Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
crowther Sep 2020
I can see how not many people couldn’t get it
I can see how I demand the attention but at what cost?
Uncertainty is a game for the conscious, those who are unconscious are innocent
It’s easy not knowing but then again, I crave
Of imagery, beauty, adoration
The shadow who smiles wickedly, cackles underneath
It was never that what I seek but it’s a must
Is that how we suppose to live? The shadow will do so in order to sustain
The imagery, beauty, and adoration
But at what cost you ask? Nothing
Just shame, pain, and the shadow cackles again wickedly
melancholy Jan 2020

I'm just a little girl.

You make me happier than anything else

With the books that you read me

The smiles you give me

The warmth of your body

As I sit on your lap

My downy blonde head

Rested, listening to the heartbeat

That lulled me to sleep

In your womb.

You tell me,


You are my sunshine."

You're mine, too

So I bring you

Pictures I drew

Purple weeds that I picked from the yard


Flashing love, optimism

With my crooked baby teeth.

I love you, Mama

I do.


I'm not a little girl.

I like boys

And have opinions

And bleed

Just about every month now.

I roll my eyes

And speak my mind

And disagree.

I want to read those few books

You don't think that I'm ready to read.

I make you cry now

Almost as often as I make you laugh.

I remind you of the sharp, dangerous bits

Of your own adolescence

With all the added danger

Of my Daddy's set ways.

I'm sorry, Mama

I am.

I can only become a woman

In the ways that you teach me.

I love you, Mama

I do.


You know I'm your girl.

I might have Daddy's face and sense of humor

But it's you and I

Talking about our respective friends

As we work in the kitchen

You on the main course

Me on dessert.

We laugh

And sing along to Courtney Love's mad howls

No matter how much everyone else winces in response.

Let me tell you a secret, Mama:

I don't want to grow up anymore.

I feel safe here

Always at home

As long as I'm with you.

I love you, Mama

I do.


I'm still just a little girl.

It scares me to death

To see you hurt

When there's nothing I can do

To ease your pain.

Part of me wants to do

What you did for me:

Tuck you into bed

With a hug

A kiss

A ginger ale.

"Sleep tight


Don't let the bed bugs bite.

Sweet dreams

Love you

See you tomorrow."

I want to **** this ******* cancer

Eradicate it

From you

And every man, woman, and child

Who's ever fallen

Into its hideous grip.

I don't want to ever have to leave your side, Mama,

Wouldn't do it

For anything in this world.

I'm sorry

For any nasty thing

I could have ever said to you.

I'm sorry

If the stresses

Of a single moment

Or years' worth of them

Ever stole a little bit of joy

From you and I.  

I love you, Mama

I always will.

I'll do anything

If it means we can take each other's hands

And kick this thing's ***.
melancholy Jan 2020

They weren't created

To make us sound cool

Or look pretty.

They were meant

To make us taste the blood

That we never shed.

They aren't always

As simple as perfume-scented love-notes

Slipped nervously into the hands

Of someone you hardly know.

They can be as dire

As the details

That spill from an honest criminal's lips

Proving his guilt

Sickening the jury

Allowing the clarity of a set date

On which the monster will be slain.

They aren't something

We can stand to dissect too much

Once we have them all written down.

All they're going to do

Is tarnish the world's perception of us, anyway.

Why worry about our syntax?

They weren't made

For jokes

Or church

Or truth-or-dare

Or poetry.

Perhaps they were made

Simply for the dark, scarce rooms

That are the minds

Of cowards.


Taste of bitterness

Sting like salt in a wound

Have all the power

To tear a person's whole **** world apart

With a gesture as small

As a nod of one's head.

They're the things we wish we could forget

The big mistakes

That make us want to pour ourselves

A large glass of Selective Memory

And settle in for the evening.

