Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Dave Robertson Dec 2020
Dragged grumbling to go visiting
Pat and Sue’s house
(mum and dad have friends?!)
whose kids are the “same sort of age”
as if that helps.
Then finding not only do they have
a massive, four lane Scalextric,
their tree has actual chocolate on it!
Or, it did have.
FairlyCultured Aug 2020
For a while now
I have been visiting the land of newborn grass.
They wouldn't lend me what I came for,
Told me it's yours.

But I met you, my friend.
So beautiful, so strong
So clueless yet so sure.

If you are the believer kind,
Pray to your God that
May I fear less and live more.
My heart yearns for the way
I feel in her presence,
For the candlelit warmth
And melted wax flowing over my soul
As it casts out this winter's dying embers.
My heart yearns for her heart
Like two strands longing to be coiled into rope,
Stronger together.
My skin longs for her softness,
For the gentle caress on valleys of skin.
My ears long for her 'I love you,'
And my mouth so desperately wants to say it back.
Sweet Love of mine, we are almost there.
Flowerwithabrain Jan 2020
I'm a block from your house

We could be talking



But your busy

I get it
Arden Feb 2019
my body is a house
someone else lives there

my body is a house
but it's not mine
i'm just visiting
Kewayne Wadley Nov 2018
She took me sight seeing
The city of her heart-
My hand clinched tight in hers.
A celebration of eyes held tight.
Our smiles bright,
Navigating the twist & turns of the street.
Champagne & beige buildings.
The wind snapping between our faces.
It was beautiful
Seeing colors and shapes this way.
A moment filled with pedestrian eyes.
Our steps the very throb of the city.
Of all the streets
There was one rough patch.
Of all the buildings, all the pretty lights.
This one rough patch in the center of the street was my favorite.
Though she hated it.
It was my favorite part.
To be honest I don't know what or why I was drawn to it.
To me it just felt real.
Night or day
It reminded me of home
elle Nov 2018
starch and static,
it hangs above and
residual softness strangles me

Your tepid breathing, arms an
lain across my path (your chest)

Are those wayward willows eyeing me?
How many t's and trees will speak to these stormy,
stable days?
in my haze I felt warm and held
it irks me now

your home is closing in on me. I've got to sleep in the driveway. I know
your timers, I see your calendars
like your squared and timely, equal breathing

There is no comfort, in death that is daunting
She waits on those who measure
plans etched into palm,

toil jumps to erase them and
the peacocks and pitchforks all hung in your kitchen
sit and embrace her,
continue to hum
in the straight-backed chairs
and new steep light
seeps back
over our prospective life
elle Oct 2018
each New England home you’ve moved into
and out of
creaks the same
under my changing weight.

the porch sags,
sporting chipped paint
from years of cigarette breaks
spent shuffling, feet dug into wood

flimsy locks and screeching mailboxes,
the basement granite walls
and clunks of the laundry machine,
speak to me in familial hums
as if to sing,
stay away.

the same centipedes
scurry by my feet
as water falls deafeningly
I’m frozen in time.

staring empty-eyed into these brimming closets,
my vision strains.
florescent light
gleams across shut picture books of
treasures lost.
nothing left but old habits

found, as tools to our escape.

even I’m still slipping up,
and into the courting beds of lost men
mothers looking to me longingly
bearing sad smiles and gifts, as they lock the liquor away.
every son’s depression tugs the same short leash

knowing this much,
calms me.

home is a sad that
hangs dry in the cool thick air,
a sad that feels like November
like drenched rain coats, muggy with our heat
and after school how we
sailed paper boats
just to watch them drown in storm-sewer drains

home rings like
the bell of every summer heartbreak,
which coddled me to sleep
then too, shook me sharply.
only to find myself deserted

a ship at sea,
my heart buried in sand, again.

home is
the heavy drought before the rain
it stands on our heads
it dances past our eyes
it lives in our reflections
teasing us,
as if to say
we’re not allowed to cry.
You come all. The way from Australia.
Can't be bothered  meeting up.
Places mean more to you than family.
And not to mention restoring your relationship with nieces.
Oh well if that's the way you want it. Then so be it.
Next page