#poem2
From deep in a well of bad decisions,
Emanates a spring of regret and anger.
A spring that never runs dry,
Yet leaves you like a dry well.
You think the spring's outbursts will give you some release,
But it only carves room for more sorrow.
Little by little the pressure builds,
Until it's released- swift as a ****** bullet.
More pain comes from realising something:
"You're the cause of everything that's happening,
You're a terrible person, a liar,
And you were never truly loyal".
You damaged bridges to maintain one which was "out-of-order",
And now the government of your mind has shutdown maintenance.
They read the "heartfelt" messages you sent,
Never knowing they were bait.
You were never worthy of the privileges,
And despite knowing this, you messed up, every single time.
Your hunger took the wheel from responsibility,
And your habits made you choose the wrong wars.
Your actions got the better of you,
And drove you straight to your Waterloo.
And now you crouch in the wreckage you drafted,
Tallying ghosts on the headstones you carved.
No chronicles will mark this skirmish.
No monument for the campaign you lost to yourself.
Just a parched pit. A flood that keeps pouring.
And you, unlearning how to thirst for both.
Apr 26
Apr 26, 2026 at 3:35 PM UTC
My Heart is Drenched in Why’s
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
climb to my listening post,
poet-on-the-roof, willing every step,
climb way up to the top of the stairs,
entrance marked POETRY, courtesy
of the bldg. super, an olden friend,
a concerned citizen, humorist, human,
somedays nurse to his corona haloed tenants.
the view of the ****** not laudatory, visible in a 360 degree perspective is of city grunched, scrunched, covered in
in silent spoke poems, overused views, words that don’t change
a thing, for my heart sees only dimly, being that my disheartened
vision is drenched, diminished, disabled by and in why’s.
ask seer~super what rhymes with why, smiling, an instantaneous poetry helper, having created, an officiel expert, as in everything, reply’s “why, why most famously rhymes with, why, everyone knows is try!”
so I try, three times, try, try, try again to puzzle
why, my heart is drenched in magenta,
who has willed this, not I, my distilled voice,
wants, does roof shout, but try as I might,
the reverb of unanswered is the slap of more
drenching, quiet silencing, and the weightiness
of too many weightless words returned stamped
“no forwarding address, and we know not why.”
Jul 12, 2020
Jul 12, 2020 at 5:25 PM UTC
*
~for Bill T. Jones~
two poets, laureates both,
on the nature of hunger, they discourse,
in temple, where sacrificing is to living arts
I was there, hungry in every aspect,
seeking wisdom of the hungering nature of human.
examine the word, hunger,
hardly a rolling off the tongue mellifluous.
you growl it from the gut, in gowned resplendent ugliness,
go ahead, try it, it’s coarse and powerful insistent.
awoken empty but for the hunger, hungover from
dancing words and imagery not mine, now mine,
maddeningly demanding my dutiful attentions,
as if hunger was the master, me, obedient pupil.
the clean white slate the IPad re-presents repeatedly,
insulted that I have yet to crayon color it with the coherence
of hunger-exhaled words, dismissive that I am but an also-ran,
my village of lexical too unsophisticated,
the page addressed yet unplanned,
Apple white
is the color of the
starving artist.
May 26, 2019
May 26, 2019 at 1:44 PM UTC