And, in order to get them off of her chest

A trembling poet

With the roar of a lion

And the heart of a scaredy-cat

Will wrap them all up in metaphor

Until she barely recognizes them

Then feed them to the dogs

That make up the rest of the world

For dinner.
Kamblamian Sep 2018
The changing of season
leaves behind the illusion of an Endless love
only to realize I can not fathom
Endless love
In shear panic I run
Far enough away to realize
Our love ended.
Our plan failed
And we are no longer
Thinking of vast happenings drives me mad
Kamblamian May 2019
She was the one for you but she is long gone. I didnt realize I was here to fill her shoes. I almost want to ask her why she left but it isn't my place. I see red flags but I'm not sure if I'll go...because I'm stuck. Kicked from the places I know I became a vigilante with you. I have 8 months

I'm just the baby Mama
She was your love
Logan Robertson Mar 2019
She kept staring at the full moon
Her friend, confidant, fixation
Regretfully, I learn later, her escape
I kept talking in eerie silence
And keeping company to no effect
She like a bird tethered in a cage
I remember that night
Solemn the scar
Fourteen years hence
We were parked along a beach in Hawaii
Paradise one would think
Man and wife
Gazing in the opposite direction
I learn later our lasting vacation
Somewhere in the distance
Happy palm trees dance to the music of the waves
Whitecaps accentuate the moonshine of the night sea
Statues of tall mountains stand sentry
Separated by a treeline
Rolling hills, bare picket fences
And a defining moment
In the darkness and contrast
I see a few horses approaching our view, us
No doubt curious
My wife jests, as her eyes, depart the moon
Her reverie, her prayer pause
As the inside of the car shrivels
My heart braces
Her words, one by one
Denouncement at its finest
As she looks back at the horses, then me
"Even the poppies are in love
They're so stable"
She says this over and over
For my effect
Her eyes glassy
Her voice but a whisper
Steel, still
Drawing the horses nearer
Where soon their eyes
And noses peek through the fences of gloom
Big and brown,
She begins to tear
Sad and red
Real childlike
Her past begins to flash
Where she says something to the effect
That she once worked the corner of 42nd steet
In San Francisco
A bombshell went off
The horses sank in their seats
Lava spewed from my head
Mount Robertson in ashes
No votive candles could save her
Or us
Her angels on her shoulder
Lost to her rescue
Only albatrosses
Sinking, us
Again in reverie
"Even the poppies are in love
They're so stable"
On and on
"I once worked the corner of 42nd Street
In San Francisco"
Her words, again, like ice
Reverberating in my mind
Where did I go wrong, I thought
Melancholy on the rocks
That night a man
And a moon cried
The sublimity of her message
The pantomime
The mock of steel
The planted seeds
The turning point
I can only gaze at the rolling hills
Now with two horses hoofing it back to safety
The darkness
The lost rebuttal and love
Her full moon
So prophetic
My teary eyes and mind could only wander
Past the happy palm trees
To the pieces of the puzzle
"You don't love me any more"
Deeply, I dug, wanting to find the answers
As her eyes and fingers quickly curled my lips
My insides a mess
She blows out my candle
Takes away the shovel
I knew
She knew
No words needed to be expressed
Only these
"Even the poppies are in love
They're so stable"
Soon it seamed,
Stitches of our love ripped apart
That car that was once parked along the beach
Paradise searching
Now more suited for a funeral procession
As we  bereave the aloha attire, hotel, vacation and then the airport
As two ships departed in bereavement
Rudderless, without sails
Our port becoming a pretense
The living room couch soon my refuge
Saturated with my tears
Faithfulness and honor
Her bi-polarity worsening
I didn't know at the time
If only I had known
Had some understanding
The winds at war
Of what was in her harbor
More of the anchors of doom
Holding her down
The barnacles, erosions of her mind
I could have helped
I will always remember that night
Fourteen years hence
Two horses short of being stable
And the battles in my mind
The tears
The waning days and months
Where the seasons and time felt lost
A year later,
A morning dawn
I looked into her vacant eyes
The stillness
She was finally at peace
No longer tethered or caged
There was a full moon the night before

