"overcoat" poems
I pray thee sun thou should set,
or take thy leave better yet,
wouldst at last my thirst be gone,
But alas thee linger, and linger on.
There be no flower not yet dead,
no water flows in yonder river bed.
'Tis a heat where nought doth grow,
nor doth thee ever mercy show.
Dry of skin and parch of throat,
a man doth need no overcoat.
Thy rays doth burn mine eyes,
they do not hear mine mercy cries.
If there be a place where chill be found,
'Tis there it be that I be bound,
A place where there be no burning sun,
show it to me, so to it I shall run.
(c) 26th January 2010
with apoligies to all you Shakespeare freaks
Jan 26, 2011
Jan 26, 2011 at 1:48 PM UTC
Lights off, ma bad-ass homies are juz drank,
buh then I saw ya dancing in da club.
Ma head was blown, let's kick it!
Cuz ya could be ma tight moll,
o' let's juz put a bullet
on the clock in these tight walls.
If I'm wit ya,
ma heart could fly so high like a G6,
Imma be glad if ya be mine
tho I ain't da niftiest sheik.
And if loving ya could take ma life
to da street, cuz of a set trippin,
then ya could be a flower
on ma Chicago Overcoat on ma big sleep.
Miss me wit dat! Ma bad,
buh I ain't gonna take ma words back,
I ain't no good, buh Imma gangsta poet
juz a poet wit rhyming words as AK,
so Imma put sum shizzle down
and write what it means.
To me love is gangsta, family is gangsta,
loyal is gangsta, if that's not gangsta,
I don't wanna be gangsta.
O' ma sheba, wazzup!
Let's show 'em what is real luv.
Then luv me less, until ya luv me more
and let's live as gangsta poets
in this gangsta world.
Jul 13, 2013
Jul 13, 2013 at 11:12 PM UTC
To me patience looks like this...
It is this huge man will a long black overcoat with pockets
with shiny glasses and Grey eyes
and a face that is aged
and a smile that looks between a frown and a smirk
and a wooden smoke pipe in his mouth
with raggedy bag rip jeans
and black boots
He sits on this wooden chair
and is near a large tree
and he lights his smoke pipe
put one arm on top of one thigh
leans over and stares with you with those ancient, deep eyes
and says in a deep tone..
“go head, speak I'm waiting”
but then this will also describe what understanding looks like
So then they are both the same?....
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 7:19 PM UTC
A slow walk up Centennial
and I still can’t find the place
it's menacing cold, and muted
and the street sweeper and winter breeze
move the Turkish blend and dust pack
A novice mixed duet plays
Brahms on broken strings
the erhu and overcoat
veiling a blue heeler and sphinx
Maggianos is settled in the center block’s
luminance and seasonal drape
it's festive warmth bringing home Bedford Falls;
the flavour and character and social circles
Annie’s playing and the keeper's singing
(his word pool and slander
raising everyone in arms!)
the crowd chants and mayhem breaks
as crawlers and contemporaries
smash their steins
Dark alleys and dripping holes
hold a grim reminder of the pierced underside
paddies flutter and forge their words
with a broad manifesto
Night gardens come alive
(slowly sapping the respite)
hunched figures and ladies in lace
shuffle inside the big orange door
Oct 19, 2017
Oct 19, 2017 at 11:25 PM UTC
He slowly assembles his rifle on the barren rooftop as the
wind blows through his light blond hair.
His long overcoat ***** and wraps around his thin long
legs.
He places his elbows upon the short wall in front of him,
firmly kneeling on both knees.
Glancing into the rifle's sight, he focuses sharply through
its cross hairs; he sees hundreds passing through the sight,
men, women, children, and as he sees it, a maze
of mass hysteria.
He thinks of his current desperate situation and with each
passing thought, his heart pumps more hateful
adrenaline through his expanding veins.
What am I?....He wonders.
"I am the orphan child too ugly to adopt!
I am the spit in the street you step in and curse!
I am the cockroach so many crush beneath their feet!
I wish to love and beloved, for I am ever so lonely,
so empty.
I wish to give my whole self to someone to make them
eternally happy!
To sacrifice all I possess, including my life, for the one
I love,
but I am thoughtlessly branded a stalker!
I am the void in all broken hearts.
As a child, I only wished to be loved and appreciated,
but I was raised the invisible child.
There's a painful sore in my throbbing brain, the lethal
virus of society'd disdain.
I'm insane!....I'm insane!...Give me peace, God if you exist
Give me peace!
He glances once again through the sight's cross hairs,
catching sight of a young boy standing alone, mouth wide open
with tears rolling down his cheeks.
He pauses.....envisioning himself, his blue eyes cloud
with tears.
He pulls back back his loaded rifle placing it against the
short wall,
realizing at the moment this wasn't the way to end his
unbearable pain.
Reaching into his deep overcoat's pocket, his long fingers
catch grasp of the cool surface of a 9 mm.
Pulling it slowly from his pocket, he raises it to his temple,
slipping his finger upon its tight trigger he whispers once
again,
"God....if you exist,
Give me peace."
Dec 26, 2016
Dec 26, 2016 at 1:25 PM UTC
Waiting for the summer heat to eclipse the somber thread of one day, an old man is gifted a brand new pair of sneakers.
