like winter branches laid bare

Pages of heart are torn
Many stained with tears
Can judge this book by it's cover
As dark as it appears

As whispers flow throughout mind
Uttered from lips of memories
Wishing my residual sorrow
Would be carried with the breeze

Suffering rising into air
Dispersing until completely gone
Hard as I try to blow them away
Miseries keep clutching on

My words lie at bottom of my lungs
Too tired to crawl out
They weigh down my shaky breath
Until every one turns to doubt

I retreat into the shadows
Cloaked in grey and black
Waiting for happiness to return
My colors may never come back
I am a cute wreck (my version of a hot mess)
Prabhu Iyer May 13
When the apocalypse came
it was not raining fire from the skies
no schism in the ***** of the earth,
the seas are not swirling over, nor
the rivers welling up in grief;
Quiet as tears of the early sky
we mourn - how many more
do we count lost and begone?
Shovels and pick axes say ‘no more’-
a touch and hug and a word of cheer,
who knew death comes in garbs
so dear ? there burn the pyres
endless in their dirge, painting
distant the Sun in hues of the dark
and we hope and we pray,
let this be it, Lord, if we must suffer
let this your coming be then -
for we can’t take this anymore
How many more do we lose ?
How many the logs that weary
feed the fires of the infernal?
knowing it was
not meant to be
Came realisation;
and facing it
hurt settled in
a havoc she never seen coming
growing up has been holding eulogies
for the people that i used to be
maybe that’s why i’ve been wearing black
since i was bruise kneed and fourteen
when i look in the mirror i don’t
recognize the girl i see but when she
stares back there’s a sort of comfort,
in her hunger pain frame...
grown out of the cracks of the city
like a **** on the sidewalk—
surviving despite being stepped on.

when i was older i knew who i was,
bright eyed and bushy tailed,
bruising my lungs with the songs i’ve sung
in sacrifice for this body is a temple but it
is far from sacred and i am the god to
whom it is devoted.

it’s raining salt like sunday nights,
self doubt and sea water,
everything i could be escapes from my
mouth faster than i can breathe—
i woke up tired seven years ago
and i haven’t recovered since.  

i wear myself like my second best skin,
we are the mask and the wearer
and every me is me
the past is just as infinite as the future
but i’ve been holding eulogies since i was fourteen
and mourning is always harder on monday’s when everything is new but me.

— when i was older
not fond of the title for this piece. feel free to suggest a better one below. still experimenting with line break and punctuation (was written to be spoken word more than read. attempting to replicate spoken word with punctuation)
one day
you will realize
that they are never coming back
and that will be the day
you finally grieve

Esther l. Krenzin
they’ve left for good
Man Jan 30
we speak on what we know
when we only know nothing
but from nothing where do we go

it is, from whence we came
so fitting it is we know it
and yet, think of it
can you?

deaden your thoughts
let the stimuli
pass you on by
and breathe in
newfound freedom
Amanda Kay Burke Dec 2020
Intrusive image invading unstable imagination

Bursting bright bringing bouncing bobbling bits of bubbling illusions into brain

A memory of magical messy minutes moseying and mingling
A menagerie of magnificent moments miraculously marked in my mischievous mind

Coming into chaotic corners of cornea calmly
Cruising without cares
Memory
“At the center of our being is a point of nothingness which is untouched by sin and by illusion, a point of pure truth, a point or spark which belongs entirely to God. It is like a pure diamond, blazing with the invisible light of heaven. It is in everybody, and if we could see it, we would see these billions of points of light coming together in the face and blaze of a sun that would make all the darkness and cruelty of life vanish completely ... I have no program for this seeing. It is only given. But the gate of heaven is every- where.”

― Thomas Merton, Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander

Surprising God, how does one surprise God?

I have heard the door or gate is not locked; it is always open.

Every day I think of Mike,
he told me about the river boat he was on,
the murky river water, many small boats alongside,
action all around. He was a sailor on a ship,
what the hell was he doing on a river boat,
he often asked, even now.
Can’t remember the name of the river,
but it was Nam…

You come home from war… you are different now.
No one seems to know that, “but glad your back bro,” they say. Yes, you are home, but then there is the addiction, not of killing but of forgetting.
The time comes to report, remembering one’s service, out in the woods, away from it all.
There is that standing at attention, hair and beard trimmed, at muster for the last time…
There was a strange silence afterwards,

How does one surprise God?
I have heard the door or gate is not locked; it is always open.
I am a vet from the Vietnam Era. This poem came point of a personal experience and loss.
Joss12 Dec 2020
Worn dull, tired of lab grown
language stone carved
The way that can happen
Not just the obvious sonant brutality
acid bare knuckles
Other words, shaped for obscurity
slide
ar o u nd and a ro un d and
a r o u n d and
Skirting certain description
hiding behind
Below
like earth, unlike earth
unverified, unburied, not bare
loggi Dec 2020
The night has come
So the phase has shift
And in the moonlight
I feel myself drift
Out from my head
Deeper I go
Till I am out.
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