Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Watching the walls turn for colors.

Dead under eyes.
Appliance.
Awaiting.
A stronger taste of Sulk and.
Morbidness entering.
The tiredness because why not.
Forward.
Adore.
Shaky legs for silence.

Garrett Johnson.
Monotnous saying other wise, nevermind Mindy.
Grace Butler Apr 29
I lay awake laying next to you
Amidst the tears rolling down my cheeks
I hear you stir in your sleep
I lay here awake worried I woke you up
But hoping you’d notice my pain
I lay here awake, you fall back asleep
I lay here awake, tears down my face
When the sun sets, he lays to rest.
When she rises, his soul is reborn.

Hussein Dekmak

Copyright
I die each time.

Rug floor.
Her Eyes.
Cosmic.
But homemade.
Satin.
& lived in.
I heard the sound.
Whispered.
Sent for.
Invitations.
For the heads.
& Sick.
With grief from the lips.



Garrett Johnson.
Always you.
annh Dec 2019
Summer’s pine grass moves in sway,
Flat-backed on hard earth I lay,
To watch the wind walk.

‘I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey-work of the stars.’
- Walt Whitman
Bede Sep 2019
Can I truly speak my mind and not
Lose my train of thought?
Am I the one who's above all else?
If so, its only because of you.
Remember when I say that, verily,
Everything I love is in you!
Another mid work poem
Bede Sep 2019
You make all of my senses fail
In comprehending your beauty.
Soul and body, both pristine,
My life is changed by your love.
Mind work poetry
Mehek Sep 2019
LaY
Every time I cry
I lose some of me
but if that's what it takes to forget
then let me be.
I'd rather you have my tomorrow
than give away today,
for today I can lay
in the depths of your sorrow,
the sorrow that summons me gray.
.
.
.
mehek
Lemme go.
Where Shelter Aug 2019
lay this body down, where shelter is..

<>

maybe you’ve been here, HP, awhile,
faintly remember the nook of poetry,
the four old soldier chairs, worn to a gray shade indescribable,
facing the merge of the river and the bay, lookin out southwest,
today, in nearly summer over Sunday best,
wearing a new old navy lime t-shirt,
ancient Champion grey cotton flannel shorts,
summer uniform of the generation that went boom and bust

as the sun escapes through apertures of now and then,
interrupting the partly cloudy forecast,
lazy me risking an end of summer skin reddening chastisement,
but life without danger, no life at all, especially poetry danger

the windy breezes jabbering quite excitedly,
deep in conversation with the waves
that loudly enough are washing the shore,
beneath my feet sitting in the poets nook

the gulls are squeaking their point of view,
at will, saying to me,
who asked you poet?

discussing they, the day, when the humans will be leaving,
they tell day and season by the degree of temperature reductions,
knowing full well it harbors hints that our departure sooner,
till next we poetry nook

the Adirondack chairs, with no cushions, are now described
as “scratchy,” by the Wendy of my life,
two and something granddaughter, who returns next weekend,
with new insights and open to opportunities to “use her words”
to teach me anew how to see the loveliness that is my blessing

sometimes a human takes an inventory of life’s stuff,
the ex and in-terior terrain, wades through the moraine
that his glacier has dragged behind, the coarse detritus of his course,
de icing/deciding what to keep, what stone skip throw into the bay

I could sail from our dock to the Atlantic,
meet you over a pint or a pinot, or head down to the Panama Canal,
north to Portland or Seattle, cruise the Willamette,
go as far as Vancouver,
before the spring winter runoff,
show you my shock, the shock of well past gray,
now the white feather of my head, signifying...old warrior, as it
falls over my forehead, a new signature of my ever changing body,
the city doormen see, shocked, now call me honorifically “abuelo”

read a story from a harvard doctor who believes living past 75,
makes little sense, cause we use up more resources
than we could ever add back

no, not saying go die, but give up the meds,
the artifices to extend life
once you pass past the inflection where you’re nothing but a taker,
which maybe explains why wrote a dozen poems this weekend,
trying to expel what resources I can add to the world before I

lay this body down

the cloud bank covering the southern fork of long island,
thickly viscous like fresh honeybee secretions, after which,
some will

lay their body down

next weekend is labor day, and maybe I’ll labor more,
disgorging poems too long and too varied, perchance you will
enjoy one or two, as we both be closer to the day when labor ceases,
and we can unhurriedly

lay this body down, sheltered at last

from wind waves and gulls jabbering,
the alternating current of cloud and sun



8/25/19

3:40pm
SI
Elkay Aug 2019
Oh to lay right down and fade away,
Close my eyes, forget this day.

To never wake up to this again,
To finally feel in my head sane.

To let go of all on which I held,
To be done with all of which I felt.

To leave without a trace or sign,
Oh well, I’ve had enough time.
Next page