"doctored" poems
I look through my photographs
And see a person I never knew.
An open smiling soul you might
Tell almost anything you wanted to.
And what a fine face I had
With shining unlined skin.
I look at that face and shake my head
Wish I looked like that again.
I don't remember being that cute
It must be a camera trick.
I'm surely not that hot now.
This just makes me sick.
Someone just managed to
Aim that cheap camera right.
Or else it was the lighting
Whether day or night.
I remember that outfit
And the length of my hair.
But I am sure someone doctored
This picture up somewhere
Because I never take pictures well.
I always look like a freak.
I mean these picture make me
Look like I had a widow's peak.
And, look how tiny my waist
And how great my style was then.
I wish I could be that hot
And that young once again.
I would take that face back again
In a minute if I knew how.
But please no pictures of me today.
I don't like my pictures now.
Jul 22, 2016
Jul 22, 2016 at 5:27 PM UTC
as you hear the orifices of space calling out to you
the ropes of time tenderly start embracing you
as you march out of all infinity
you see more than the trace of you
The universe sings to you
and a question begins with tune
beyond the multiverse see you the original Creation Family?
And what's to say that that was the only Family?
As there is more than verse in song
where are the other chords of sing along?
The verse cries out in song a sing and sing but what of the bells of ring and ring
Would we be astounded to learn that the One True Source, the FATHER, that even He has a home
It was not all revealed when ruled in Rome
so how are we to dare to think that we aren't swimming in folly's foam?
1+1=3 in Binary, but Binary is not the only numerical scene
What if the FATHER has a brother or two?
What if The Source has more than one wife,
what if is what if
but “if” is enough for imagination
if wills that it is
for: "How Can I Think I Know if I do Not See What I Say"
who is the director rolling the film on display?
How do we make it out of time and space?
This tube that has us trapped in planes
not to say the Fairies haven't decorated
however the Grey and Lizards have doctored
beyond the Universal Emperors, we're told of one True King
and this is the True Light
the source of light and sound
but did you know of wind and smoke?
Do you that there's a place where this does not choke
Would you think that the multiverse or omniverse is just one country in a massive continent,
do you know of the potential creation in places that have no energy?
See you then the carpet and curtain
the ceiling that reveals this tapestry
if in fact we're an expanding atom, where has the scientist gone to?
Should we know the purpose of our creation impromptu?
Standing on the balcony of space, you learn that time and space are one but balance is none
Until we return home to the Source and with the Light we are One...
We'll then soon learn of the other numbers...
For if planets are dots then imagine the multiverse to be a ball
and what's more the clown is juggling more than one ball, and what's beyond is that it's a whole circuis
Geniuses or Comedians?
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 7:47 AM UTC
He didn't meet many expectations
With the shell that he wore
Though the people gave nothing
They expected more
He'd stroll into town
With the clothes on his back
And the tools he would need
In an ancient, holey bag
He'd search out those
In need of repair
A leaky roof
Or a broken chair
This man seemed to know something
About every field
He'd smooth bumpy roads
Even doctored wounds 'til they healed
There was never a charge
For the service he rendered
One need only ask
And perhaps remember
**If a stranger's in need
And passes your way
Just give him a hand
That's my pay**
The more that he helped
The more tradesmen would fuss
*This man's stealing the thunder
That belongs to us*
So the tradesmen all gathered
And plotted and planned
The weapons they chose
Were not in their hands
They began to spread lies
*This is our competitors' ruse
If he keeps freely working
Consider the business we'll lose*
They convinced the masses
In spite of all he had done
*This enemy among us
Is a dangerous one*
So this strange humble servant
Who was mocked in the end
Had no one defend him
Not one single friend
If you'll lend me your ear
I'll return it with truth
The enemy among us
Is me and you
Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 6:03 PM UTC
Think of me not as some maritime devotion,
born upon the salt, suspended in the air,
our friendship but a spit of land, a temporal
bank set upon its tidal death through erosion.
Tarry not on your scattered desk of grey matter.
The folded notes and pencil shavings you hoard,
in the sorry hope they’ll fall to a collage of memoirs
and make sense of all this, their endless chatter.
They talk in circles, double-dealing confidants,
so free of tongue, yet so confined in spirit.
In haste they claim unto you their longing
for the fame, the glamour of the on-screen debutants.
Still stubbornly, you cling to those memories anew.
