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Anna Lo Mar 2012
Gatsby Quote
The single green light,
of that lighthouse cries out tonight,
crying
alive with a exuberant shine,
yearning
and pulling a child from his swing,
closer
to that barely visible, minute and faraway siren call
swinging
and yet somehow, sometime, somewhere, the child begins,
falling
into
that might have been at the end of the dock.
Continue reading...
alex Dec 2017
that romance for the ages
he sits at a desk in the library.
it’s nearly midnight and you watch him
take his notes and drink his water.
you’re a desk away from him
and you know that it’s much too late
to be making conversation
but he looks up
ruffles his own hair
and smiles at you something weary
something tired
something beautiful enough to
make you smile back
more genuinely than you honestly should.
he’s a stranger but it’s fine.

it’s dead silent in here
just you and the books
and the millions of things you could say
wrapped up in them
and while you’re trying to think of something
he curls his lips around the words
“finals, huh?”

you laugh and say
“yeah man.”

you want to maybe elaborate
tell him that this psychology exam
might actually be the death of you
tell him that you’ve been studying for
four hours straight and you think your eyes
might actually fall out of your head.

he laughs back and nods
“how many exams you got left?”

you groan
“just one. you?”

“two.”

“good luck with that”

he laughs and you want to say something
to make him do it again

he feels special
you know?
like.
you just know sometimes
but the air doesn’t feel like magic
it feels like you’re in a library
at midnight the night before a final exam
that you don’t know a **** thing about
but the guy a desk away from you
is still looking at you.
he’s still.
looking at you.

and you hadn’t noticed but
you’re still looking at him too.

he says
“i’ve been here since like six.
do you wanna get a coffee?”

just a little smile around the words
“yeah, sure.”

and you put away your psychology notes
and your laptop and your book
even though you’ll need to study for
at least three more hours to understand
a single thing it’s fine.
he packs up his things and the two of you
walk to the elevator.
he lets you press the button

you ask
“what were you studying?”

he says
“bio. you?”

“psych.”

“ouch.”

“yeah”
you laugh
and he laughs
and the elevator laughs
as it dings and opens its doors
even the environment has begun to
take part in your merriness.

you step inside
he hits the button for the first floor
and he says
“i took psych last semester.
which one are you in?”

you say
“one-ten.”

he says
“yeah that one’s rough. barely
passed it.”

“tell me about it”
you joke

and then the elevator dings again
and the doors open again
and the two of you fumble to step out
like you go first no you go first
and it’s all very cute

and you get to the starbucks on the first floor
get in line and take note of
how many people are still here
frantically cramming information into their
tired
tired
brains.

time skip
you two have your coffee.
you sit at a little table that
just barely became vacant
and you sip.
you got something hot and
he got something cold
and you thought it was cute because
it’s december and here he is with a frappe.

you chit and you chat
and think maybe this could be that
romance for the ages
that the movies talk about.

his laugh is like a jingle bell
happy holidays to you both
it seems.

he smiles at you again and you
sip your coffee
and before you know it
it's dangerously approaching 2 a.m.
but you can’t bring yourself to
check the time anymore

you laugh until you’re not strangers anymore
and he says
“this is such a great study break”

you say
“i’m so glad you asked to get coffee”

he smiles and says
“me too.”

and it’s all downhill from there

(or is it uphill?
you never can remember).
happy finals everybody. i should be studying right now.
#love #romance #finals #exams #college
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Leah Mar 2015
please don't sit on me, I am alive
at night I can fall asleep by counting the rolls of fat on my stomach
a steady, calming, everyday weight that doesn't feel as bad as it looks;
but sometimes what I feel seems foreign, and I am restless
because I once had a flat stomach and I can remember how that felt,
almost.

in the mornings I wake up,
get out of bed
and mark the start of each new day with the very first collision of my thighs.
I think that I don't hate my body as much as I should.
I feel sorrier for whoever has to see me like this than I do for myself.
these are things I tell myself; I think I may believe them.

I notice my round stomach trying to escape the waistline of my jeans
I have picked and pulled at the stretchy skin that drowns my arms
I have sat down and gaped at the remarkable resemblance that my thighs have to a pair of lumpy, fleshy, potatoes

somedays I say " it won't look that way when I stand up"
those are good days.

& I remember all of the clothes I have given away to christie
two beautiful coats that I had picked out myself not all that long ago,
and they were loved very much
and worn very little
and they were bought by my mother
two beautiful coats that press my arms so tight that I can't move them
not even to take a drag off my cigarette or unlock my car
they look like they were made for her.

my jim morrison shirt that was black&white;& I bought it at the boardwalk on venice beach out of the back of a pickup truck barely thirty feet from the ocean
my jim morrison shirt that I cut last spring to the midriff and beaded it myself for an hour on my dorm room floor, had my roommate hem it & never wore it again.
it looks like it was made for her.

& there are days when she comes home from the thrift shop,
with full plastic bags of dresses, and lace, and florals, flannels and blouses
and she'll say "lookwhatIgotisntitnice?andofcourse you can wear it too."
and I don't know if she actually means it
sometimes I think she does & I don't know how that makes me feel
and I don't know if she actually means it
but we both know that I'll never ask.
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Nat Lipstadt Aug 2024
Lord, I’m Two (Three~Four & Five)
don’t believe in
divine intervention,
but all~so(uls)
don’t believe in the
accidents of coincidence

the Pandora Box gods eavesdrop on my mind,
looking to match the music to my mood,
(box to box, they cruelly smile)
Providentially Provisioning
me with inspirational food.
to collect and let
what’s brewing,
stop stewing,
and come out
in a you know what…

that old song,
500 Miles,
keeps
returning, unplanned,
auto play repeatedly
entirely accidentally,
(U believe that?)
my mind keeps on
knowing
I’m up~blowing,
there’s unfinished business
a-firing, a forest fire
of a 500 miles~s-acred blaze,
the firemen intuit ‘tis
of a kind,
it can’t be stoppered
until you and it,
self extinguish, (ex~sting-you~ish (1))
burn itself,
outside inwards,
reverse phoenix,
not sparks left,
until it’s dead

and the song,
and it’s power o’er me,
** ** **, is un~finished
busine business,
having fun with
my undoing

Lord, I’m Two,
both of us,
in words unspoken,
know that the/a fragmentation
grenade that is my brain,
dancing on the thinner
blackest
red line that asunders me,
twice, into two unequal halves,
is inflamed, infected, dejected

