Priceless bond debased
an eternity of penance
over feelings withheld

I dyed my hair red

I feel like I'm dead

so much as been said

it's all in my head

Haunted
by Michael R. Burch

Now I am here
and thoughts of my past mistakes are my brethren.
I am withering
and the sweetness of your memory is like a tear.

Go, if you will,
for the ache in my heart is its hollowness
and the flaw in my soul is its shallowness;
there is nothing to fill.

Take what you can;
I have nothing left.
And when you are gone, I will be bereft,
the husk of a man.

Or stay here awhile.
My heart cannot bear the night, or these dreams.
Your face is a ghost, though paler, it seems
when you smile.

Published by Romantics Quarterly. Keywords/Tags: haunted, ghost, thoughts, mistakes, memories, heart, ache, soul, empty, shallow, shallowness, bereft, husk, night, face, pale, smile

I've been on Earth for 5150 days
And I've come to the conclusion that
people are sick

We have stolen for only ourselves

We have killed without thinking twice

We have persecuted for thrills

We have taken advantage for satisfaction

We have tortured for revenge

We have blown up because of one man's instruction

We have terminated species for space

We have disrespected for payback

We have decimated for attention

We have walked out to lead a childless life

We have betrayed for fictional assurances

We have destroyed planets for Jordan's and KD's

We have airbourned sicknesses to control the population


It's what we're best at.
No one alive cannot check something off of this list
No matter how good our intentions are in this moment
We have humanized ourselves
I don't want to be humanized
I want to change

I sit down at my desk,
Staring blankly at the sheet in front of me.

Pure white,
a fresh start.

The pen in my hand twirls gracefully,

Not a word written on the paper.
My ideas were foolish, after all.

Until the pen moved on it’s own.

Long, flowing lines graced the page,
grazing the edges,
but not spilled at all.

The pen halted for only a minute,
as I admire the beautiful world it’s created.

But the pen does not stop, nor does it have mercy.

Dots and lines
Strokes of memory
Brushing it’s tortuous path

The ink held no mercy, and in mercy’s place came agony
the agony tying the strings of ink together until it became a messy puddle
even after all space was filled.
The pen swung
back
and forth
tearing at the paper
My  perfect  world  a   mess    of ink
    and   paper    
and             guilt

My eyes try to close
as tepid sweat stratifies on my clothes.
With cold feet and a hot head,
I struggle against the bed.
Although it comes to me rarely,
the tempest feeling of tingling insensitivity,
beautifully disgusting, is quite bittersweet.
The night should be simple,
yet it’s too brutal and holds me ungentle.
And so I pop pills like pimples
to give tranquility to my mental.

They’re not enough. It’s never enough.
One cup, just one since I’m already up.
One drink turns into two and I don’t feel rough.
But I feel...an implore for more. I wouldn’t bluff,
another gulp, another gulp, and I feel stuffed
interestingly enough. But I feel… handcuffed
with both pitiful pleasure and passionate pain,
the drinks are starting to drown my brain.

I fall down under the surface,
where the thunder can’t make me nervous.
Where I can’t sunder my purpose,
where I wonder what my worth is,
wearing wonder fiery as a furnace.
Hoping to plunder my brain’s service
with a hunger to recurve this
surly slumber of unbound defervesce.

These dreams beckon me to come play and see
a weightless joy, peace, even glee
without burden. But suddenly I only awake to see
complacency; ugly gluttony keeps me company.
My emotional darkness, despair, despondency,
countered by my own chaotic nepenthe,
gives me sad servitude disguised as lying liberty.
The turmoil in my thoughts twists, turns
like mazes as my mind mends, burns
deeper, deeper, deeper down.
Just to sleep, I turn into a clown,
holding a bee for honey as it stings me.