A memory of a memory, a doctored past is
a game of whispers, to colour in the grey,
to fill beauty in the present, to set ourselves askew.
So you rest with sad grace, thinking on what’s gone.
You make a bed and twist in the sheets of old deceptions,
your pillow case of cigarette ash, wasted petals;
instead, old friend, here are my words to lay upon.
So think of me not as some wasted emotion,
born upon the haze, a clinch of jutting bones,
our friendship but a stretch of truth, a temporal
face set to fade, in all of life’s commotion.
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 8:23 PM UTC
I will wait here.
I will wait precisely in this cabinet,
Until you prise it open
In that delicate curiosity
That is lost in ‘today’.
My words are more patient than myself.
I know that now,
I think I always did.
It is why I love and
Why I love so patiently.
I will wait so gladly in my place,
Until poetry is fashion once more.
It is a sure case
In a sorry state.
Hearts that beat too fast
And breaths that are too frequently
Forsaken for a foolish enterprise
Of some invested individual
Sat watching behind a blast screen.
I will wait here and think back.
To remember the fuzzy nothing
Of my childhood mind. I recall little
But the polarities. The spaces of life
That intercede mere existence.
I bask in these doctored images of a past
That I never quite had. A fatherless summer
Forgotten instantly in garage top vigils,
Kicked footballs and years that were endless.
I wonder if my words will last longer
Than the etchings of your gravestone.
I wonder more so whether you would
Approve of them and how much I would
Have cared if you did not. A father is lost
And is abstract for me. Like God,
An ever-present utterance of nothing at all
Or perhaps everything that I am
Or could possibly ever be.
I wonder whether my love of words
Is nothing but a longing for permanence
In a world that has forever shown me
Futility. I have read of it in your name
Again and again through till now,
And thenceforth years to come. Your name,
How it needs to mean something,
Your voice, your ‘I’ through the ages,
For it envelops me within it - we are the same Mr.
It is within your void that I search for a father.
An ancestor to tell me who I am
And from where I have come. The plight of the
Ape-men that have been, their legacies
Wrought in blood-stained gold
But also in each yellowing poem
And from the hand prints on cave walls.
These are the will of my fathers,
The trinkets on my mantelpiece.
It is within you all that my words
Remain patient. It is within you all
That my will remains clear. For I know now
(Or perhaps I always did)
That there is a voice amongst us.
It may sleep through the noise of today,
All-talk and no communication. It may sleep
Right on through until we awake. Our eyes
Will burn for staring at the screens,
But our hearts will sing for their reprieve.
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 9:34 PM UTC
You wake up to the sounds of foreign beeps and buzzes
Pounding their way through your eardrums
Invading your head
Manipulating your thoughts
You find yourself strapped down by some invisible force
You can’t quite make out
Opening your eyes is too hard
Drenched in layers of sweat
Built up from last night’s visions
Clearer than the sunlight
Faintly glowing outside
Wait
Is it even daylight?
You don’t even know
Or remember
There are no windows in this place
White walls drowning out your thoughts
Your ideas
And replace it with sterile censored
Fakeness
This phony face you stole from the inmate who
Sometimes invades your privacy
Feigning clemency
All doctored up in a silver platter in the form of
Syrupy voices laden with empty promises
Emptiness screams louder than parties and bars packed with people
It seems as if no one is here
Yet everyone’s watching
Spirits haunt this prison while i sleep
They are always here
They never leave
Whispering my mistakes
Constantly reminding what I could have been
And never will
Make them go away
It finally dawns on you
This is the place of nightmares
And there is no escape
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 8:46 PM UTC
Father do you see your children?
They are searching for promised Eden
leaders where are our answers?