Both of us,
hear that dog whistle
loud blowing
one inch, a salty pinch,
or even
500 hundred miles,
makes no difference,
cause Lord, I’m two

reminding how far I am
from my owning
my very own
personal homeland security,
complete with self-sourced,
sovereign jagged glass pieces,
intended to jag, jog, tear, penetrate, break, annoy, till~this line……ends
,
the errata of this man’s
quasi, semi, repeating
mess-ups, that are
erratically invoking
benedictional confessionals,
of poems unwrit

those I dare not,
until and unlest,
you board a plane
to come to save me

Lord, I’m Disordered,
Lord, I’m Three,
a trinity of Myself & I & Me,
siblings who just
can’t along,
but can’t barely survive,
as separate human beings,
for one cord connects us,
keeps attached like on a bus,
though at a modest
moderating distance,
cause the fights are
frequent

Lord, I’m
(yeah yeah Four, say no more,
just rap it up son,
there’s work to be done!)

am I finished being,
an unfinished being,
will I ever make it to Five,
get home, even barely alive,
Lord, will I ever be One,
just like you,
put together,
a jigsaw complete,
a whiskey neat,
a whiskered gnat,
a graybeard bit
of fluff
with a wide smile of a
Cheshire Cat?

Lord,
give me sleep,
& poems born written
pre~complete,
so alls that required is to just hit
SEND,
a journey shelved,
ended before began,
a pieced together whole man,
give me rest,
eternal and blest,
make me an archaic kept,
in an archive slept,
and end this song,
with a fini
of
quietude & peace?


4:35AM
Sabbath Eve
- Av 12, 5784
- Aug. 16, 2024
predecessor:  https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4861638/lord-im-one/

(1) the proper pronunciation and,
ish is “man” in another tongue
(2) would I be less abnormal if I only wrote during daylight ?
#lord #im #two #threefourfive #lipstadt
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CastorPolydeuces Jul 2015
8 hours time difference
I'll try to relate to you,
I'll try to share my perception.

The world is shiny, silver coated, raw metal just barely dusted in dirt.
Its all angles, sharp and fast, turning with the speed of a ******* fair ride.
One moment, I'm staring at the ***** of your skin as it flows from the cheek to jawline,
Smooth as a pebble worn down by years spent just near the shore.
The next, your veins and muscle pull taut through your frame, slinking into an elaborate system of liquid bronze.
Pulleys and machines, bringing your particles into such a beautiful motion.
Work in progress
#beauty #perception #silver #motion #liquid #rian
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martin May 2013
Strugglers Lane
Flickering fires, dim candlelight
Barely pierce the chill Winter night
In a world of toil with no hope of change
Life is a trial down Strugglers Lane

Endless worry is their lot
The only rest is when they drop
Nothing but hardship mingled with pain
That's what's on offer down Strugglers Lane

No escape, nowhere to go
Best do a deal with the devil you know
Nothing comes easy, it's always the same
That's how it is down Strugglers Lane

If you find yourself anywhere near
Heed my advice, stay well clear
Turn right around, go back again
Don't take the sign to Strugglers Lane
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Anais Vionet Jan 2022
springing into action
I woke up late this morning, my phone was dead. I guess I never plugged it in, I found it buried under my pillow (erah!). I barely had time for anything, just managing to cover the basics as the “Whoop” sound signaled my first virtual classroom opening. A pop-up announced that the class would be recorded and available later. “Yessss!” I thought, as I put in my airpods.

My room is surprisingly full of houseplants. There’s a ponytail palm, an anthurium and philodendrons sending down tendrils of heart-shaped leaves from shelves and tables. I drew open my curtains and the room bloomed, morning sunny. It was 22° but my windows are almost always cracked open to let in some real air.

I’m dressed in an unstylish, black school hoodie, short pajama pants, long socks and fluffy, pink slippers for my virtual class. My still-wet hair looked attractively mop-like. I began brushing it out while arranging the colored gel-pens and highlighters I use to take notes.

Was I ever starving, but I could only imagine breakfast. Ever notice how the sun looks like a giant egg-yolk? At least my Keurig was on the job - burping, whirring and dripping like a malfunctioning steam engine as it rendered lifesaving French Vanilla coffee that smelled like caffeinated heaven.

As the professor started talking about the syllabus, outlining the types of problems we’ll be working on this semester and reminding us of things we learned in our intro to econ class, a teaching assistant, in another window, asked us to press the roll-call icon and reminded us we had a paper due (this is why we read our syllabus, people). Then the assistant's window became a countdown timer showing what remained of the ten minutes we’d been given to upload the first-day’s homework.

Twenty minutes into the class, I was combed out and ponytailed, coffeed-up and positively vibrating with pleasure - I LOVE this stuff - strategies, actions, outcomes and payoffs. Student life is unnatural, stressful and myopic - but it can be thrilling too.

There was a knock on my door frame (the door to my room is almost always open), and one of my roommates, Sunny, was there. “Morning, Princess Anesthesia,” she said, teasing me about over-sleeping.

I pointed to my pink-M1-iMac screen, to indicate I was in class and she tossed me a bag. I knew, at once, that it was breakfast from the cafeteria. “I love you,” I mouthed, before turning back to the screen.

Spring Semester has begun.
BLT word of the day challenge: Myopic: a narrow perspective
#university #spring #virtualclass #morning
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Nothing Personal Jun 2012
Rear view mirror
That familiar feeling of depression,
led me on,
drooling
with my mouth open, nostrils wide
taking air in from hot, open windows;
driving at 20 mph in a 15 zone
carefully avoiding the road bumps.

The rear view mirror shows me,
a familiar stranger in dark, Ray-ban shades
She follows me,
a life of condescension
yet we love it
as long as we maintain the pool
built with utmost care.
Her hidden eyes give me comfort
I wish she was my wife
and the comfort in her hidden eyes
was comfort
in my cramped up car and my cramped up loft
from this cramped up life.
(There's a weird thing about unfamiliarity)

There are other things
like Ana's bookshelf in an upscale house in Buenos Aires,
those yellow tees specially designed to remember old pals,
or getting high in the Sierra Nevadas
with someone paid to be like you.

There's too much **** down that road,
the one I never took,
women became girls waiting in puffy waterproofs
coffee gets old
there's the cost of oil change every 300 miles
I don't drive that much anymore.

