"froms" poems
Grace is the girl down the street,
who sings,
and smiles,
and laughs.
Grace is also the dancer
who lives in ballet shoes,
and spends hours on end
hurtling through the air
in practice.
But above all,
Grace is like rain
that falls froms the heavens
and splashes us with bits of the
Saviour.
It stirs our souls with powers,
and paints them with forgiveness.
Grace is the life saving
antidote from our sin tainted lives.
Grace calls us from the dark, and leads us to the light.
Grace feeds us, clothes us, and makes us whole.
Grace.
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 1:55 PM UTC
She is the living embodiment of the cliché,
The song where the male sub-lead
Returns from some second shift, some third drink
To find she has gone, leaving some scrap-paper note,
Hastily scribbled and wholly incomplete,
Some variation upon Don’t try and find me,
And so she is suitably unfound herself,
As she has given great thought to her froms,
But rather short shrift to her tos,
Finding herself north of the Thruway,
Looking for somewhere to spend the night
(The twin motors of adrenaline and anxiety running on fumes)
Happening upon, as if almost by some beneficent magic,
A Travelodge bordered by an expanse of cornfield
(Long since gone to seed, the stalks bowed and spent,
Waiting for the patently overdue cob harvester)
And after she is checked in and somewhat unpacked
(The bored, bemused woman who slumps about the front desk
Mercifully sparing with the small talk)
The skies, which had been late-October slate blur-gray,
Slightly malevolent but only implicit in their threats,
Open up in a cold and unwelcome drizzle,
And, whys and wherefores being things for a later date,
She runs outside and begins dancing in the parking lot,
Unseen and unremarked upon,
And even though the rain is cold, soaking, grim in portent
(The forecast dourly noting the possibility of wet snow,
Nattering that accumulation is possible at higher elevations.)
She is seemingly unaware and unconcerned
As to the upshot of this drenching,
Any whispers of the two or three other occupants of the motel,
Any judgments passed upon her mad danse pour un,
As she has passed beyond any notion of admonition.
Nov 2, 2017
Nov 2, 2017 at 12:34 PM UTC
A stinging sensation
Similar to that of a bunch ats having their way with you
A burning unscramble itch
Simlar to that of a couple bee stings
The uncontrollable feeling of anger
Like acid meet metal
Fumes and bubbles
Smoke everywhere
Ready to ignite watever comes close
This burning hot feeling
This uncontrollable yearning for something that someone has
Could it be?
An ordinary morning
Noise everywhere
Not wanting to get out of bed
An errie feeling crept up to me
Like a sense of dejavu
Telling to stay down
Dont get up
It felt like a thousand bugs
Crawling under my skin
Wat i opened my eyes to
Is this the reason why u shouldn't check your phone in the mrng?
Could this feeling be wat i think?
Wait.....it could be it
But why
I hve no reason to be
We never had anything to begin with
Then why does my heart feel like this
Like a rag doll..... bound in twine
Untill the thread is almost cutting in
Then like a yoyo
Thrown around only to come back to the thrower to be thrown again
Like a soccer ball being passed around teammates
Only for the striker to give it a more powerful kick
Every second i looked
The string got tighter
And as i closed my eyes in thought
I could taste blood in my mouth
What irony
My head laughed
But only the sound of gritting teeth could be heard
As i endured the tugs froms my hrt
Yes this was it
Its the conclusion i came to
Yes indeed
It was jealous
Sep 24, 2021
Sep 24, 2021 at 4:52 AM UTC