Diseased turnip
Rooting in the dirt
Rotting fodder
Unpicked
Untapped
Gnarled and bitter
Lying under your bridge
When you are gone
No-one will miss your rancid rag


© 2019 MJL

You are a collector
Of beautiful things
Art and artifacts
You can dust off
To show your friends
Turn the lights off
When they leave
For beauty is only real
If it makes others
Feel ugly.
I finally understand
Why you only call me
When you're with them
And stop holding me
When they leave.

She's ugly but I want her.
The truth is , we all know a gal like that.
And the truth is a lot like that gal.

The best writing is that which
Is raw, the kind of raw that oozes out of cupcakes,
And the kind of raw that is bright bubble gum pink on meat.
The kind of writing that the poet doesn’t
Think all the way through with their mind,
But has been thinking about for months
In their heart and just couldn’t find the
Words to say it.
Because poems that are raw aren’t just ugly;
They’re beautiful.

I climbed giant boulders
to gather wild berries for you
A heavenly golden lake stretched
across your vision.

Unfazed by my generous offering
Oblivious to the dragonfly hovering
You drowned yourself in screen-time, buffering
I waded out alone.

I picture wrapping my legs around you
the air full of scents of homely comfort
a long day lightened with sweet laughter
our minds rest, immersed in fictional realms

But online games take away our nights
Political trivialities and football highlights
I sit and dream of smoldering fires on campsites
While you fall asleep alone.

In darkness I wrestle with the devil
for my piece of present moment, untainted
I beg for black viscous sleep to drown me
to wake without feeling half of me is gone

And you wrap me in the soft fabric of your skin
And you chase away the sprites to let the light in
And you breathe for my lungs as the attack glows dim
And it's just you and me alone.

He hides in my closet
he has a scary look
with ridged nails
and pointy sharp white teeth

But he is shy and doesn't come out
till nightfall
when no one can see him
because he is insecure
and he doesn't want to be made fun of
by the other monsters who wander around

Every time I hear him come out
he is humming a tune
I would softly request him to sing
because I cannot sleep
when he would open his mouth

Wonderful words would come out
sounding excellently in tune
even though there was no background music
in my head, his singing sounded like a symphony
was playing the most lovely melody

If I could I would stay up all night
till dawn
when he would retreat back into the closet
I would listen to him all night

But as he sings
the melody floods me
and my eyes can not stay open
as I slip into a deep slumber
I would still hear him singing

When I wake up
my room is soundless
I would look in my closet to see if he is there
but he is hidden
where I cannot find him