Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
There are no children laughing
Playing hopscotch in the driveway
With a manicured lawn and pretty
Flowers in boxes attached to the windows

There's no degree framed in my office
Actually there isn't an office at all here
Inside this lived in two bedroom flat
Where I spend as much time as possible

There's no sleek foreign sports car
Candy apple red glimmering in the sun
Or vacation home nestled somewhere
I can't pronounce to go once a year

There aren't six figures in my account
Or country club lunches with the girls
Black card shopping sprees in the city
Or box seat opera season tickets

There is glitter on my eyelids
And an immense feeling of gratitude
When I wake up happy and free
Unapologetic and authentically me
I'm sure we all have/had extravagant plans for ourselves when we got (older). I find myself content with the here and now, which isn't something I ever thought could happen. I am 30.
An appetite for the unobtainable
Red light glowing from your exit sign
Dark honey licked eyes overpowering
My ocean salt brined tear drops smiling

Skin cells on my skin cells
Lips enveloping my lips

An appetite for the untouchable
Her perfume dances around your aura
Those sweet honey brown iris's
Gazing far off away from me

Skin cells on her skin cells
Lips enveloping her lips

An appetite for the unavailable
Hazy bar lights flicker to darkness
Your eyes no where to be found
My oceans are filling and spilling

Skin cells on my skin cells
Lips enveloped in honey bourbon
Falling in love with a stranger
Friction of index and pointer finger
Dragging gently over lips and chin
With pupils fixated on tongue and teeth
Breath slowly exiting our soft temples
Eyelids flutter closed for quick moments
Of glimpses into grand starlit nirvana

Teeth pressed into flesh
I want my head on your chest
Fingers twirling my hair
Our particles are everywhere

Friction of hand closed over throat
Squeezing and in some time releasing
With iris's diving deep in mine glowing
Smile bursting from sinister tempting
And soon your fingers will be in my hair
Our particles spreading out everywhere
A fantasy, a reality, our biology
I used to be scared of you
Too much of a good thing,
But now you are a building block
To help it all to sing.

You are bold and bright and brazen,
While you compliment so well.
Once I understood you
In love is what I fell.
...or love
i keep the path
to Heaven
in my wallet

a photograph of her
decades ago
in Trafalgar Square

i look at it at night
and touch
the lock of hair
she gave

suspended between
dreams and wishes
under her spell

she is the green iris
of my nirvana

the light i seek
on my way home
I was up to my shoulders
Down in the hole
uncovering waste pipes
Outside your home

I said please don't flush!
Stop up all your drains
I told you I'd know
I thought you were sane

The pipe was wide open
Some water came down
A few little turds
And some paper came round

I asked you twice more
One time per occurrence
Each time it was gross
But I got your assurance

We got the job done
But it sure was a ******
The moral of this poem:
Don't **** on your plumber!
Seriously though.
Frozen clothes on
the clothesline, blowing in
a vagrant wind.
My nose red from the
Wine and beer at
the bar.
December of '87 came
hard and ferocious,
forever changing my life.

I was working night shift at
the nursing home up
the street.
A few of us went to
the tavern after work.
I got home around noon,
and went to bed.
21 years old, with money,
a job, and a car.
I didn't realize
life was borrowed.
Mom couldn't find
her sweater, so she
came to my room and
asked if I had seen it.
I said,
"No Mom, I'm trying to sleep."
I should have realized that
there's plenty of time for
sleep when I die.
But youth produces ignorance,
and I was drowned in it.

Mom asked if she could
borrow my car to go
Christmas shopping.
After more discussion about
her sweater,
I, with eyes closed tight,
held up the keys,
and that was the last
time I saw her.

My last words,
"Quit acting like
a *****."
Ever since, there has
been and itch to
punish myself.
I'm not Freud, but
maybe that's why I
drink so much.
Happy Mother's Day
as one apostle birds
descended from the elm tree
to partake of seeds
that were strewn beneath the boughs
prolific in winter food
I can't live off of the stories
I wrote in better times
Finding bits of love and lasting
Left in someone else's mouth

For the fear of what I am now
Or what could then become
Of the trail of crumbs I left
To hush a hunger far too loud
Next page