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LadyM Nov 2018
This is me,
But the truth is-  
There's much more beneath the surface

I'm not talking 'bout the bones
Or the flesh beneath my skin,

If you look into my mind,
You'll see a portrait from within.

My eyes are two glass windows
Smeared with colour stains,

There's an endless rush of brightness
Always pulsing through my veins

I feel hope among the stars-
Cosmic blossoms of the dark,

I don't always find my way
On the journeys I embark

I am at a crossroads
Now knowing where to go,

But I've ways stood up straight,
Despite carrying cargo.

My face is not my only worth,
See the truth:
This is me.
This poem also exists in visual form, as it is one of my college art sketchbook projects :) Each verse is a different picture, a part of me. Try to imagine it in your mind how that would look like.
pc Oct 2018
A  lady  stares  blankly  ahead:
Ignoring  everything  in  her  stead,
Inhaling  the  adulterated  room  air,
Taciturn,  stiff,  certain,  or  maybe  scared.

Still  as  a  rock  –
Calm  as  a  lake  –
Strong  as  a  dock  –
But  those  are  all  fake.

Inside  her,  a  war  is  waging.
Beasts,  monsters,  and  heroes  –
all  fighting.

For  the  longest  time,
Her  mind  has  been  running  wild.
Her clock  is  ticking
Yet  no  one  is  winning.

Not  one  bloc  is  determined  to  fall
Because  all  she  does  is  feed  them  all.

/pc
PrttyBrd Sep 2018
i.

melted ice cream afternoons
bogged down

rising from asphalt
in magical mist
that transforms
the day into
a test of endurance

even dusk offers
no solace
in frozen watermelon bliss


ii.

smoke permeates fabric
hair and every surface
with peace and grit
wafting over
the crispy
edges of predawn

begging sleep
to the most stubborn
insomniac

rotisserie style dreams
till morning


iii.

there's less death today
waiting in line
in candy store nightmares
begging silence
from the jubilant

but the sky turned up
a dream state

in that beguiling beauty
is brilliance


iv.

in shadows
the earth falls silent

rustling through
tall tales
the moon births

images in hidden corners

evening strolls
turn adventures

and every day
burns quick
to be reborn slowly


v.

the weight of hell
in short tempered bites
**** will with a proficiency
unseen outside
a viper's silent hunt

ready for war
with fists losing
responsibility

breaking triple digit
pressure


vi.

Incessant banging through walls built faster than I am strong enough to demolish, cradling lace so it won't rip on my forked tongue. There is only so much care left to handle perception just trying to breathe through a smile.
91218
190w
Tommy Randell Mar 2018
Then it was a time
Of moving on
As fast as Now
Seems to be
When Lives are filled
With what we all want
From a world littered
With things to Have

I'd hoped for tacit
Reassurance
Not to be found out
Lacking the necessary
Context of words
Considering the more
I borrow from myself
An Emperor with no clothes

I fear it won't be Now
This time around
Yet another self portrait
With no raison d'être
Yet another diatribe
Penned with thin ink
Bleeding into the screen
Nothing but pixels

We write don't we
To move the Future on
Doubt though now
As the battery fades
Frustration
With the lack of flow
With such meagre
Vowel movements
I would have to say if asked this poem owes so much to my loyalty to the Poems & Ideas of the American poet, John Ashbery. His Art and use of words has beguiled me for many years - and though I aspire, I continue to fail.
Tommy Randell Dec 2017
I'm a burnt-out wrote-out Lover
I'm a used-up messed-up wooer
Any hopes of again being a Suitor
Equate to me as a long time loser

I'm as past it as a lapsed out Catholic
I'm as lapsed as a drunk alcoholic
No mystery now to what then was magic
My glory days are a zero mathematic

I'm a light year older than the Manopause
A nano second out of the basket clause
No longer useful unless holding the doors
I am the example of what was possible once

I'm the old fashioned impassioned Poet
Who knew an iambic when he wrote it
Yet is prone to drone on into prolix
To end poems with rhymes like sclerotic ...

Any self portrait is a medium
For the poet the tragedian or the comedian
To pass through a time filled with tedium
And maybe make one's own epicedium
To save you having to look it up : An epicedium is/was a funeral ode.
Story Oct 2017
I am emulsified.
Painted onto shingles
of glittering rooftops
Where the weather abrades me.
Fated observer from a distance
Ogling people and their things
People and their things
Feeling feelings inside me
and all around me
People and their things
Passing past.
But I am empty windows full of images
and antique furniture.
Never looking and always seeing.
Story Oct 2017
I AM THAT HOUSE
in your recurring dreams

I AM THAT HOUSE
the one you are always running from
yet never entered

I AM THAT HOUSE
full of old-things well-loved
crooked and cursed by the neighbors

I AM THAT HOUSE
the white one rubbed grey
paint peeled away
sighing at the crossroads

I AM THAT HOUSE
my creaks and groans so familiar
you know exactly where to step
to go unnoticed

At the crossroads
I AM THAT HOUSE
Paint peeled to grey
Never entered
I AM THAT HOUSE
Always running away
Unnoticed
I AM THAT HOUSE
Of familiar steps
Crooked and cursed
I AM THAT HOUSE
Well loved by the neighbors
Ablaze
I AM THAT HOUSE
In recurring dreams

I am that house.
You're back here again.
The door is open.
Won't you come in?
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