We lie sleeping in the illusion of justice
We wake and search for our liberties
but our youth is poisoned with ill ideas
The mother cries that she cannot feed her daughter
The provider worries about health as clone animals are slaughtered
We worry about dehydration as chemicals leave our waters doctored
Drugs and guns create a society that is insecure and faltered
Young brothers who have received little education and truth are martyred
Institutions limit us to transparent information about how it all started
The Weeping Eye reveals the hurt and all that leaves us ill
The Weeping Eye divulges elements that disturb our free will
The Weeping Eye unmasks the men in suits who freedoms steal
The Weeping Eye opens the mind to the wars that leave us imprisoned
The Weeping Eye shakes us as our innocence dies
How this eye frustrates ambition as you find it hard to fly
hard to fly in a world that leaves you mostly to cry
Cry for you have no one by your side to help the pain subside
which side to reside as the colours of flags leave us blind
Nowhere to hide as our homes are surveilled and we're made to bow or they'll have us tied
tied and locked in that place which is of darkness inside
The Weeping Eye will change your mind
When we're left to pick cults and sides
When the big picture is not seen of divide
Divide and keep the hate alive
These tears should uplift your consciousness
these tears drop to ground and form into a mark of sound
a sound which is a voice
the voice that compels you to make a choice
to be the rhythm of the Light and not of the Darkness noise
The Weeping Eye is a window and a reveltion of you and I. That soul is eternal and freedom bound.
Dec 28, 2015
Dec 28, 2015 at 12:01 PM UTC
i.
one ground to another runs itself rock and rock in the unclosed pebbles of dirt open to aching at the wire your father fixes for free in the canceled warning of crow made gauze for blacktops poured not wholly over a woman-
she a belt buckle drunk pocked full the called back joy of a pop gun.
ii.
over glass I go with my milk bottle feet to church after church past mirrors sick and doctored.
iii.
needs hisself a dog he does the speechless boy drawn mother to his own mute breast -
so he clicks the roach of his tongue
makes a hole with the hole in his sock
makes tunnel sounds.
iv.
my aunt’s ear like a deformed thumb.
my aunt dreaming she says for two.
my aunt changing her mind, her mind
a mid-bread knife.
v.
soldiers able to turn in the throat a chicken bone straight.
vi.
for muscles: jaw down nightly the door of a stove,
jaw it up,
and salute.
vii.
tiny cups cured with sugar cubes and stilled with steam taken
from a skinned
train-born
pig, a train
of blackest
fur.
viii.
about ladders and war, about the devil-
a man stands on his hands in three feet of water. about god-
marco. marco.
ix.
the blue dolls and the gray dolls and the care with which the chosen choose cloth and after
all of it
some meat colored cloth.
x.
water knows your lips, and mine; takes our mouths
on faith.
xi.
*top teeth on the skin of an apple. top teeth mine. a test of joy, joy’s age. mama stepping on a scale holding my brother. mama putting him down, cocking her head, picking him up. asking for a towel. asking nicely be a good brother. the towel, hot from bread, sick with ants. heavy my mouth with sorry sorry. my slapped mouth, my loved love. mama’s hands back from hell. dish soap mama hands
uncut by the hair long had by my head.*
Jul 5, 2012
Jul 5, 2012 at 9:23 AM UTC
You have to start
by finding things
to burn.
Turn the island
into a tinderbox.
Fill your truck with driftwood
and detritus hustled up from
derelict construction sites.
Scavenge plywood scraps
and lengths of two-by-fours.
Find a spot beneath the dunes
and dig into the still-warm sand,
your rusted shovel syncopating
with the rhythm of the waves,
crunching into the cool dark
hollow of a deepening pit.
By dusk, the hole will be capable
of containing everything you want
to burn.
Set the shovel down.
When the darkness
finds you all alone,
take the lighter fluid
in one hand
and a match
in the other.
Wait for the
wind to die.
If you do it right,
the orange embers
will crack and rise,
truant children
ushered home
by pacing stars.
If you do it right,
the smell of salt and smoke
will stay with you for days.
If you do it right,
the bonfire will
bloom like a flower
and consume itself
all night long.
In the morning,
your work will
have healed, doctored
by persistent currents
and the extinguishing
sweep of high tide.
May 31, 2017
May 31, 2017 at 4:44 PM UTC
There is strength inside of pain
wisdom whispers soft and still
for I’ve learned to trust the rain.
Wild spirit trumps the brain
doctored by a solemn pill.
There is strength inside of pain.
Daily rushes done in vain
shout and tumble, push and spill.
I will listen for the rain.
Does it matter if I’m sane
labeled “crazy” “weak” or “ill”?
There is strength inside of pain.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained?
You may make your way with will;
I prefer to trust the rain.
Blizzards rise and breezes wane.
I fear neither drought nor chill.
Here is strength inside of pain;
Now I’ve learned to trust the rain.
Mar 15, 2016
Mar 15, 2016 at 7:47 PM UTC
Cross-legged and bare foot,
Spice on the tongue,
Iced beer through a straw;
Makeshift ****
On the white-wash balcony
Over dusted streets.