We have widows, young widows
sometimes with young babies, barely born
in fact, we were all young sometime
you, I, brides, the war on terror
that boy from Ethiopia,
things were simpler without automobiles
and rear view mirrors.
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Veronica Smith Jun 2013
The American Dream on a Tuesday Morning
She sat in an empty booth. It was a Tuesday, mild, with a thin veil of cirrus clouds on the horizon. Somewhere a dog barked. Outside, the Commercial Street Flower Market opened for business. A ******* stood on the corner.
        With one the sitting woman opened the menu, scanned it, and dropped it back on the table. A bleach-blond waitress arrived. Before the waitress spoke, the sitting woman cut in.
“I’d like home fries, fruit salad, and a cup of earl grey, please.” The waitress nodded, slightly wary, and scribbled the order on her yellowed order pad. The woman went back to staring at her fingers. The waitress left.
She opened her purse, rummaged around, and grasped a worn paperback of Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse Five. A small likeness of a snake twirled up her left index. She wore beige eye shadow and a full set of fake lashes. Her nails were lacquered candy apple red. There was a large scar on her neck. Sighing, she settled in to read. The snake ring’s eyes were rubies; as she turned the page, they glistened brightly. The café’s door jangled. Seconds later, a man slid in to the seat opposite her.
“You’re late,” she said. The man smiled. He had lidded Egyptian eyes and a set of straight, white, fluoridated teeth.
“So terribly sorry. Pressing issues.” He tapped a finger on the plastic table. The woman licked a finger and turned a creased page.
“Still reading that blasted book, are we? How many times has it been now, Laura? Twelve?”
“Fifteen, to be exact.” The waitress arrived with plates of bright fruit and steaming potato. She waitress had poorly tattooed eyebrows. They rose.
“Can I get you anything?” she said to the man.
“Strong cup of coffee. Two cubes sugar, slice of lemon on the side. Thanks.” The waitress smiled.
“Certainly. Your tea will be in, miss.” Laura nodded. The waitress sashayed off and the man leaned in, breaking the barrier between them.
“Why are you still reading that godawful book? Wasn’t once in Junior year enough?”
“No, it wasn’t. If you don’t mind, let’s get to the point. What are you doing here, Jack? I know it has nothing to do with harassing me over my literary opinions.” The book closed with a muffled snap. She slid it back in to her large purse and adjusted her dress.
“I got the part.” He said the two words with barely veiled excitement; they sounded unnatural and foreign.
“What in the name of God are you talking about?” she asked. She stabbed a home fry with her fork and sprinkled it with salt.
“I’ve made it in, Laur.” He said. She dragged the fry through a small puddle of ketchup and smiled. She leaned back and drew her hands through her hair, bit her lip.
“Who’s directing?” she asked. The waitress arrived again and they both leaned back, away from each other. He nodded his thanks, blew on his coffee, and drank deeply. She dipped her finger in the cup of tea.
“Some guy by the name of Cranston. Will, I think. He’s good. Directed a film called The Devil in Whitethorn. You might call him an artist.”
“Oh, Christ. You’ve made your big break, have you? With a ****** arthouse director no one’s heard about? I’m impressed, Jack. Real impressed.” She sipped her tea. “What’s your deep, philosophical movie about, Jack?”
“A man dragged wrongfully in to hell who has to prove to the Devil that he is a good man,” Jack said. His chin rose slightly. “he goes through his life as an invisible man, observing all of his human mistakes. Eventually he discovers that Hell is just another version of Heaven and it’s all a test to get him to look at his life as an outsider. I play the college version of the lead. I’m third-highest billed.” He reached over and snatched a strawberry from her plate. She smirked.
“Wow,” she said, “sounds deep. Almost like one of the sappier episodes of The Twilight Zone, twist and all. Tell me, does Shatner play a PTSD-riddled man who sees monsters on an airplane? Is the Devil a fan of billiards? How many aliens are in this movie of yours?” she smiled at him, exposing a line of somewhat crooked teeth. “A movie, huh? Congrats.”
“Many thanks. I thought that someone who appreciated the subtle insanity of Vonnegut might appreciate a good deep film. Are you going to finish those?” he gestured at the fries. Six of them remained. Laura slid them across the table and tucked in to the fruit plate. “No more awful local commercials for me, love.” She scoffed at that.
“You’re a crap commercial actor. How much money are you getting for this little highbrow film of yours? One K or two?” She stabbed a honeydew square and crunched it between red lips.
“Four, doll. More than you make in a month.” Her cheeks reddened.
“I don’t need much, Jack. You of all people should know that.” She coughed lightly in to her napkin. “You’re a tricky *******. How long have you known?” He licked a spot of ketchup off of his  finger.
“Oh… Five weeks? Six? Somewhere around there. We start shooting next month.” He leaned forward, lightly brushing the back of her hand with his fingers. “It’ll premier downtown on the seventh of July. Be prepared, since I’m dragging you out there with me. You’ll need a cocktail dress and modest makeup.”
“How modest is modest?” she asked. He surveyed her face, scanning with his eyes squinted slightly. Her face flushed a touch more.
“Hmm…” he said, “drop the red lipstick, add a few more spots of cover-up, light champagne eye shadow and less blush. Also, ditch the falsies.” She laughed, a light trill.
“I don’t leave the house without them. I suppose I can scour my collection for some more… What was the word you used? Modest pairs.” His fingers stopped rubbing the thin, veined skin on the back of her right hand for a short moment.
“In other words, you’ve said yes.”
“Yes, I have.” He dropped a ten-dollar bill on the table and stood up. “Call me some time. You haven’t forgotten my number, have you?” Laura grinned. He picked up the lemon, separated the meat from the rind, and rubbed the white flesh on his teeth.
“No, I haven’t.” He dropped a single white envelope on the table. She surveyed it, placing it next to the tattered paperback in her purse. He walked away.
“Oh, and Jack?” she called without looking back at him. He stopped mid-step. “I wasn’t wearing blush today.”
He grinned harder, waved his goodbyes to the waitress, and left. The door jangled. She finished the last dregs of her tea, dropped a twenty dollar bill on the table, and stood up. It was a beautiful morning. She walked outside. The bells on the entrance jangled, stilled, and their song died.
Written under the influence of WAY too much Hemingway.
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Antino Art Sep 2020
Guitar Gets Girl
I suspect that if I was taller,
I'd get laid more.

Think Basketball: I'd shoot my shot
over her friend zone defense and score.
Her weak knees would wobble at
my every move.

