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newpoetica Dec 2019
i want to live, right?
it's something i question at night...
not actually,
but i do question that thought itself fully.
do i enjoy breathing?
mom left me the past three years with this thought conceiving...
i feel torn,
and to my very core, worn.
i want to keep moving forward?
but without a part of me around, i don't know where i'm going toward...
i hope she's with the stars,
instead of being depressed and sneaking away to local bars.
do i miss it all and would i live it again?
she made me and without her i wouldn't know where to even begin...
i don't know what i need, i was able to go to her for everything and now i don't know
Miles Graves Nov 2019
In the dark, I am no longer taken,
No more pursued by those judging gazes.
Absent from this world I stay, forsaken,
But existing - hiding from dead faces.

In the dark I am suspended, frozen
Forever in this world which feigns to care;
Time has been lost, the days and weeks broken.
I stand still, decaying into nowhere.

In the dark, I waken to the calling
Of one too many thoughts pulling me down.
This place of solitude - it means nothing,
Not when tomorrow's the day I will drown.

In the dark, I can hide for no longer,
Those dark thoughts grow forever stronger.
Poetic T Nov 2019
Today wasn't like tonight,
        but more like the afternoon


that I have been
             waiting for...

since I'd gotten up.


                     "Yawns,
Lyda M Sourne Nov 2019
Lethargic

As you lie on your back and close your eyes. The gentle breeze caresses your skin. You smell the air, and it is scented with nostalgia from memories past

Each minutes passes by. 60 beats. Heartbeat. Your heart beats in rhythm with each breath you take

Gentle breeze
It's a lazy day and I'm feeling lethargic
Nat Lipstadt May 2013
For Al, who left us, Nov. 22, 2014

With each passing poem,
The degree of difficulty of diving ever higher,
Bar incrementally niched, inched, raised,
Domain, the association of words, ever lesser,
Repetition verboten, crime against pride.

Al,
You ask me when the words come:

With each passing year,
In the wee hours of
Ever diminishing time snatches,
The hours between midnight and rising,

Shrinkage, once six, now four hours,
Meant for body restoration,
Transpositional for poetic creation,
Only one body notes the new mark,
The digital, numerical clock of
Trillion hour sleep deficit, most taxing.

Al, you ask me from where do the words come:

Each of the five senses compete,
Pick me, Pick me, they shout,

The eyes see the tall grasses
Framing the ferry's to and fro life.
Waving bye bye to the
End of day harbor activities,
Putting your babies to sleep.

The ears hear the boat horns
Deep voiced, demanding pay attention,
I am now docking, I am important,
The sound lingers, long after
They are no longer important.

The tongue tastes the cooling
Italian prosecco merging victoriously
With its ally, the modestly warming rays
Of a September setting sun,
finally declaring, without stuttering,
Peace on Earth.

The odoriferous bay breezes,
A new for that second only smell,
But yet, very old bartender's recipe,
Salt, cooking oil, barbecue sauce, gasoline
And the winning new ingredient, freshly minted,
Stacked in ascending circumference order, onion rings.

These four senses all recombinant,
On the cheek, on the tongue,
Wafting, tickling, blasting, visioning
Merging into a single touch
That my pointer finger, by force majeure,
Declares, here, 
poem aborning!
Contract with this moment,
now satisfied!

Al,  what you did not ask was this:
With each passing poem,
I am lessened within, expurgated,
In a sense part of me, expunged,
Part of me, passing too,
Every poems birth diminishes me.
__________
(this poem more than most,
for its birth celebrates
my loss, your loss,
which cannot be exonerated 8/7/18)


__________
written at 4:38 AM
September 8th, 2012

Greenport Harbor, N.Y.
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