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lexie May 4
The pelican’s wings are so wide on the horizon,
He carries the sun on his back as if it were wind.

His big flat feet arch and land,
propped strong and confident on cool metal.

I see him around our little island,
A confident lone traveller.
Never have I seen someone so sure of themselves and their place.

He guzzles his fish, he splashes sapphire water down his feathers,
And every day he lands assuredly on his perch.

Maybe one day I will have my routine,
Land on my perch and enjoy my life.

Until then I’ll watch him,
A part of me burning for such simplicity,
The whole of me happy just to see him again.
Carlo C Gomez Mar 18
soap and water
          or shower

brick from mortar
boys against girls

urban velvet smog
city vapors clog

this train -- there is a line

this parking lot -- there is a line

open bar pharmacy, bottled water

                  no pity
                  no guarantees

dragon chasers
chin music
          lapsed short term memory loss

opening mail for grandmother
                the obituaries
                that ****** fly

a discussion among men
about a woman's voice
           come sit and listen

one last cigarette couple
walking home through the park
               driving alone in the dark
                             on the heels of
                             a reflection
                             of Christ
                             or an hourglass
                             in remission

them or not them
       just arrived
       just married
too many stairs
not enough elevators
worry about it later

them, definitely them
sharing beds
      under the leotard
      under the candlelight

a helping hand
finely manicured fingers
one stationary
        then two in missionary

word upon words need aspirin
                            pillow is the threshold
                            tomorrow...soap and water
Sleepz Feb 10
We wake up to that alarming sound,
Pick up the cellphone

Scroll, Scroll, Scroll
Unread messages, missed calls

The darkness and lonesome of waking up,
Covered, Isolated,
but recharged from the constant stimulus
and daily overload of the senses.

Eyes feel weighted,
Stretching open as if rubber bands hold them shut.

The sound of TVs, Music, Cars,
Dressing well, presentation is key.

The anxiety of fulfilling plans, responding to emails, presenting your body to wherever it needs to be.  

Enslaved by the concept of time,
the necessary effort to find time for you,
but the feeling of losing, and the learned mentality that tells you to be lazy is to sit.  

In this quiet realm,
listening to ones own thoughts and wondering:
how many of these are a result of influence?  

Where am I?  
Where is me?

Everyday we wear this armor,
ready to battle,
but seeking

When was the last time you noticed the birds chirp?
The patterns of wind, as is winds up,
and as it winds down.  
As it quiets down enough to hear a pen drop,
and then it leaves you for a moment.
The cold as it triggers goosebumps and lifts the hair on your arms.

The annoyance of grass,
irritating your bare skin as you sit on it,
but you choose tolerance.  

And all of this provokes the realization,
of the constant loop you are in.  
To get here you have to escape.

The expectations of each one of your roles,
Son or Daughter, Man or Woman, Friend or Foe, to choose you or someone else,
The appoinments of life,
the need to insistingly value your time,
the sin of escaping your daily routine.

Days like these

A machine constantly in motion

To be the free bird that fights for survival,
where a meal is never guaranteed.
Or to be caged,
and fed by the social constructs,
and partake of what is given to you.  

Either way,
A loop is a loop.
British Literacy Analysis - William Blake Inspiration : Woodsworth, Letters of the early spring
Malia Nov 2023
I can’t breathe,
Pressed down by the weight
Of meticulously staying
The same.

It’s a hammer
Coming down on me
It never stops.
A cycle, it never stops.

How can you stand it?
The mindless mundanity
Dragging us down in
A haze, eyes wide open.
I did a challenge to write a poem spontaneously, no cheating or planning!
Amanda Kay Burke Jul 2023
November arrives on schedule
Comes in to visit each year
Whispers goodnight with stillness
Rustling one can hardly hear

I only see her four weeks
In heart time is of no concern
World to her is a routine on repeat
Myself know I have just a turn
Written you guessed it; 11/2/18 haha
ottaross Jan 2023
There's a groove in the floor
I slip into it each morning
I slide on cold steel casters
Driven by a low-rumbling steam
Pushed through my routines.

It goes down the stairs
And into the shower
And loops around to the mailbox
And past the fridge.

Sometimes there are a few splinters
Sometimes it's polished smooth
And it feels effortless to move along

I dream that the groove will lead out
Into the deep green forest
And crest upon a granite cliff
Where the vista over patchwork fields
And under rain-laden clouds piled high
Is opened up before me.

But it passes the table
And the TV
And the couch.

Next time it brings me to the mailbox
I'm going to make my big break.
Secret-Author Nov 2018
This is the bottom.
For months, I have felt this hollow tunnel inside of me. It has been the only constant for a while. Like a wind tunnel on fire.  

Steadily I have felt worse in ways I never imagined. Each morning has been harder to get out of bed; I genuinely can't remember a day that didn't start with me bent over the toilet. Yet I stand, shakily. Sometimes covered in ***** - and I clean myself up.
I get in my car. And I drive to work.

I am empty inside. I have no story. I have no melody.
I am untitled.
neth jones Apr 2022
a sorry fist forward                                                          ­  
             and mortally i follow                          
coldly into the first dark flint of day                                            
              not my natural habitat                                                      
so quiet.. or near so
a vacancy for occasional clean                              
                             ­              isolated noises

 i pause         and pass a scan about
the hailing lack of conscious population                                 
                     ­                     all packed away
hauntings themselves in beds
- like some form of post apocalyptic storage -
they add a vague lended charge
nature is on a limited budget         this early                             
no birds yet                                   and no solar minting
a massive racoon      with only three legs      crosses my intended path
              in its mouth                    a gory wreckage                        

i steep to make balance
                         but my pores won't take it
                                                       i am sickened by the ballast
                                                         ­                                  of my breakfast

i hollow onward into these new conditions                            
still deriding what to be                                                    
     a tourist and an informer dud                                                     ­  
i have switched to the dayshift                                        
from off the spire                                  
of my regular hour                  
the evening routine

breathing is surprisingly ***** at this time
                                            a failing of settled pollution :                      
the public buildings and restaurants          
                                 are muggy in their overnight stale degassing
awaiting air currents and dispersal        

the first gulls of the morning                          
                                              emit a defeating siren
spearing through detritus                            
                            ­    they dispel the bells of purity
               somehow i've made my port of call
a struggling invertebrate
in this state i dispose my spirit                        
                                at­ the salted threshold
security staff and sanitation process                              
         between the sets of automatic doors

a workplace made alien          
   and adverse to me
purely by        
            the indecent hour
of day
neth jones Oct 2021
[gulls] summer
the morning gulls
morning gulls defeat me
an accuracy to the early hour
they spear
thorough amongst the detritus
dispelling the bells of cleanliness
in an urban morning
Justin S Wampler Nov 2021
Dappled, isn't it?
Slotted bits of sun rays.
A radiant dalmatians coat
sprawled upon messy bedclothes.

***** sheets.

Always *****, no matter.
Yes, they've been changed.
Thousands of times, they've been changed.

That sparse sunlight
It highlights the
and the sweat.

I awaken to a stiff neck,
and stretch out the cracks
and the pops
from my spine.
My bones sigh as I flick a switch.

The shower runs,
coffee is brewing in the kitchen.

I hum.

I'll be humming
for eternity,
walking through grass
and clods of mud.
My worn boots go on,
begging for a cobbler.

I'll see the sky,
the sun shares it with the daytime moon.
I'll whisper to myself:
It'll be time for bed soon.

A couple hours.

A few beers,
or whiskeys.

Waiting for that ever dependable
dappled sunlight.
It always comes.

Until it doesn't.
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