#bug
Doves crow and the sea claps at me.
Although a black curve carves its way down inside me,
You’ve been kind to me.
I am the verb and the subject and the tone of the passage never sent.
I am not the riddle nor the reader,
I exist merely- almost entirely- on the page and between the lines,
and yet,
You’ve been kind to me.
You are the sail and the wind and the saint that waves toward me,
You are the satisfaction that exhales me,
You’ve been kind to me.
You are the grit and the grout upon which the suggestion of a path leads,
You were never the sigh nor the laugh that escaped between teeth,
You’ve been kind to me.
I find myself drowning and suffocating in the ocean tide near shore,
I feel as if I’m picking away at plastic shells that sweep away at my feet,
I found myself underneath the arms of an oakwood tree,
and yet,
You’ve been kind to me.
A lighthouse far away from where the eye can see,
A bug, crawling and sprawling, above a sun bleached road lined with white lilies,
A friend whom is kind to me.
May 10
May 10, 2026 at 7:37 PM UTC
Its winter again
shaking bones
there is a bug on my back
on my new coat
this coat is so cozy
maybe he think that too
how cold the winter is?
other bugs know
not the bug on my back
he's hideing from that
from what?
I don't know
all I know is there is a bug on my back
looking for warmth
maybe he will bite me
maybe not.
I love him
I love giving him space on my new coat
Feb 24
Feb 24, 2026 at 5:58 AM UTC
A bug without a garden
will be killed by the vain human.
A critter that is no smaller than a fingernail
with spindled legs and a spotted back
will be shamelessly killed
for being different
A seed without a garden will never flourish.
It will never grow to it’s full potential
A stalk of tomatoes that feeds generations
or a flower that wins the heart of a hopeless romantic
the seed will be ugly compared
to it’s thriving comrades
An artist without a sketchpad will go insane.
Their spirit,
whether tame or restless
will search for any open eye or ear
to acknowledge their work
But an artist without a sketchpad won’t give up.
Maybe at first.
but blink an eye
and find the walls covered in color
sentences never before formed
and pictures never depicted with such grace
because even if a bug doesn’t have a garden
it can find another corner
to build it’s cobwebs
Nov 9, 2025
Nov 9, 2025 at 12:21 AM UTC
the most beautiful girl I’ve ever met
how your brown eyes shine
I could sift for sea glass forever
with you at my side
the week we met
I mistook someone else for you
but now, I could find you anywhere
don’t let this cruel world dull your special
you will always be a friend until the end
Nov 8, 2025
Nov 8, 2025 at 12:09 AM UTC
it bugs me, the way
you walk like you own
the place, standing tall
prideful as a lion, yet
selfish as a thief.
You are all you think about.
Jul 10, 2025
Jul 10, 2025 at 11:00 AM UTC
{those donuts are three days older, that's all}
I did not buy them, there was always a Winchells
a walk from any where, free no more than 27 hours old,
that's right, new donuts daily clean and reheat to fry,
takes about three hours, to fry the first batch, minutes
but during the warm up, Winchell's in LA metro, threw
all the donuts in the store at grease refresh, goes,
in the bag, for whoever gets there first, we do,
we always do, this is our Winchell's, Dennis Easy Rider,
he lived at 1312, we had 1412 N. Crescent Heights
Hopper, that's him,
what's a generational remembering, the sounds
Harley's Made then, Indians had a tone, different,
Honda's were scooter legal kid of 14, 55MPH
one passenger, no helmets, and skateboards
and whisky
Pseudovectorial spinning applied
to a two pivot pendulum pattern painting,
no sweat, in 2006, a Flashscript could doit done it
This has Mel Zalewsky
"La Papelera de Secretos" on stage, window, screen
gut to heart to brain, brain tastes the conversation,
sense minds of this demo model, has this retina
reverted to wemind and become a model reader
thunk through
to live another new day
in digital paradice as far as any mind,
any form information acting free agents, so true.
We all know we each see what we each see, so
true held… just so, for as long as we have period sets
NPC. Once deeper, fly on the wall,
not buzzing,
not bothering any body's piece
of mind, weform, many lenses on one flake
glint true choice worth value heavy mindwise
of what weform from, as lakes freeze at your touch
Mel Zalewsky
"La Papelera de Secretos"
Guardaste mis secretos:
los poemas que arranqué del pecho
y lancé hacia tu oscuridad.