And there’s research to prove it:
the female psyche is hard
wired to conflate height with power.
Leadership. Responsibility.
Extra large shoes.
As if size mattered
more than say,
Endurance
as a true measure
of the lengths I'd go for the people I love.

Still, if I was taller,
I'd have an evolutionary edge.
I'd play the game
like a guitar.
Because guitar gets girl, right?

Picture this:
me strumming at heart strings
under the lights of a coffeehouse stage,
a tall post-modern Troubadour
with say, an east European or French accent.

A Filipino with a French accent:
how baller would that be!

I'd be unstoppable.
I’d have fans. Groupies.
Her phone number.
And the decency of a reply
to my text.

I’ll give the crowd what they came to see:
the tousled hair and rugged eyes,
the unshaven charm that makes her
want more by appearing to care less.

Hard to get: that’s what the crowd wants me to play
on that guitar
I barely know how to use.

(But I’m trying, right?)

yo who is it she's really after,
because that vertically privileged
guitar hero
sounds nothing like me.

I wish I was taller (high chord)
so she'd see me.
Because I am tired
of being turned
into a ghost
writing songs
for an empty room.

Guitar gets girl.

If thats true,
I suspect she won't get me
because maybe this isnt
the sound I'm supposed to make.
We'd just be pretending
to strike a chord on
strings attached
to a dissonant tune.
We'd play each other out:
a one hit wonder
on a radio station:

Guitar gets girl.

My nice guy cover falls flat.
My Asian appearance falls short
of the socio romantic standard she
is conditioned to fall for

Guitar gets girl
Same song. Play on.

And forget accompaniment (Ditch guitar)

All I need is a pen
to write lyrics
for my new single.

I’ll start a one-man indie band
and swoon in solitude
over who I sound like
on my own.
(Strum Flourish)
#love #solitude #guitars
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Tabitha Sullivan Sep 2013
That night (Shay)
It's dark tonight
I jolt awake
The sound of your voice startles me
Low and angry
It's a too familiar sound
I'm afraid now
In my mind I'm telling myself
It'll be okay
You can fight him off
I can barely finish my thought
Before your hands are around my wrists
Pulling me up out of my bed roughly
I can feel my shirt trying to adjust
From how it was while I was asleep
Your grip around me is so tight that I don't dare move
You drag me to the stairs
Even if I did dare to move I'm to frighten to
I'm frozen to the spot
Are you going to throw me or drag me
You choose to drag me
Making sure each step hurt just as much as the last
We get near the bottom I can make out the lights in the kitchen
I don't want to be in the light
I don't want to see the anger in your eyes
The dark soulless look you give me
You loosen your grip
I pray you're going to let me go
Instead you grab at me until you find the perfect spot
The perfect spot to put all your force into
You throw me across the living room
I skid to a stop in the kitchen
You walk over to me
I know it's not over
I scream for help but nobody's there
I know I have to wait until he's done
I'll slowly and painfully climb back up those same stairs
Mentally imaging the bruises that each one left
I crawl into bed again
Hoping I'll be safe for the rest of the night
I can't close my eyes
Behind them I see his
Dark and angry
I'll never forget tonight
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derelictmemory Feb 2015
Till Death Do Us Part
Maybe the hardest part is not knowing what happens after; when the routines have to get back to normal. Or what once was normal. And walking around wondering how you're going to keep walking with this huge chunk of your life gone because even though there is less, it weighs on you like a ball and chain around your ankles and and anvil on your shoulders. Where there was once a warmth is now cold air so you're reaching out for a guide but your guide has long since left.

Like picking up the phone
being greeted by a dial tone
the reciever hanging over the edge
eyes filled with dread

Maybe the hardest part is looking in the mirror and thinking about the way he was always there even when there were more shadows than open spaces. You listen to the overlapping voices and still only hear white noise. The same story over and over but it never sinks.

Like a broken television
with the same frequency
on repeated patterns with
an antenna broken

Maybe the hardest part is rushing. Rushing to speed up time that drags itself in the snow. Rushing for peace. For you. For him. For her. For them. Rushing for absolution, for an end to an end, for burying the hatchet. The flower arrangements, the casket wood, the burial, the eulogy.

Like swerving into small spaces
burning rubber and barely
missing the onlookers to finally
get it all done

Maybe the hardest part is catching your breath once  there's nothing left. Once they're gone. Once you tell yourself that it's time. It's time to move on.

I know they say a person dies twice; once when they physically stop living and again when someone says their name for the last time. But I believe they die a third time; and that is when the last memory of them ceases to exist.
~ To my grandfather (24 August 1941 - 22 January 2015)
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Brandon Sep 2013
Shotgun.
The smoke tasted like Christmas as it sank into her lungs. She swirled her tongue expertly inside of her mouth playing with the simple taste of holiday and pine. It was the first time that she had felt the effects of the herb in a couple of months and she would savor every second. Virginia watched on as the joint rolled with two extra large pieces of raw organic rolling papers burned in the slow drawl the way a Cuban cigar burns. Her lungs filled with the smoke and she continued to breathe in causing her ******* to expand further out word. A smile came onto her face as her lips parted carefully holding the smoke still in her lungs and not let any escaping. She leaned forward and opened her mouth more as if she were going in for a passionate kiss and locked lips with the man in front of her but did not close her mouth for a kiss. She blew the smoke from her lungs into the man's mouth  causing his lungs and chest to expand and fill with the smoke. When Virginia's lungs and ******* had finally sank back to their normal ample capacity she and Nicholas closed their lips for a soft short kiss before pulling their faces away from one another. Nicholas held the smoke in until he needed to breathe again and blew the smoke out of his nostrils. "Shotgunning is by far one of my favorite ways to smoke" Virginia crooned in her sharp Romanian accent. Nicholas did not say anything back but grabbed the joint and inhaled and filled his lungs to their capacity and leaned inward to return the shotgun blast. When the ritual was over they did not remove their lips from each others lips after the first soft kiss. Instead they continued to kiss first with small ones that were soft and barely felt. They moved onto a heavier more passionate kiss and the smoke in Virginia's lungs began to come out and bury both her and Nicholas's faces in the smoke. Both she and him inhaled while kissing more wildly feeling the smoke recirculating between the two of them. The kisses were rough in a lustful way and were accompanied with small sharp bites on the lower lips. The smoke had began to die down and Nicholas leaned back away from Virginia's still eager lips and said "If I ever **** myself with a shotgun, it will be that kind of shotgun."
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Barry Andrew Pietrantonio May 2012
Chemically Unstable
I know we can't see,
but we are chemically unstable.
Racing a race that we can't win.
Losing control,
we live in a fable.

