So many false starts and blind
alleys have pointed us to lands
we promised to younger selves.

So many good intentions paved
our patios and pathways, not to
hell, but to a kind of anti-******.

Meaning is not an unfound grail.
It resides in footprints and glows
in each creaking backward glance.

We are never where we want to be.
For now we are somewhere, maybe.
Relax. Catch breath and thank stars.

Tony Noon

I wish I could have been there
To shield you from that pain,
The truth, too heavy to explain,
I won’t claim to understand, nor try to.

If I had a Time Machine,
I could have softened the blow,
So you wouldn’t have to face the unknown.
But we’re both only nineteen,
And the world would ask, what do you know?

Had I known the shadows would come,
I’d have found a way to make you stay,
So you wouldn’t be tossed like chewing gum.
But what can I say?
The things we know tomorrow,
We wish we knew today

Mysterious models.
Manufactured.
By argon-hearted stars.
Nefarious apostles,
have youth fractured.
Why? Ma & Da's gone.
Departed for Mars.

When surroundings & reality,
are surreal.
You're out of body/don't know how to deal.
Because meaningful,
contact is imagined.
Along with,
how you're not taught to feel.

Destiny is caught,
in an optimistic eyeful,
but, held in the hands,
of glimpsed emptiness.
Those hollow fists, will drop,
the future, set insight, to crash.
Lips, look above,
rather, wry-ful.
Unable to face,
myopic unfriendliness.
They're content, to cozy up,
next to a rash;
- stress induced psoriasis -
caused by; a post-traumatic past.

© poormansdreams

We could never be.

You had a malice in you,
I couldn’t recognise in me.

We could never be.

The roots of your envy,
Started to grow stagnant,
In the depths of my being.

We could never be.

I had to understand.
I couldn’t change such fate.
I had to let go of my faith.

We could never be.

The endearing love,
The Christmas parties,
The summers to come.

Baby blew.
The wind carries and will continue to,
indefinitely until hues unrecognizable
pass you by. You don’t bat an eye.
Chest pings, our Morse code transcending
The distance placed, and
never closed.
Preferring the perpendicular to the parallel?
Just you,
Baby’s blue.

Story tellers
Authors
Bards
Weavers of word
Poets
Heralds
Criers and friars
All on a mission
A goal in the front of mind
To tell the stories of all mankind
To teach the lessons learned and past
To those in the future so they may last