Revolving procession of strangers,
Exhausted stories born new;
Doctored through years of rehearsal.
I am every man.
White skin mistaken for affluence,
Exchanged for free gifts
And easy ***
I never need to remember
Their names. They are always gone
By the afterglow morning,
Nights of mad love with no consequence;
Climbing heaven with feet on the ground.
Bruise of her mouth,
Stifled ******
Surface wound on my shoulder
The only evidence
She was here.
Impermeable, remorse stale
As last night’s cigarette.
My open door births a crack of light,
Too slight for anyone to pass through.
Dec 27, 2016
Dec 27, 2016 at 8:26 AM UTC
More pills
More colors
3 yellow ones
2 blue and white capsules
3 white ones
No more blue pill
The blue one was hurting me
I was hearing voices
I was seeing ghosts
My doctored said it was normal
But changed the dose anyway
I don't see voices
Or hear the ghosts anymore
I can't feel my fingertips
And I sleep for 16 hours
Another refill
Another pill
Pill after pill
31 days until the next refill
Jan 1, 2016
Jan 1, 2016 at 5:18 PM UTC
I shake with every cell
Oxygen does not easily flow
Dancing in indiscretion
Inhaling every woe
Cancerous to nose
Infected by smokey lips
Adorned in selfish prose
Doctored with defying quips
Acted out in Fable
Characterized in yellow stone
A sure thing to bite
Pieces lost in clothes
Hiding in a wake
Eyes of goopy pus
A manmade offense
The anti-verb of us
Jan 27, 2017
Jan 27, 2017 at 12:48 AM UTC
I am a practitioner of art,
said Alice, oil and canvas
are my daily bread, charcoal
blackens my fingers, darkens
my soul, my dreams are of
*** and men lost, I bed sad
men in my thoughts. My art
keeps me from asylums, takes
me from the doctor’s couch
to the lonely studio, the air
full of fumes and stale food
and my unwashed body.
My mother was a slave to
the kitchen sink, her life spent
in domestic chores, in my father’s
bed, in the worrying times she
popped the pills, drank the
bottles dry. I am the spyer of
secret lovers, my sister’s men
in her double bed, the laughter
and tears in equal measure,
the flowers and bruises all fondly
kept, the split lips and black eyes,
she wore with pleasure. I am
the painter of other’s souls, images
oiled in with the darkest colours,
their features blended with the
darkness of their lives. My brother
sat with his demons, supped with
them in his lonely hours, injected
the nightmare makers with the
addict’s skill, he slept uneasy in
another’s bed, chased by his
demons and women until he died,
a bullet in his head. I listen to Parsifal
on the old Hifi the Wagnerian opera
is my secret drug, my opener of days,
my closer at nights, the background
to my daily arguments and fights.
My father was my only healer, his
loving touches healed my hurts,
stitched my cuts and wounds, he
watered down my temper’s scorns;
he alone shared my soul’s foul deeds,
knew my heartaches, my scars of ***
and doctored my soul’s lack. He was
cornered by the cancer’s hold, its
icy fingers in his bones and skin, its
deadly smell in his breath and flesh
and his parting words were lost in
the final rattle. I am the artist of life’s
dark wars and ancient wounding battle.
Dec 22, 2012
Dec 22, 2012 at 5:48 AM UTC
Doctored in genetic cauldrons
for wine seeking solace in perfection
engineered tactfully within testtubes
of formulae
extracted and compressed
its testicles removed
the grape rendered impotent.
how strange
that we surgically implant
and speak to inner workings
to consumerise
everything we need.
chickens battery farmed
cows turf grassed
pigs in poultry cages
men in monkey suits
playing god in the paddocks of doom.
maybe we should
just leave things alone
and nature will be fine.
Author Notes
Optional
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 3:25 PM UTC
They say some things improve with age
How maturity makes us a bit of a sage
Practice makes perfect, you really think?
Between the sheets do we raise our game?
Or simply loose our fear to fail.
Well one things sure at 47
I will never be on the television
Dancing in a competition
For when I venture on the floor
It looks like I'm having a joke
As I move around its not like Travolta
More like I've been to Anne Summers!