But change is near,
I feel it coming.
A change is near,
I feel it coming.

The sun's setting,
on a not so bright future.
Empty minds full of empty ideas.
Others beliefs,
go in and out our ears.

But the sun will soon be rising,
on a new future.
We can change,
only if we choose to.
I will,
will you?

But change is near,
I feel it coming.
A change is near,
I feel it coming.

In an age of technology,
we can barely ******* breathe,
smothered by machine.
We don't really need,
to depend on machine to keep living.

But change is near,
I feel it coming.
A change is near,
I feel it coming.
Copyright Barry Pietrantonio
Continue reading...
Sarah Alana Cayton Feb 2015
For All The Wrappers
Sitting in a dark room late one night the young man slowly closed his eyes and pictured the essence of a ball of light that he could just barely identify through the cracks in time that allowed silence to take place and his mind to decide
if this was actually happening
When Elders and Shamans and Guides showed up, he waited for the whispers that they dropped in his cup to fill him up with hope and luck, for the times to come
Knowing the Soul has the only key
To the imagination of will power that creates passionately through rooted manifestation of thought and gracefully into the hands of Light
The boy had never felt so high
He leaned over and pulled out the spool of wire and an old set of pliers, his Father gave him
and when the glisten of the Danburite caught his young eye, his hands started to seep with excitement and suddenly, as if magically, he saw it

A coil wrapped around the structure of a square wire that was able, to hold a stone perfectly....
Holding on to the vibration of a small wire running loose,
and then,
Straightened
Tightening to the base so it can take the weight of the power of Within,
Strengthing the bond between which resonates out and which resonates in, our heartbeats... the blessing of postive intention from the hands of a friend, while it mends...

The heart of the young man, and thus every friend it is sent.
Continue reading...
Makenzie Robison Oct 2015
Family
My family isn't perfect
But yet it is perfect
We fit with each other like puzzle pieces
And more come together
We are snugger than a bug
We will always stay together
No matter how hard life may be.

Yes we annoy the crap out of each other
Yes we fight
But arguments happen
and we move past them
Yet someone comes and tries to break us apart
They nearly succeed and
They never face the punishments
The pain of knowing what happened
Is enough to push the bonds

Yet when the time comes
We migrate back to family
The family we have fallen in love with
The family that stuck by us
The place where we are safe
Then we leave and start over again
The words people say stick in our heads
And we all just want to dead
But we go and lay down on our beds
And think of the things that we could've done different
But what sticks out?
Family
A mother and a father
5 kids one is a half bother
And the person who left

Andrew
His name comes off my tongue covered in hate
Yet all he did was break simple promises
Andrew
The cause of my regret
I hate how his name circles in my brain
Causing all of this misery
I would rather die
Andrew
He needs to go away
He's a drug the my siblings are addicted to
I moved away
I watch as they all say
I love you dad.
My dad is a tall redhead with as much anger as mine
I'm his spirit child
I hate the genes I got from my ***** donor
I have his stupid eyes
And his dumb last name
Demuth
Poison that's what it is
Slowly killing my sanity
Almost like a vipers venom
Slow and painful.
Ugh
If only I could get away!
Then the pain would leave
Then I would be free

18 will come sooner than later
Then I can change my last name
Robison
The thing that switches the poison of
Demuth
The pain of misery

I look and for a dad all I see is red hair and beard
I see a gun that he hasn't named
And for a mom I see Lucy
A 40 caliber pistol
I stood behind those powerful weapon
In front is my target
A zombie or a pink outline.
I smile
Then I point the gun in front of me
And empty the clip
The smell of brass
And the smell of cologne

My picture of family is to never give up on them
I will always be glad when one of them is near
My mom wears black and we have the same haircut
She has these pretty chocolate brown eyes
She passed them down to my to my sisters.
She doesn't let the animals get fur all over her
She takes care of us when we are sick
She sleeps like flowers and leather and the hit of ecig juice
My parents vape and my brother smokes

Brandon is older and acts like a ****
But he has pretty eyes that change with his mood
He smokes cigarettes and cigars
Sometimes I wish I was him
He smells like cats and sometimes dogs
He lays around the house waiting to go to work
He got a job at the Macy's distribution center in Owasso
I'm proud yet disappointed.
He could have done so much better and yet he doesn't
He wanted to join the military
But he never has the nerve.
If only he would listen and not throw a fit

Now I go to Rachel
Sweet and nice
Dark and mysterious
Only ever is quiet and sincere
She has the eyes of our mom
Brown and filled with knowledge
Yet laying there underneath is a beast waiting
Waiting to be unleashed
I see it and ignore it
For I made the beast appear.
It hungers for someones blood
But Rachel controls it more
I see it in her movements
Precise like a cats
I smile inwardly
She going to be so good
A good mother
And a good wife
Yet when she turns away
I can see the tears
I feel my heart breaking
Rachel
The name that sounds so sweet
She brings me back into real life
When I get ****** into dreams
She has the best hair and smile
Although its nothing compared to Zoe's
If only she knew I loved her
But I see the pain
The pain she always tries to hide
I look to the left and I see....

Zoe
***** blonde weird Zoe
She sits on her tablet and or phone watching some random show
She gets on my nerves but I love her so
She tries to kick me in the ****
I turn and kick her back
She is always ignoring me
Even when I give advice
Yet when she does listen
She says
Yeah right
I feel my heart breaking
Because she doesn't know what to do
I don't even really know her
Because she doesn't tell me jack squat
Yet when she looks at me
I feel my pride in her grow
Even if she follows me
I'll let her grow
And point her towards the sunlight
Where her smile could compete
She thinks she the center of the universe
And most of her friends agree
Yet when it comes time to sleep
she lays there on her phone
She pretends no one cares
But I want to prove her wrong
I care
I really do
When I see her in the morning
With her hair all messy
That's my little sister
Don't go and hit her
She has an attitude that makes the planets flinch
Yet when she smiles
She always make my worries go to waste
She'll turn out good one day
I just hope I'm around to see it.

We have two cats
Kaelas and Allanon
We love very much
They are brothers too
If only they could talk
And tell me all their pain
I would love to listen
They spend there time lounging around
Or begging us for food
Gray and Brown
White and black
Kaelas gas a gray bad tone and a white belly
While allanon has brown base and black stripes
I love them personally
But they run the show
Kaelas means White Death
Allanon doesn't have a meaning.
My parents pulled there name out if a book serious
When I see them start to play
It turns into a fight
I would smile and let them go
Just to see who would win
Allanon is slow but he is also the fastest
Kaelas is full of himself
Kaelas lays on my bed
Allanon on my dads chair
Those are our cats
And I love them so.

