Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
John McCafferty Nov 2021
All nutrients stopped our connection is lost, dead flowers on show it's cost has grown old.
The shell still shines but insides seem so rotten, are problems afoot now foundations have gone?
Invested energy transferred in a team to entertain, the state of fans patience often the last to remain, others in charge soon slip down to be replaced.

Restrictions enrooted are cause for concern, training affirmed to restart from step one, whilst some mistakes are made to be learnt from. The clarity of a curtain call can affect us all, when feeling the woe at the end of this game, no one likes to be played with in poor taste.
(@PoeticTetra - instagram/twitter)
M Solav Jul 2019
We live on the ripples of a beating heart
Sailing wide across a great black sea
Each pulses like falling raindrops
As we drift on the surface of destiny

We know the struggles and the storms to come
Foundations the turmoils of passing winds
Are scattering on our way towards the sun
Were raised by none but the breathe of our will

We become landscapes the further we are drawn
Cold mountains, dense forests, oceans and such,
On our carved existence all promise to be found
As we roam from mood to mood and thought to thought

We understand at last what the touch reconciles
When we start to realize what we had always known
That the world was always ours, and it dawns on our mind
That the rainfall had stopped while we’d landed home
Written in June 2019 - for an exhibition in Peking.

— Copyright © M. Solav —
This work may not be used in entirety or in part without the prior approval of its author. Please contact for usage requests. Thank you.
Apollo Hayden Feb 2017
I don't want no mediocre love,
give me more of a 1 corinthians 13.
I need to know you'll draw nearer when heavy or small storms come,
not lose your sh*t, get scared of the thunder and leave.
See, love is a learning thing and we'll need water for it to grow,
we can't just plant our seed, walk away and expect it to grow on its own.
We've gotta clear the pathways, rewire and connect inside our domes, because without communication we'll both feel as if we're all alone.
But if forever can be seen within the roots, then no storm will ever be hard to get through.
I said it's all about forever, it's all about the roots.
If they're deep enough then there's no storm that will be too rough, and love will not be moved.
So give me that 1 corinthians 13 and we'll till the ground and build from a strong foundation.
Any other type just won't feel right, and will only be wasting our time.
You are the foundations
that keep me safe

You are my little
white picket gate

You are home.
Rockie Mar 2015
What have I done
I've done it now
Ended it all
Realised that there is no going back
From that moment forward
Injustice was done
By my hands
My hands are stained
With the blood of another
That knife
The knife that was in my possession
Through the foundations
The foundations of the human body
The body of another
Which is shivering
*What have I done?
I remember when you told me to
let it go
The words slipped out of your mouth but never did you let pride slip out of your fingers
I know, because every syllable still stings
The surface of my heart.

Mr. Building, you let go.
Allow the wind to blow against your hair and
create wrinkles on your clothing
But never let it
Knock the dreams right out of you
I believe in them and never will I
Even stutter those words to you
Me take your hand and help you carry those burdens
Don't ever drop your ceramic hope,
Cling on to your glassy aspirations because dreams
Are made of fine china
So precious
So fragile
So so so beautiful
Please don't let  your chin fall to the ground.
Lift yourself up,
Because the world deserves to see
How tall He's built you
But prove to them
That when the earthquake comes,
You height's got nothing on your
And if telling me to let it go
Is to break me back into concrete,
Then by all means demolish these
Stories and hammer through these
Because every broken window
Is worth seeing you succeed.
It'll hurt me to the very ground,
But your standing tall
Will help me recover.

I remember when you told me to
let it go
Your breath smelled of coffee.
I can tell you've had a rough night.

And maybe
Just maybe
you spent
those sleepless nights
Deciding whether you should
Let it go, too.
It's late and my mind only knows how to speak in metaphor.
Martin Narrod May 2014
So I scuttled up, until I found a voice like Japan, I read him his rights, turned out the lights, and laid right back on the sand. They said, "Sir, he was much of a father to me, but we were labeled his kin, right in our family tree." "Oh wow", I said, with a gentle, smooth voice, he went missing last August, but now he wants back you boys?" "Oh yes, he sure is a feral man. We think that's why he dried up and flew to Japan." Right then, the two of them went silent just like two second story men, so I inquired, "What happened then?" "From Monday thru Sunday he took to prayer from the bible, and on every other weeknight he watched Japan's Top Model. He threw gallant parties to a harem of wives, he read each of their palms, and looked in their eyes; some time later, when everyone was about to leave, he'd turn on Happy End and start a wild ****." By this time I was tired, the sun began to set, I grew tired of my beach patch and yearned for my bed. Although soporific, I tried to be polite, I said, "Let's finish this conversation some other time." "Of course!", they said, "We're off to bed. We'll see that you'll do the same." Then they stood up quick, and reached down and picked up my chains. The beach we laid on was black top, asphalt and tar, the bed I craved was behind a row of private bars. The two of them, them both, were children of mine, because my memory is shot, this might've been their millionth time. i got locked up in a county that's dry as a beach, like Elizabethtown, Kentucky, where I was raised till 13. No one, not even the warden, knows really why I'm here, even some man from Cell Block Five, asked me last Sunday, why was I here. My beach perhaps, it's love at last, concrete, gravel, and stone- a 6' x 10' room with bars and a porcelain throne. It's mine I cry, each night I die, with glee, with smile, with rite. But it makes the other guys run at me, and try to start random fights. I don't remember the boat I took, but I remember the tour, going to Japan at Epcot Center since I'd never gone before.
Martin Narrod May 2014
Something original. Of newer words, that originate from the pleasure and happiest of timeless incidents. The happenings, back of the park, near a set of restrooms, a pool of clear sea water and a purplish-red starfish. A sea cucumber. Trailing sea lions diving off of a cliff, a vertical display of rocks, moving a millionth of an inch each year. You caught me.  --------