Logan Robertson

My wife was the love of my life and pain. She brought insight, intrigue, and mystery. She once told me she graduated from Yale, was a former model and once dated a Saudi prince, and I believed every word. What I can surmise about her illness is that her body was a cesspool of prescriptions drugs that only made her condition worsen.
Logan Robertson Dec 2018
It's a Thursday evening
and over par for the course I'm sitting
in a sandtrap.
The lie is bad,
I'm  buried next to a watering hole
in the wall.
I can't get out.
The half truth is I'm a drunk
a sea of sorrows.
Even the dolphins, I shed no mercy.
The real truth is I'm ***
anchored to a barstool,
barnacles from the dead sea
hanging on the four legs.
If this bar stool ever came to life
the voice would bubble to the surface,
get me to dry dock.
How fortuitous the wind in my sails,
finding every sandtrap
and waving at the mothballs.
Blind to letting the barnacles take it's course.
Corrosion creeping up on me, like its
Who cares about the long lost voice
or the red ants at his picnic.
Or if Uncle lost his strokes he never had.
Did someone say shipwreck?
I order another double,
with fire in my eyes,
adding another burn to my stomach.
I look at the bartenderess
and my eyes don't lie.
She's my type.
My head tilts this way and that.
I see people starring back at me.
If only they knew how the ball bounces.

Logan Robertson

It was a Thursday night at the bar. I sat in my own little world. Laptop in front of me. Chips on the side. A poem that was begging to be written. So I began to type, fast, without any inhibition or cares. Edit-I read this poem again and again. I actually like it. I should do this more often, beer in one hand, words in the other. What a fun balance.
Logan Robertson Oct 2018
It was a Saturday night  in the park
his trees were singing
out of tune
his clay pigeons needed to come out
of his closet
for he was parked
on a stool
at his favorite watering hole
amongst a full house
where pairs beat singles
and there he was
shooting blanks
drowning in his sorrows
on his nine lives of lowlife
hoping for a sitting duck in despair
the kind that waddles right up to the Romeo's
with suspense in their hearts
and spontaneity in their wings
a cackle
that he can tackle
to take home
to his garden bed
for him to be fed
but what he got
was for not, naught, knot
wistful thinking
sitting in a bar sinking
for the jukebox played a broken record
finding love in the wrong places
and the joke squarely was on him
for thinking, he could round the bases
looking no further than the escape of his glows
or a crutch of decoys
and sitting ducks
for he was no Romeo
there he was still, like steel,
a stole away in society
forlorn, preserved
like mamas mothballs tucked away
in basement storage
squandering the forage
for there were no triple treats
tonight for him
or forever sounds grim
for his reality check gone dim
no eye candy
for his heart beats
no picnic
for his ****
and all the bottled whiskey
could not drown out his pain
as his eyes were slain
as the sitting ducks turned
from his fantasy corner
and though
he's sitting at the bar, a loner
reminded that in cards of life
pairs beat singles
and in his worn hand
familiarly holds a lonely joker
for it's like he tries
and its
like his sitting ducks
are like hoofed deer
and his little sweets,
are spooked
away from his
now darken forest
like red ants at his picnic
and the gleam in his eyes turned
to the poorest
as if his life and watering hole
was condemned
his garden bed cut at the stem
it is as if he has a red vest on
and a rifle don
and all the hoofed deer
looking at him in fear
like he's manic
or maybe it's his eyes
that hold dark skies
he orders another double
for what else is there to do
on his Saturday night
than to sit in a bubble
forever sounds grim
but sing him a sweet hymn
he says please
to wit as he steals peeks
at the bartenders triple treats
like a bee to a hive
his joker still strikes a beat
if only he can find a bolster
for his gun needs a holster
and a deer in the headlights
would be hard to find
the confession now told, tolled, towed
through tears
the guy in the bar window
is me, sitting

Logan Robertson

If I could wish upon a star I wish the next man happiness.
Aisha Sep 2018
please tell my heart to simmer down
i can’t hear myself think
over all of this noice it’s making.
it bubbles and boils and makes my skin itch with the urge to **** it.
please take my heart away.
i can’t bear the burden of it again.
it feels so heavy, like someone buried it six feet under, but i can still feel it.
it’s like it’s calling out to me from underneath. it wants me to help it
but i can’t. i put it under there myself
and i lost the map
Kamblamian Aug 2018
I'm not as self but as something new.

Golfer man and she knew you

But I never knew that she was who

The one who invented the love of you

And now that aside here I am

Squish sardine pressed into a can

The man who wrote the man I knew

Well I gave him away in spite of food

And now the longing for the words I wish

The words that I so dearly Miss
Confessional poetry
Next page