Now I talk about that dog
Her name is Tinkerbell
She's a Chihuahua
She replies to stinker bell
And stinker
We like to play with the puppy
She's only four months old
We have all fallen in love with her
Never would she go
We are taking care of her
And ***** training too.
If only dogs could speak to us
Surely no accident would occur
But we love the tan colored pup
And her energy too
Though sometimes she just needs to stop
She wears us all out
But that's a good thing in my book
One day shell be fully grown and never grown a inch
She has ears that we call HBO ears
Because they are so big
They are adorable and we know it.
That's our darling puppy
So know its time to introduce the final member

Me
My name is Makenzie
Some just ought to know
I have blue eyes I hate and a smile that's just to fake
I weave my self a web of lies
To protect them and me
They don't know the real meaning of
Depression
Soon though it'll all be the past
Then we can laugh and kiss everything goodbye
But before that I need to mention the Gecko
Dr. Conner's
Who lives in a cage
With water and food
And things to play
He doesn't do much so his is quick
We love him
And he just clicks
We get back to me and all of you stare
Just waiting to tear open my brain
And pick at like crows
Maybe I'm willing to run a few little tests
But only if you can beat me at my own game
The game of trying to pull in ahead
The game of running faster than depression but slower than suicide
The game of the right pace
I beat the game everyday
And a victory cheer I hear
Good morning Makenzie how are you dear?
This brings me out of my funk and I smile so.

Oh dear I forgot poor Alex so
My little half brother
Who has two dads
We love that little family
So very much indeed
We haven't been able too meet face to face
But one day we will
He looks like our mom
Because her genes are so strong
I love them dearly
And could write them a song
The song would be weird and probably include airplanes

Now this is a family
And its almost complete
To finish this poem
I write about me
Again
I look around then see the light
It's beautiful and all through the night
I can see the galaxy from my place on earth
My imagination can cover that much
It's always thinking right into the night
If only my eyes were this bright
My demons settle into slumber
Then I can spend another summer
Happy carefree
And silly
But I snap back in the winter
Fall and winter
Allergy season
For everybody but me
Hehe suckers better luck next year
Then my eczema flares
And I'm scratching every where
Most on my arm and neck and barely on my stomach
But life is perfect
With my family so big
So i do a little happy dance
And as I dance I giggle and laugh
This is my family and its prefect
As soon as I'm done
I would take a bow
But this poems probably better if I wiggle and giggle
The only person who won't giggle would probably laugh
But I'm not a seer
So I can't predict
What everyone will get
Out of this poem
I spent a couple days on
Getting it right and making it perfect
Just like my family who smiles are bright
We could compete with the moon and the sun
So yes my family can be crazy
But we love each other and that's al righty
I have a motto that needs to change
If we **** to live and live to **** what's the point of survival?
But yes my family is perfect and no one will change that
And yet we all want to perfect
These are the reasons I love my family.
So the final thing I will say is
So long and goodnight
I hope you have a good night.
Continue reading...
Megan Clark Jan 2019
Golden Flounder
I was in a cave
Not that bright, not too dim
The water was shallow
But enough to swim
I held my head under
I could barely see
I started to choke
I could barely breath
A golden flounder
Caught my attention
It’s golden, it’s bright,
It was full of intention,
It guided its way from right to left
Missing out on rocks
Swimming into the depth
A golden flounder
Caught my attention
I rose my head up
Gazing at my reflection,
What was I doing
Where was I going
Little did I know
The golden flounder was watching
#love #fish #secondpoem #drown #scared #save #lifesaver
Continue reading...
Seher Seven Apr 2015
Relay
Energy games these days.
Synergy claims.
Learn to relay, signals
Impounding on my ears.

Listen closely my dear.
It's all in here. There's just
Nothing to fear.
Tear fully, submit consciously,
Celebrate the oath of life.
Taste the flavors of the Earth.

She is here for us. And all.
And everything.

Questioning may continue
For a short time more.
My desire to know for sure,
Though will out soar,
Will implode the weak,
Low vibrations, Til they barely dim.

Peace is within, the faithful
Chant. I now sing this hymn
My heart has the beat,
And when I watch,
My mind finds the keys,
The steps, the recipe.

Faith is only the beginning...
I must be my best me.
Perfection is reality, no need to strive.
Standing up, Notice the toes on my feet,
Just being me. As I have no other
Choice.
Releasing IDs,
Sculpting energy,
Creating,
Continue reading...
bobby burns May 2014
cynical daffodil nectar
-
i couldn’t call you smoke, gaseous,
(though you are organic by definition)
for you [(we)re] mostly the milky ringlets
of ethanol drops in water, aqueous
always reacting

breaking bonds
without combustion
burning tight-rope bridges
you could barely balance
with the released chemical
energy and unknown power
of your lips sepa/r/ating
to smi(rk?)le

so(me)one pruned your boughs back
so coldly
your flower dreams grayed
to sustain your verdancy

aren’t you tired?
-
Continue reading...
Francis Santos Nov 2014
"Family Tree"
There were eyes on us,
Mouths against us,
Crowds of false witnesses
Wrongfully accusing us.

Beneath all their lies,
Did our truths blossom,
Upon the edge of doom,
Did we learn to love.

But I never intended,
That your name be sullied,
Or your mother to grieve
To those lies they heave.

So the angry mobs gather,
Together with the royal guards;
But I will face such danger,
For our happily ever after.

All to prove our love,
To prove your innocence;
For our names to be cleansed,
I will endure in your defense.

But you cried and said,
"My love, you need not suffer,
We can escape, and go on,
To our happily ever after."

So we ran into the mountains,
Into the woods and glades;
With nothing but love in our hands,
Hoping that fire won't fade.

The princess once adored,
Was now but a vagabond;
Who thought she was free,
Being cut from her family tree.

They would release their hounds,
Hunting us day and night.
But young love is stubborn,
Never giving up a fight.

In the hold of my arms,
There, you were undone.
In the worries we both buried,
There, we were married.

And as the winter days passed,
That fire we kept aged;
Your smile is now long gone,
Our love's toll, we have paid.

That blazing fire we held,
Kindled by your frail branch
From the family tree,
Weakened to a dying ember.

