the days go by in pleasant routine
only occasional disturbances
     with grandkids  unexpected visitors
     the mailman ringing at the door
          because the letter would not fit the box
     the neighbor asking for a favor gladly granted
     someone who wants to sell some things

the days go by
      preparing meals  go shopping
      splitting the firewood
      running the wash
      checking the email
      go swimming and do AqiaFit
      occasionally have a lunch with friends

the days go by

and I occasionally wonder
about the undesired goal of passing all that time
as days go by

Lynnie Defelice Oct 2017

From human to robot,
Subtle changes.
Physical difference,
Unfocused eyes.
Tired bodies
And shaking metal,
Truth plastered
In programmed lies.
Burnt out circuits replacing hands,
Reboot the system; it's alive.
Tell me about happiness;
Fixed to feel,
Tell me how you charge at night.
Well, Mr. Robot, I must say,
You've been neatly brushed.
Take your "feelings" my good sir,
And sit in rust and dust.

I hope this poem isn't confusing.
All feedback is welcome
Edward Coles Jan 10

I’m tired of these lonesome nights
spent cock in fist and staring at the ceiling.
Exist in thought and again through
ever-changing screens;
it’s been years since I lived through action.

Desiccated white heels in the dust of Savannakhet.
Finding love in the half-dark Bangkok hotel room.
The bar-maid in Malaga, hash from Morocco,
all those nights spent lusting for blood amongst the wine.

Now getting high means finding an anchor
to hold me down when gravity does not feel enough.
When all forces of G-d and Nature combined
Cannot rattle hard enough to force me to speak
in any half-filled room.

Sometimes I’m certain the noise in my chest
can be heard aloud
and everyone knows I am nothing.
I wonder why in all my dreams
Beauty follows in my footsteps.

I wonder why in all my dreams
I’m running away from something.

C
Tyler Grace Jan 2

white lies and white lines

you said you’d come home later tonight

the sun came out and i haven’t seen you around

where did you go my darling?

have you forgotten what we had?

looking for cheap thrills, taking tiny little pills

you came in drunk and snarling

part i. old routine
Mariah Dec 2017

Routine is a maze.
Tracing the rigid line,
Landing at it’s precise destination.
Confined to its habitual course,
Without alteration,
The path unchanging; dull.
I become uninterested.
Blasé towards existence,
A lack of verve and vigor
Burns me inside.
The urge to flee gets hungry,
fuels the desire within me.
I cannot endure a life of mediocrity.

hindrance Dec 2017

to hang around is hard you know
to face today when you know you have to face tomorrow too
every day the same
every set of eyes seem to see it all the same way
i don't need to be better than anyone else
i just want to be better than myself
the wasted days and disappointments pile up
the tomorrows always behind the todays always behind the yesterdays
never better
never new
me? i'm never going to catch a clue.
you? you're probably stuck in it too.

Chloe Dec 2017

I’m scribbling this numb.

Very, inexplicably, numb.

there’s a frigid draft coming in from my window,
and, at this moment,
I feel that if i were not bound by endless expectations and worldly aspirations,
I would probably go with the breeze and leap from the third floor.

praying that I land on the ground hard enough to wake myself up.

I’m scribbling this worried.

Very, knowingly, worried.

there’s a reoccuring dream, every other day.
when I am knee deep in my poison,
diving into glass shards and trophy caps.

an array of chanting.
I am the reigning queen, of,
Nothing.

and, here I am.
Up to my neck in caps, swimming in remains,
on the third floor,
ready to wake myself up again.

Three….
Two…
One…

Wait, how did I end up back in my bed?

I am developing an alcohol dependence. One night, when drunk in my room, I was depressed, feeling lost, wanting to jump out my window. I called my friend, told her and she tells me "this is just the system, you gotta let it run its course."
nadine shane Nov 2017

in the morning,
you wonder to yourself why
you feel effusive,

and then you remember that
you were left with
nothing but melancholy.

he left you with pieces of yourself
still under his teeth and you
ponder why you
feel so empty.

you always put fragments
of your tumultuous love on
anything else that ensorcelled
you and yet you still
question why you
feel so vapid.

in the afternoon,
you gaze at the gaps of
your woven heart,

admiring how you still chose
to love albeit it has been
treated by uncouth and
cantankerous men, grabbing your
jagged edges and claiming it as a phantom's home.

walking home was certainly an
experience for you, you were
scrupulous on avoiding the cracks
on the sidewalks because you
were afraid you would fall too deep and wander around the empty
hallows of quandary.

in the evening,
you wear
a careworn visage.

the efflorescence that you
once desired for was kept
untouched at the kiss of the
pale moonlight, swooning you with every echo of apologies dripping down
your god-forsaken body.

your heart, beaten and
turned into everything
sublime, is ensconced behind
the walls, cosseting the bruises
he had left you and not once did his
eyes become rueful.

loving is a mixture of
boiling thoughts and sleepless
nights, a state of perplexities
wherein you plead that
maybe, just maybe, he still thinks
about you too.

henlo stinky this is my first published poem here on this site (-:
Carlos Nov 2017

Handshake claw grip, crustaceans with an overstatement,

Never distressed with a sober sense spent on aimless wastage,

Never become too complacent,

Never butter devil's sodden words on scriptures burned through the ages,

Certain pages curtain stages grace to shattered shambles curdled shameless.

Shiny geodes the traditions on the backhand,

Sages matching matter sets a salamandrine babble balance act,

Skin tight ever-bond clasped reattachment,

Radical bags sag at the mystery of a mattress ,

Routine carry forth enabling of double standards,

Tailored youth to a callous canvassed pander bastard,

Cat scratch moral compass to the badlands,

The pinnacle of rabid actions in the aftermath,

After that,

A rabbit or a lab rat,

Maze running side effects from the last batch,

No lessons learned just oblivious to brass tax,

Malleable malice in the marrow of the crab man,

Can't stand a phalanx divided by the last laugh,

Middle finger sinner Peter chapters in the chapel of a hashtag,

Shadows in the chiaroscuro flit mongers little gas lamps,

Calypso rhythm stages a symphony of backstabs,

Coup d'etat passive damage scatters gravel slat in sandbags,

No matter shiny medal coiled vertebrae permeate the flashbacks,

Never with a sordid memory retraced to get a plaque stamped.

Burning Lilacs Nov 2017

It's feeding time.
Put your favorite food on the stove,
But don't you stand beside and stir as there's lots left to do:

Like drying your eyes with a light of meaningless information
Like running laps between choices to make, never quite reaching any
Like watching herds of dust cats growing in every corner
Like ignoring texts
Like drifting away
Like feeling dead
            or fearing you will be
            or wishing you were
Like covering your skin's imperfections with pure red
Like decorating walls with scratches for every time you've ever:
            inconvenienced someone slightly
            thought ill of anyone or anything
            made others worry
            failed to take care of yourself
            burned your food
Like...




Ding!
Now that you've taken your time with these routine steps, your meal should be ready.
You've done well. The charred bits serve as perfect fuel to the fire that consumes you.

The resulting smoke signals a message:
"You were right,
you truly are worthless.
Here's what's left,
only a few bites from what's unburnt.
You deserve nothing more"

A memory of my days spent living in a college dorm. I'm glad these times are over.
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