Esos versos torpes,
hojas arrugadas por el llanto,
pedazos de alma
que terminaron en tu vientre de metal.
Nadie supo que fuiste
el horno donde quemé
cartas de "siempre"
y sobres de "nunca más".
Tus esquinas aún huelen
a tinta derretida.
Sepultaste las cenizas
sin preguntar nombres.
Ahora esos papeles
—los que sobrevivieron al fuego—
alumbran otras noches ajenas.
¿Quién notaría que eres
solo una papelera?
Que en tu silencio
hay más verdades
que en todos los poemas
que aún no he publicado.
Mel Zalewsky.
From <https://hellopoetry.com/>
"The Trash Can of Secrets"
You kept my secrets:
the poems I tore from my chest
and threw into your darkness.
Those clumsy verses,
sheets crumpled by tears,
pieces of soul
that ended up in your metal belly.
No one knew you were
the oven where I burned
letters of "always"
and envelopes of "never again."
Your corners still smell
of melted ink.
You buried the ashes
without asking names.
Now those papers
— those that survived the fire —
light up other, distant nights.
Who would notice that you are
just a trash can?
That in your silence
there are more truths
than in all the poems
I have yet to publish.
Jun 2, 2025
Jun 2, 2025 at 9:24 PM UTC
Mom says
I'm an inchworm,
but when I grow up
I'm gonna be a F
O
O
T
L
O !
N ! !
G ! ! !
W R ! !
O a W R ! !
R w A w a R ! !
M R a W a A R R ! !
!!! RaWAwaAaWaRR!!! ! !
R a W a w R ! !
w W A ! !
a a R ! ! !
w R ! !
! !
!
Aug 13, 2024
Aug 13, 2024 at 11:11 AM UTC
You ever wonder how bugs
get trapped in those light fixtures?
Why do they do it?
Don't they see the collection
of corpses through the glass?
Why do they squeeze through the
tight opening between
metal and paint?
Why gnaw through caulking and
electrical tape if only
to join the masses at the base
of the ceiling light?
It's Icarus, reincarnate.
I think I'm one of those bugs,
but I'm not Icarus.
I'm more ignorant, more naive,
if anything, stupid, because
I know of Icarus.
I was told the tale.
Icarus made it.
He had no moral from which
to draw his conclusion.
Beside himself with desire, he
grew up with no such
cautionary tale.
But I did.
And yet I fly anyway,
understanding that my wings will melt,
scared that my wings will melt,
knowing the wax will burn my back and yet
fearful of the pain.
My mother always asked me,
"If your friends jumped off of a bridge,
would you jump, too?"
I tell her "no", of course, but
if I was told that
beneath the shallow waters at
the bottom of the bridge
was the promise of success,
it wouldn't matter how many
mangled guts littered the
rocky shore beneath.
I would jump.
If only to touch success for
a second before
I, too, joined the masses at the base
of the ceiling light.
Jan 13, 2023
Jan 13, 2023 at 7:47 PM UTC
I AM SICK
OF LOSING POEMS
TO
502 BAD GATEWAY
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Nov 11, 2020
Nov 11, 2020 at 7:04 PM UTC
it is so hard to know what you want,
what you're trying to say.
you're like a little bug with wings
that won't quit bumping into my eyes
and buzzing in my ear.
but a cute bug
one that reminds me of the ocean and summer camp and being in love.
i would put you a a mason jar
with holes in the top,
so you can breathe. (duh)
and i would take you to my favorite fields
and alleys and stores.
show you all the things that make me happy
and try to make you happy too.
but i dont think
you would like being in a jar.
even one with holes in the top.
Nov 3, 2020
Nov 3, 2020 at 10:39 PM UTC
The love bug
is not kept in a jar
but left to roam from afar.
The love bug
must be set free
to see if it was meant to be.
Jun 24, 2020
Jun 24, 2020 at 2:02 AM UTC
My windshield records the suicides
something my wipers can't overcome
mile upon mile on wet or dry roads
they collide and in someway, succumb
The radio plays my song lists
as I'm counting them, one by one
large and small, they answer the call
my windshield acts like the gun
It doesn't matter the tune
the beat or the sound or reprise
I wonder if it's false or it's true
was it happy, sad, or surprised?
Yes it's the end of a life
a bug that's last act is now gone
*** passing through it's brain
man, that's nasty
and wrong
Jun 12, 2020
Jun 12, 2020 at 6:36 PM UTC
T all grapevines entwine with the
O verhead wires and lead to
U nwilling leaves now home to a
G iant green guest with the
H olographic horrifying eyes.