I can't nail it. It happens to me when I sleep, it comes around me, over my shoulders and latches onto my breaths. I'm breathing and it creeps inside of me like a mealworm, I turn to look for it and it disappears again. It lives in a shadow but it is also a shadow of itself. An anomaly, a space for time and the tell of time, its hidden agenda, its positive nature, how it yields itself to prey, how it coos for a sweet smile, runs up to me in mid-day traffic, and kisses me, noon at military time.  ------  

The blessings come. All of them. Laid out on a table in red and white checkerboard, making the eggplant parm and the homemade vinaigrette. Peanut butter chocolate chip vegan cookies. A dandelion necklace that only fits around my wrist. It makes me weep some twenty years ago on a Playskool slide, orange, red, bright. I'm looking around my neck and still it's not there. Every where I want to be, every where I've gone and could go. I should go to California too but all of this...stuff, everywhere, under my legs, in my pockets, the closets tumbling high and low, I haven't had enough to change, and still I am wanting something else. You the same, my shoulders tell me stories, I listen and I fall asleep.  -----  

Sometimes my nerves grow quiet, my words grow- but then they just fall again, skittering in a lull plash of blue-green pond water. The bench I sewed to the ground. A tale of mirth and woe. I cannot call on you, you will not come. Sleeping beauty, blue eyes, blonde hair. I wrestle you in the day to day, the hour to hour. Minutes cannot go by. Pages that turn but I remember everything. My mind will never go.  -----  

Two pink letters in the post today. Maybe neatly placed for you. A fake-tattoo puffin, upper-left hand corner. My hands are empty, they have indecent memories, they write indelible superpowers. I can't go on. I run lake water over my ankles, slowly drift beneath arcing waves and cold grey skies. Half a day blue goes black, night comes and I whisper when the sky goes quiet. Nothing is as serious as this.   ------    

In a white box there are two pairs of shoes and a soft bear. The bear without the name. He doesn't speak to me so I leave him with the sea birds. Put them in a push cart and show them off, I take them here, I take them there. No one asks his name, where he's going, what he's going to do. ------------

Tuesday's are the worst. I count and count and count. I will never forget Tuesday's, twisting like a cuneiform jelly, fingernails spoiling me-meat, breaking the Styx crossing the river Rhine, there is nowhere that I will not go, only for me to cross time. To wait, I really hate waiting. Nothing comes between, I lie to a stranger and they fall in love instantly. I see you on Monday evenings and I want to kiss you gently, the sides of your neck, on the inside of your hand. Where do you go when all the shadows go? ----

Some of me is backwards. The waves shape the sky. A rabbit goes with a fire truck, a blueberry with a cephalopod. Back to the soft wood walls of the cotton luxe room. My legs have never felt so safe, you have never made my teeth so happy. In Russia you touch my face, I see you, a picture of you, any part of your eyes or the things you draw upon and I am instantly in love. I love you, a part of you, all of the parts of you, your soul is the only part of me disconnected. You are the happiest moments of my pleasure. You taste like Tahitian Vanilla and Acai berries. Gold grains hit our shins as we go like great wild horses through the alluvial plains. -----

I cannot count to you. There are no goddesses in numbers. I only have sleep, for you to look me square away into a bliss I have in a picture of the two of us, lost in our faces, our hands wandering each others knees. I sit across from you and I am not close enough. I go closer and I want to be inside of you, all across my limbs expanding our spiritual forms, intertwining in our skins. So I speak, I lay my words gently in front of you so you cross them as you walk our path, back from the sea into a narrow slumber. Sleep is the only place we all can play. You, me, her, her, and I.
Martin Narrod May 2014
You were totally something else. Like a calm respite overcoming an instance of excitement. Magic and other prime words that can dictate the inarticulate adjectives that was this afternoon. Happiness and pleasure. A coexistence. To coexist. Soy.

— The End —