The halcyon days barely kept
By that ember, were swept
By the shadows in our front door,
Killing its remnants of ardor.

Now it has turned to ash,
The fire died, and it didn't last;
Our hands were scorched in agony,
Left with nothing but traces of ebony.

So we held each other's heart
With dark and ***** palms;
Which blackened our hearts
To beat fast resounding qualms.

Lover, we sleep cold every night,
For we have lost our burning light.
In the darkness, we shiver,
As doubt completely takes over.

In our love forsaken rituals,
Did we offer ourselves like animals,
Banished from our old homes,
Left to die with broken bones.

Lover, we have taken back
All the promises we've said,
Our dreams of happily ever after,
Are now long dead.


E N D
A narrative poem about love and tragedy.
#love #story #tragedy
Continue reading...
jade Jan 2021
please stop
will it ever halt
this unnerving feeling
the walls it has built
all around me
there is barely room to breathe
the ringing in my ear
becoming the only thing i can hear
sudden shivers
sweaty palms
shaking legs
darting eyes
when will it stop?
Continue reading...
Jamesandthepeach Sep 2014
Minutes After the Last Bell
A school bag against a wall,
paint peeling at the edges, grass growing
upwards, clinging to life
between the cracks of the pavement.

A hand on the school bag
clenched around the handle,
fingers pressed together,
curled, and the nails press into the heel of the palm.
They leave dark little crescents.

A boy;
he curls tighter against the wall,
a shadow throws itself over the bruise on his chin.

The boy pulls his school bag towards him,
rests his bruise on it. His fingers grasp
at the worn weave of it.
Eyes close, wrinkle shut.
Obscure all other senses,
so hearing is the sharpest.

Not yet, not yet. No footsteps yet.

Breath shudders, suppressed
from flaring nostrils.
Barely escapes from his lungs,
that are squished against all his other organs,
in that winding space of a box
compressing all of his organs.

No footsteps, no footsteps yet.

Breathe, breathe.

Footsteps.

Laughter, slinking around the corner,
ahead of the approaching group.
It plunges into the taught space of his ears.
Echoes there.
Thumps against his skull.
Footsteps.

A school bag, pressed tight against a boy,
who wraps his person around it,
begs it to be a shield.

A hand, curling into a fist.
Footsteps.

A boy,
and three others.
Three grin,
one does not.
He can't see their teeth, his eyes are stuck tight.

"Look at this pathetic ****."
A slap of sole on pavement.
A boy stepping forward,
body harsh.

A flinch.

A laugh.

"******* hell, I can't even be bothered."

Footsteps.

A high, quiet sob.

Fingers on a schoolbag, loosen.
#boy #school #children #bruises #bullying #careful #jamesandthepeach
Continue reading...
Don Bouchard Mar 2015
Tremens & Spectres
Homeward headed, I was driving my way
Down I-95 past the Old Mill Way in a yawn,
Turning the radio on and looking to play
Something to keep my consciousness on.

Few cars out at 1:00; it had been a long day;
I'd stopped off at Charlie's to sit with a friend
To blow out the kinks and let myself say
What a **** the company minion had been.

Four hours burned off like the late morning haze;
When I'd sobered back steady, was able to drive,
I paid off my tab, left my friends in a daze,
Headed the Jeep to the feed ramp for old 95.

At one in the morning, the traffic was thin;
When I heard Harleys roaring behind,
I scoped the mirror for the lanes they were in,
Double-blinked then to see if I was road-blind.

No bikers behind, no bikers beside, but sound
Like a squadron blared loud, and I felt a cold chill,
Thought better of having the last couple rounds,
Wished I'd stayed an hour before I'd settled my bill.

I glanced to the side, though the sound was all 'round,
Saw a glimmer of green glowing chrome in the dark,
And fire ethereal from pipes blooming sound,
From a Shovelhead, barely visible, flat black and stark.

But the rider's appearance emptied my chest:
Dark goggles, full beard and a gray flowing mane,
Black leather with signs on his tattery vest
And a number embroidered below the man's name:

"Rider 88" glowed red through the gloom,
A ******* burned on the withering arm:
"We rise again!" I heard a voice of doom,
"We're meeting at the old red barn!"

He wasn't alone, though I couldn't see
The posse he rode with, the pack he was in;
I felt a squadron of hellions run through me,
Concussive, incessant, their rattling din.

And then, except pavement beneath the Jeep's tires,
The howling of wind and crackling "Cotton-eyed Joe,"
Nothing but the road after midnight, no sirens or fires,
And me, shaking hands on the wheel, alone.
Ghost stories....
#drinking #ghosts #bikers
Continue reading...
Searching Sep 2010
Never Wearing Out
I don't want to wait for
My bitterness to push you away
As my patience slowly shrivels,
But don't push me
To try to be stronger
Even though I know I must.

My attempt to put on a tough face
Barely conceals a weary heart
That longs to be near you
If only to be yours
On these faithless nights
Where I need to love you more.

Awaking to the same nightmare
Of  lonely days taking their toll.
I think I'm too young to be jaded,
So I spit fire at the injustice
Of waiting for you,
For us; for anything.

And yet, I know I must not
Cry while glaring forlorn
Out of my room, outside of myself,
To observe a world lacking in the
Kind of love that we share.
A gratefulness comes with time.

Tear streaks down cheeks,
Waiting for you ain't so bad.
Copyright © 2010 Searching. All Rights Reserved.
Continue reading...
Spencer Dennison Aug 2014
Masks
It's funny how
we, as people,
wear our faces like masks,
and then act surprised
when we don't find someone
who loves us for what is beneath.

I often feel naked
like a sword without a sheathe.
I walk around with my heart
drumming in my temples.
Always being aware of exactly
where my hands are at any given place
at any given time.

There is about as much strength in me
as there is citrus in lime stone.
It's all an illusion.
Because somewhere along the path,
I convinced myself that the strong
don't suffer the same as the weak.
The next thing I learned in life
is that suffering is a language
that we all speak.

So I wore my face like a mask,
brows carved downward into an expression
of barely concealed anger.
I tied my courage into a knot each day
like a kamikaze pilot's headband,
and somehow, in my own clueless way,
acted surprised when nobody bothered to
peel back my mask
and see the scared child within.
#depression #anger #scared #past #strength #vulnerable #vulnerability #therapy #poetic
Continue reading...
Tori Hart Nov 2013
This is Not a Long Distance Relationship
People often ask me why I do it.
How do I manage being here
When my Love is
873 miles away
Four states away
And one time zone away.