T roubled dreams the bug is dreaming.
I mpossible luck keeps it away from
N earby spider webs and
Y ellow giant villains.
T angled in untangled thoughts of
H orrid dreams of hope
I t sits on its green leaf and is
N ow watching flowers bloom.
G ratefullness swells its tiny heart.
Apr 19, 2020
Apr 19, 2020 at 4:34 PM UTC
chaos has a silver lining
don't be afraid and quit your whining
we're all in this, at the very same time
we will get through this but it's a tough climb
wash your hands, don't touch your face
distant yourself and keep the pace
the bug won't win if we do what it takes
let's kick it's *** and put on it's brakes
Brian Hill - 2020 # 95
Apr 4, 2020
Apr 4, 2020 at 10:20 AM UTC
Ink is the heroine and pen the needle that moves guided by my fever. The ink pulsates within transmuting into words and phrases. My heart expands racing with visions. The side effect... a written poem that perhaps will give some peace. Peace from my addiction to live before it starts all over again. It is an addiction many a poet had to fight over centuries. Their lesson let it flow let it grow.
Dec 25, 2019
Dec 25, 2019 at 12:07 PM UTC
The newspapers say the poetry bug is spreading. It started from a stain of HP. No cure available. It starts by going into the eyes and than a tingle starts in fingers. Breath gets heavy with anticipation and Heartbeat races until it is calmed by a write. If it persists just have a cup of tea and accept it.
Dec 25, 2019
Dec 25, 2019 at 4:20 AM UTC
Oh little bug in the sink,
You can’t swim,
You just crawl and explore,
You question, why am I in the sink?
I saw the bug in the sink,
As I brushed my teeth,
I noticed him scampering about,
Wondering — how do I get out of the sink?
You weren’t hurting me, bug in the sink,
You just wanted an escape,
Away from the dangers of the water,
A bad place to be if you can’t swim - bug in the sink.
But when I saw the bug in the sink,
I acted only on impulse,
The contrast between ***** bug and “cleaning teeth”
Was too much to bare, as I stared in the sink.
And so without thinking of the bug in the sink,
My reflexes thrusted me forward,
I thought only of myself,
As I turned the **** on the sink.
Oh no — oh bug in the sink,
The water is gushing,
You’re overwhelmed, swept away, crushed.
Oh bug in the sink. Why did I not think?
Jun 18, 2019
Jun 18, 2019 at 11:16 PM UTC
there's a roach
dear ******* god it's a roach
as i'm typing away
all day
i see this roach
i will not approach
there's a duck outside wow!
but oh **** the bug is still inside
oh ****
oh god
oh ****
it's getting closer
pow!
i smack it
it's name was ed
it is dead
bless
the end
but it's not the end
just another distraction
a route to a dead end
the bug may be mush
while my brain's turned to slush
I look in the mirror
I look in my eyes
see all the time
the wasted time
my day is a night
when I wake up
all that remains
is 6 hours of light
I'll make no change
I'll be awake all night
no exchange
for early sleep
unless I obtain
a good reason
May 25, 2019
May 25, 2019 at 6:00 AM UTC
When I took you,
When I took you it stripped away worry.
When I took you,
When I took you I finally felt like me.
You were in reach,
You were in reach, so easily attainable
and it was crazy,
it was crazy to think that you would be
the answer to the 19 year old question,
"Who am I?"
"Who is me?"
I took you and it felt amazing,
I took you, and for that short while I felt calm.
But nothing ever lasts and one is never by itself.
May 18, 2019
May 18, 2019 at 5:22 AM UTC
Once bite by the writing bug,
there is no cure.
The ink substance gets into bloodstream
causing one to be drawn to pen like magnet.
You could try ignoring its symptoms
where **** get expelled from darkness of night.
Or try to resist its temptations
as experiences of life mount
and
a strong drive develops
at any hour of night or day.
Resistance is futile and inevitable.
It's sting is known to cause bouts of dizziness,
pain and a fever from life if one hesitates too long.
And, once started time seems to stop.
Eventually it subsides to a dull pulsation of heart
but, it's always there to grab you until you purge a poem.
Throw up what you stored in your cells and mind
so peace can follow.
Doctor Star has spoken.
Apr 21, 2019
Apr 21, 2019 at 7:45 AM UTC