With a magic wand stuffed up me other
I look like I've had my drink doctored
Or its turned to spin and loosed a monster
Oh I can clear the floor as I listen to the laughter roar
So tonight I'm being quite sedate
No Wignal or a woble on me plates
I'll be sat drinking with my mates!!
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 1:47 PM UTC
My heart is broken
It didn't happen all at once
There was a series of cracks and wounds and bruises
Held together by a few desperate strands of self-care
Still, I go on
Until I decide I do not have to live like this
And call out for change
Finally, a doctor hears
Smiling, he grabs my heart
Squeezes it tight
And it shatters
Still beating
Sep 25, 2020
Sep 25, 2020 at 8:52 PM UTC
For G.C
I'm on the dole, in therapy, taking meds
and posting statuses. I drink far too much
caffeine and read too little. The cops are bad
and the drug dealers, good. I wear shades
to hide fatigue and spoil pavements with
cigarette ends and receipts. I stay awake
all night meditating, looking for that
deep-sleep pill and peace of mind.
I'm a modern man and an old soul,
stretched out on a beach towel in suburbia.
I punctuate my day with digital smiles
and late night calls to my pillow-talk
sweetheart. All milestones are published,
doctored and time-stamped to ensure
that every moment is lived in memory.
The sky is concrete and the ceiling, made
of glass. I watch tree surgeons clean
the economy's veins, retired carpenters
tending to their miniature Eden, as
the rapists neck their third can by the
fire escape. There are hosepipe bans
and water-gun fights, crowded hospitals
and empty funds. The government are
insane and only the lunatic fringe can
make sense of things. I'm sleeping naked
and checking my prostate in the shower.
There are bowel movements in the
cubicles and Zionism rolls on by through
every other wide-screen joint in town.
I'm chasing jobs and avoiding eye-contact,
throwing coins into the wishing well and
hoping for change. I'm a modern man
and a miserable Old ****
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 11:51 AM UTC
Chapter I - I Carve Mountains
In vain or not
You will be stopped
Cast off into my words
All the discrepancies
That connect and bind us
And always blind us
But i will take your hand
You can take your stand
Words form platforms that carry you
As my thoughts incite, Oh they do, They do
Carve mountains with my pen
Chisel away my friend
The bridges that depend
On every hook and letter
For worse or better
Opinions of you
Whispered in ink
Shouted in melody by the strings
Vibrating on my life
Notes casting stares at your face
Along the musical line, they race
They know you
All too well
Oh they do, they do
So please excuse my faults
As i decide to figuratively tear you apart
Chapter II - I Dig Lakes
Ah, but if I carve mountains
Then i also dig lakes
Pits, Hells, Natural and Man-made
The abundance of all resources
Centers around my calloused hands
My unforgiving metaphors and similes
Shift and shape my doctored land
As my skies fill with the brightest of blue
The darkest of seas wash over you
God-given or not, this power has no control
I can try, Try I must, Engulf me whole
As my own seas carry me onto new land
Embracing the warm comfort of a new hand
Chapter III - I Excavate Graves
I say my last goodbyes
As you're lowered inside
The grave I excavated
For your fidelity belated
Fantasy of ideas and love
That i once believed in, but never was
And with this metal shovel, I bury
Your mountains and lakes, Oh how i worry
For your conscience and points of view
Of everything that i wish i once knew
I cast you out onto your own
This is the life you have sewn
Raze the bridges and all that i've built
Everything with the stroke of a pen, i willed
Flatten the snow-capped mountains which i've carved
The soft landscape changes, So very far, So very far
Fill the lakes with your lies and words
Everything between us that has occurred
With the flick of my hand, I will evolve
Create and ultimately solve
This riddle.
Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 1:09 PM UTC
Scars
Oh! Undulating mood.
Harrowed thoughts and a sparse
Nest of recollections for
Fair fortunes on which I brood.
Skin, torn and contorted.
Fingertips a sign of
A future bleak and a past
Doctored and left distorted.
Oh! Talentless wretch! I
Suffer for my art and
My art, it suffers for me.
I, some malproportioned sketch.
Skin, lined with old fault lines.
A freeze-thaw depression,
The past of sewing scissors,
My ****** Nazca Lines.
Oh! My littered landscapes!
Thin plastics kicked up in
The wind. ***** my longings,
The map to plot my escapes.
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 10:32 AM UTC
This happened to Malcolm
My sister Hadley hosed green stuff off the ***
When she squirted my ear I ****** the neck rope. Her skin was hurt so
The horse folded back her lips and bit my thigh with brown yellow teeth.