"How do you do it?" They ask.
"I could never do a long distance relationship." They say.
"I would never be able to handle it."

Well, the truth is
The way I can handle it
The way that helps me to "cope"
Is purely the fact
That my relationship is not
a Long Distance Relationship at all.

In this Love miles may be tangible
but they are everything but definable.
We had Love before there was a distance
and that distance will never be used to
Define us.

No matter how many miles there may be
I can still feel his Spirit with me.
His laugh rings in my ears when I can barely muster a chuckle
His fingers gently touch my skin when I drift off to sleep tucked away at night
I can hear the gentle whisper of his voice when I get up saying,
"Good morning, beautiful."
And I can feel him singing along with me in the car to our Song when my voice cracks.

Our relationship is not a Long Distance Relationship.
Just because there is distance
does not mean that distance defines It.
He isn't absent until I come home
or when he visits me
My Love is always here.
He may be in whispers, and small chuckles, and light sighs
But a part of him is always here
Always with me
Always there
and I can feel it.

So in a sense
our Long Distance Relationship
has no distance at all.
Because creating distance means to separate or to bring apart
And that's not what our relationship does in the slightest.
If anything
these 873 miles bring us closer
Closer than we could ever imagine.

I'm not saying that I enjoy
not being able to physically see him everyday.
But this chapter in our Love is not hard or difficult or too much to handle
And it certainly isn't bringing us apart.
Because we both do not see any other option
This is worth it.
This is right.
This is It.
This is the kind of It that everyone talks about
we all hope for It, search for It, even die for It.
and we are so blessed to have found It so early.

So these 873 miles will not be permanent
but they are so indescribably worth it.
I'm sorry this is such a long drabble. I was just trying to put down everything that I feel about this beautiful blessing of Love that Jess and I have found. Thank you so much for reading. Peace and Love <3
Continue reading...
Amanda Jun 2014
I’m throwing out old things to make room for the new and better
At this time last year, I was a
mess that couldn’t be cleaned up
with the simple flick of the wrist
or with the sweep of a broom.

I have been moving and lifting furniture,
trying to remodel the abandoned corners
of my soul that haven’t been touched since he left.
It has proven to be therapeutic to me,
and has healed my heart in ways that
putting things in the metaphorical boxes
to ship off to far away places couldn’t do before.

I’ve been painting the walls in my newly hollowed ribcage
so the sound of my heartbeat can echo against
my bones once more, and not be held back by the stitches or
makeshift ties that barely held my brittle body together.
#love #poem #life #loss #soul #new #old #prose
Continue reading...
Wayne H Colegate Sep 2012
The End
At 3:02 the last bomb fell, smoke and ashes spread,
wiping out survivors that were counting up the dead.
Buildings lay in rubble, piled throughout the street,
as the country once the master met such grim defeat.
Some bodies moved in search of food while others screamed and cried,
By 5:05 in the afternoon all but two had died.
A youth whose eyes were lost in flames, stumbled in pain and fright
as a woman lay huddled in a smoke filled room hiding away from the night.
For three long weeks they survived this way, just barely enough to eat.
The future of a rebuilt was lost, lest the two should meet.
The blind man staggered in bricks and trash,
falling and crawling through the smouldering ash.
Death was creeping up on him for he heard the steps behind,
when a woman’s scream pierced his ears and thoughts raced through his mind.
Face to face at last they stood, now the world could grow,
but the youth without his vision was the last of two to know.
His hands reached to touch her, but she said “ it can’t be done”
Then she took him in her arms “My God I’ve found my son”.
Copyright Protected....Wayne H. Colegate- From Reflections On Gravestones and Satin Sheets
Continue reading...
Gregory L Feb 2010
Untitled
Nothing feels right when one realizes it's been to long
my hands misplace thought and these sheets remain empty
These organs fall apart without her underground love
Our late night crossing of eyes, of legs, of lips
Evening's cut short by my idiocy to choose a vision over her sight
I held back from those gifts for far to long
unwilling to share my war with her beautiful landscape

Drifting in and out of the world for far to long now
I've been listening in on late night orchestra's
The integral sounds accompanying the few stars I can see before my coming sunrise
A weak acquaintance, unable to open the sky with its melody
It barely does the job and I am left with clouded blue across my front

Here, theirs no telling how high I must go to capture  
my favorite sight,
the beauty these cities destroy with their fear of everyone elses dark
How I wish they'd all stop believing what they hear for one evening
Maybe then I could reach that moment in her bed again
Two hands painting one masterpiece
crossing lines
We kept closer than I let anyone be
Sharing what not even my elders know
I held another's memories
I held love and pain

All forgotten now,
I know
I am more than prepared for the next act.
Continue reading...
Mercy B Apr 2013
Footsteps
Haunted by unkown footsteps echoing through the lonliness that has taken over what once she called her heart.

   Blending into one another they jumble up the different tones and now  they can barely be told apart.

    Some coming and some going, never slowing,  they never last nor do they bother staying with her very long.

   Each one leaves behind a new rythme, imprints a new beat which then becomes part of  her melancholy song.

   She sees images whipping past and all the while she is left wondering who or what they are.

   Each night, for she dare not stray from her  routine, a silent wish of knowing is placed upon a dieing star.

   With the knowledge she yearns so deeply  for there comes a tremendous fear of not having control over what may come to be.

   For now, in a heightened sense of helplessness, she can only watch in agony as they float side by side  in this endless sea.
Continue reading...
eileen mcgreevy Aug 2010
the sea
The sea gave off a cry tonight,
It plays home to a child,
Her father threw her out of sight,
The sea swallowed her, so wild.

Her mother pushed and screamed all day,
Until the sun shone twice,
The blood would flow without delay,
Her grip was like a vice.

While pain would ebb and flow for her,
She knew her life was slipping,
But he refused to let her go,
The fear was ever gripping.

When finally the child was born,
And mother gave a sigh,
The father cleaned as best he could,
The mother closed her eyes.

A wail crawled from the fathers throat,
A pain beyond compare,
He'd lost his only love that night,
To love this child, he could not bare.

He struggled down the beach, that night,
With baby wrapped in cloth,
He swore up to the lord with spite,
And stepped in to the sea- like froth.

The sea crys out in pain tonight,
It's tears make waves, so wild,
A life, just barely started off,
She plays home to a child.
(c) eileenmcgreevy@ymail.com 2010
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