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of the molecules of the water they will
swim in, that flow by my citybounded
abode in a tidal estuary
heading fir dispersal and aspersions
into the Great Atlantic Ocean
which I will visit
come the spring,
and are etched yet then
within the relentless
waves of the those very same atoms, upchurning and upspitting
white foam which will
very lively likely contain
new poems, perhaps,
perhaps even,
those writ by fish
in their dreams,
for who actually knows
the original origins
of the dreams
we drink daily,
not I,
who finds them
when the wet smoke of
fog of evaporated
water
kisses my lips!

P. S. perhaps I have written poems
authored by the very same fish
you held in your grasp once upon
a time in a photo)
For Thyreez,
because she aspires


<>
most of us, no,
almost all of us,
collectors, of those little things,
real, substantive,
kept in that drawer,
reminders of collected moments,
of places people, successes, tragedies,
lumped together because,
just because
they constitute the pinpricks,
the meddles, safety pins, needles
of our lives, some treasures,
and a few collectibles of
black trimmed saddies

I have such a drawer,
admixture of single cufflinks, spare buttons,
Aaa batteries that might still work,
expired credit cards, charging cords for
devices long ago discarded,
a whole class of items I call
you never know when

some slides, pics from prehistoric times
when we never dreamed of magic phones
as life’s mini storage units

even I had
a lipstick kiss napkin,
just in case, when was required a
need a brevity taste of
a sad time-in-‘n-out
and back again
to feel human

but the mission critical
little things
do not fit in a drawer,
for they are the action’s & visions
we seize and keep in shadowy unseen
but inserted
grey cells

the taste, aroma, of that first cup of coffee
made by whoever was up first,
brought and placed on the nightstand
with a nudge, that failing, a very wet
kiss and a foot-beneath-blanket-squeeze,

the feel~touch of a particular locket,
the never-to be-removed-ever,
till it was
placed perhaps in someone else’s
drawer, shoebox, attic, or lost
in a ‘can’t be foundering place’

we probably have all three;
the drawer, the memory triggers,
the lost items that cannot be
lost, or forgot nor found

and I think and add all these,
I realize that this script
is
one such of the places,
where we put things,
we might need someday,
or maybe never but,

you never know when!
Since I was a little kid
There was something
Deeply disturbing about
The attic at my parent's
It was chilling cold there
It made unnatural noises
And it felt like the walls
Were always watching

One night when I was 17
And home alone, I woke up
To what sounded like nails
Scratching the wooden panels
So at the top of my teenager
Stupidity, I took an old pistol
And went to check out what
Was going on there

I went upstairs, gun drawn
Just to have my jaw dropped as
I saw this slim and tall shadow
Standing in front of the fireplace
I stood there in utter shock for
What seemed like a lifetime
Until I gathered the courage
To ask: 'who are you?'

The shadow replied with
A deep and inhuman voice:
'I'm the demon that your
Grandfather brought with him
From the Great War in the east
From him, I passed down to your
Father and now the time has
Come for me to dwell in you'

In an adrenaline rush, I ran
Downstairs as fast as I could
Slammed my beedroom door
Locked it and barricaded it
But the demon wouldn't quit
He tried to break in, frantically
Pounding and screaming:
'Let me in, let me in'
This is the most terrifying nightmare I ever had. My therapist said this is my subconscious telling me I want to be different from my father and his father... but I don't know. To this day, I'm not entirely sure it wasn't real.
thyreez-thy Jan 8
I stare at the ceiling thinking that I'm set
barely months out of college and already in regret
To gain every academic record but lose contact with you
Has turned my solid goals askew

Creating songs in my head the world will never hear
Stumbling in the literal dark, choking on my tears
Quoting anime and jumping to music
But this pretense makes me sick

It's 00:06, yet I barely consider time an enemy
I'm not sad because my mind was fried down to its anatomy
So deep in electronical worlds I barely close my eyes
As I open my curtains to see the pink sky

A new day where I wake up late, mine begins at midday
If you could see me right now, what would you say?
Would you be ashamed to even look my way?
Or would you hug me, and tell me its okay?

I can't be sad, when YouTube keeps me constant
I can thank my feed to keep me despondent
So focused on junk, time sunk and I feel drunk
My head wheezes, I listen to Weezer and  funk

So focused on what I lost, I barely see the world deteriorate
I cant find it in me anymore to hate
I'm happier because I'm less responsible
No longer a loving soul mate so I can remain dull

Now the unemployed statistic, I'm lucky to play games
Even though 5 minutes in I remember your name
And even at times like this, when my eyes swell and I begin to cry
I wipe my tears, smile and say Sabishikunai
A poem I got from hearing the melody and seeing the name of the great Japaneese artist Ayano Kaneko of the same name. This is my personal representation of it.
  Jan 8 thyreez-thy
Khoisan
The
surface is scorched
Satan
ran out of coal
it
fled
in
a
Zeppelin
through
a
wormhole
.
  Jan 8 thyreez-thy
Bree17
you
i think i fall for blue eyes
gullibly to them alone
stripped clean from my disguise
a weakness i cannot atone

eyes like rain and morning blues
like ocean tides and stormy skies
i think i fall
for blue stained lies

there's something so appealing
about just

drowning


because if i were to drown for you
with you
i like i'd finally
live
realized every person who ive trusted with everything and lost had blue eyes

strange
  Jan 8 thyreez-thy
Nemusa
Down here, in the belly of forgetting,
the walls chew us to pulp—
battery birds breaking their wings
against the bars of a silence
too loud to escape.

Love is a blade sharpened by whispers,
passed hand to hand—
friends carve their initials
into the soft of my back.
I taste the betrayal in their laughter,
bright and bitter
as a dying sun.

She said, “Take him,”
but I wanted no one.
This is the ritual of erasure:
the dance of ghosts
learning the weight of their absence.

Another blackout,
another convulsion of the soul.
I have seen my body revolt,
watched it crucify itself—
a lesson in sacrifice
no one asked to learn.

They call me shattered,
feed me the poison of their prescriptions.
“Fix yourself,” they say,
as if drowning is a cure.
Madness has learned the shape of me,
and now it fits like a second skin.

Hope is a liar
standing at the edge of my grief,
offering promises
she never means to keep.
Courage is a trickster,
a juggler of rage and ruin.

I pressed my hands together once,
but no god answered.
Only the echo of my suffering
returned,
swelling to fill their hunger
like cheap wine.

Now, I laugh—a feral thing
tearing at the carcass of dreams.
I sing to the darkness,
let it hold me close.
Sweet decay,
kiss my mouth until I am unmade.
Until even the stars
forget how to spell my name.
She actually told me to love him for her... but I fell into a deep depression how could I ever trust him again, still I tried...
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