I was thirteen. I locked myself in the bathroom.
I felt ***** as a smug prayer for running. Mom said,
“Come back out. Don’t get left behind.” My dad had run away.
I splashed my face cold and put on my jeans. I hustled out. Not for my mother.
Scottie was a Brock University girl from PEI who cut and doctored hooves and skin
And shod horses and filed their teeth. You could smell teeth filings and Stockholm tar
And when I went back to the head she held my face
A long time in her hands and said I knew you were a straight arrow.
That might have scared my mom.
That was the first time I ever did it with anyone.
Paul Anthony Hutchinson
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 11:39 PM UTC
Glossy-eyed children taste toxin-doctored water from plastic red cups
as popular hits of the day intertwine with impure intentions and blind approbation
for strangers-
obscured within the cherry-colored lenses of Dionysius’s shroud.
-
A languid form stumbles though an ocean of slurred words and victorious howls
Into a water room with four walls, a broken door, and a single reflective glass, sounds of the century now low and intertwined with the domestic petting zoo steadily beating against the door
Still broken.
Tired eyes through orbital vision and a weary process of cognitive recognition
Finds within the glass a conception of self, foreign to the observer and comically out of place.
Segmented ideas find meaning in convoluted streams of thought as the spoken word
Is devalued and meaning is limited to fain attempts to *** a smoke, bro.
Radiating self-righteous belligerence and misattributed
Bravado-
the two-dimensional protagonist clumsily plunders the kitchen
for processed sugar bars and handfuls of stale Wonderbread
before projecting discarded toxins into the potted plant near the high-traffic doorway while snapback youth formulate attributable hashtags and millennial responses to
a situation typical to the time of uncertainty and blissful absence.
Come morning, we’ll eat scrambled eggs in sunlight
And romanticize about a Kodak experience, now elapsed by a self- more stringent.
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 5:33 PM UTC
The patient came to me with a plea I couldn’t refuse, so I placed my hand on his cold spine and warmed up to him, I the fire and he, suffering a harsh winter. With the rapid beat of his heart drumming against my palm, I doctored and diagnosed him. I fed him medicine and he was fine for a temporary time. A temporary, potentially affective, time. So warm, so brief—full recovery could’ve been conceived during the month of July if it weren’t miscarried, leaving that promise as a seed forever forgotten during harvest.
The patient would come back monthly for his check-up, claiming a new illness, begging for a new medicine. I’d give it to him willingly. After all, he needed help.
After about a year, I gave out so much to him there was hardly medicine left for my other patients.
Considering, I reduced his dose to even the imbalance.
“Can you not see how I need your help?” said the most desperate wrinkle of a face, “Did I do something to deserve this?”
“No! No, of course not. There is just limited supply and high demand. You are one of many mouths to feed!”
“Do you not care for me anymore?” Was the worst one. Of course I cared for him. Admittedly, I cared for him more than all my other patients. I know this is not professional of me to disclose, nor is it fair, but it is an honest guilt that tugs at my hair like a gluttonous infant.
Blame was thrown at me like cannonballs. Suddenly, I was the cancer he tried so hard to fight. That thought alone was too heavy a burden to bare, so I reluctantly gave him the entirety of my supply.
Day in and day out, I began to hear the other patients drop like thick glass behind me, where I would never look back. I kept a steady eye on him, as he was my child in a rackety crib I was too afraid to leave alone for the fear that he’d stop breathing at any moment. I am a miserable, exhausted mother of a child that never matured.
And it’s just he and I now, forever in frozen time.
Oct 19, 2016
Oct 19, 2016 at 9:36 AM UTC
I explored the
depths of hell, and
found it wanting,
wandering the streets,
looking for a utopia.
Not all that shines is
the sun.
Pictures can be
doctored, and when the
layers are peeled away
the purple horizon isn't
royal.
It's a ghastly negative,
with black and white
images that lack
love and depth.
All the potions are placebos.
It's temporary and tiring.
When I grew up,
I stopped playing with
toys, they break and
disappoint, and worse yet,
they leave me empty and hungry.
The sky-pilot found me
and I am full,
belly and soul.
Besides still waters,
green is my bed.
Mar 17, 2024
Mar 17, 2024 at 11:48 PM UTC