Father, Son, Holy Ghost? The pinnacle of the "y" axis has paralyzed the saltiness of the old man's overcoat.
"Grand dad?" A young boy turns the corner and peeks in while the old man leans over in his chair to reach his feet and lace his sneaks. "You were breathing loudly and I was just making sure you're okay."
The boy continued, "cool sneakers grandpa."
This reminded the boy of a new student in his class who moved here from Scotland, or Ireland - he couldn't remember which. Guess what the new kid in my class calls his sneakers?"
The grandfather looks up and leans back, "he doesn't call them sneakers?" "Nope" the boy replies. "I would imagine he must call them shoes, or something like that."
"Not even close. He calls them 'runners'. He came into class one day with a pair of red sneakers and Miss Kerrington had him stand up in front of class to talk about them. She said that people in England probably call them runners as a nickname for running shoes."
The old man stood up with a groan and said, "That makes sense. It seems a bit odd, but I like it. As a matter of fact, I am gonna start using that to refer to all sneakers. What do you say we go for a walk around the block so I can break these puppies in? We'll stop for some rootbeer on the way home."
The two of them set out on their walk and the old man felt invigorated. As they continued, a light rain began and the old man said, "lets get to the store, this rain'll do damage to my new suedes."
When they finally made it to the store, the old man rushed in the door pushing his grandson out of the way. Upon his entrance his eyes met with the shopkeeper's. The shopkeeper's eyes shifted to the young boy coming in behind the man. At this moment the grandfather realized that he pushed his grandson aside in his haste to get inside the store and out of the rain.
The shopkeeper turned his attention back to the grandfather who shrugged his shoulders before gesturing to his feet with a smile and said, "I'm breaking in a new pair of runners. They're not gonna dry off as easily as he does."
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 1:59 PM UTC
She’s underhand throwing words with her mouth
The boy leans in past natural borders, to study the agenda in her eyes
He is built like a bent paperclip,
with bottlebrush forelocks, a barracuda jaw.
Between her bare legs, she gently squeezes
a cup of iced hibiscus tea.
She reaches down and lifting it to her lips,
I feel mine part, in thirsting sympathy…
Her upper thighs blush wet with condensation as
The boys eager fingers click on her knee,
like ice cubes in her sweating berry hibiscus,
floral melt cascades down her throat.
Fairy breath lands on my shoulders - my silk overcoat
It makes me dissolve with memory
of my beloved tea picker,
a cocoa skinned Sudanese girl
traveling the road to market in Al-Junaynah,
swaying in the truck bed under a warm sun,
dreaming of red karkadeh flowers
and a paper clip boy.
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 9:37 AM UTC
You're still in here, inside these walls
through open doors and vacant halls
I hear you gently clear your throat
and rustle with your overcoat
I hear you say in deep distress
I have some things I must confess
I Loved You Then I love you still
I love you now, I always will
You have my heart, my heart that's true
a love I thought I really knew...
But love is just not quite that clear
It's juxtaposed with you my dear
I'd rather stay but I must go
for reasons that I do not know
I hope your heart can find a place
to close your eyes and see my face
Remember what it meant to me,
I hope my love can set you free
for I am your eternity,
and with you I will always be
and I will never really say
Goodbye my sweet
So we must both lie down to rest,
No need for you to get undressed
So cover up and go to sleep,
& dry those eyes from tears you weep
Where I am going
I must go alone,
this is your place
this is your home,
you must stay.
One day I know we'll meet again,
In time I know your heart will mend
Through Heavens gate I'll wait for thee
With open arms on bended knee
Where Spirits run
In fields of wheat
To find their souls last one retreat
So I'll instead just say farewell,
& hope in this you will not dwell
You know that I just cannot stay,
the sun will shine again today,
So smile at the sky above
& know that you are truly loved,
We are timeless
So you will know,
you will never
really
be alone.
All Rights Reserved © 2016 - May 29
Cherie Nolan
May 29, 2016
May 29, 2016 at 11:50 AM UTC
The lonely notes flowing, falling, leap from
The thin and flitting fingers of the pianist,
The cup of melancholy, drained to the
dregs, bittersweet in that the love of happiness
and joy is tempered now, from longing for the
delicate and pensive feel, that comes from dipping into
the small and lonely pool of melancholy. Grief, a distant
specter, hovering in the fringe of chance, is nearer now,
melancholy, the doorway, slides open on silent hinges,
and admits the crushing tide. High, high, and faster still,
the pianist falls, slowly down and up again, grief, the storm,
disrupts the flow of sound and silence, and incorporates itself
into the threading melody, and so erodes the shores of joy and laughter,
the violet waves of gentle melancholy, laced with the thinnest threads of
blackest grief, sighing on, erasing so, youth and joy and light and life.
The melody falters, stills. The pianist alone, playing for an empty quiet,
rises, pauses, his fingers brushing, the cold steel of empty death, smooth beneath his touch. He grasps it, lifts it to face him, hands steady, gaze unfaltering. The man is still, pianists fingers gripping that instrument of death, and time passes, unheeded, ignored. In a motion refined to elegance by the passage of time and repetition, the pianist places that cold instrument of steel and intent gently, down upon the polished black. He straitens, slowly, and settling his black overcoat close around him, he turns, walks quietly to a closed and silent door, lifts the latch, and into a swirling night of snow and light, walks out, and closes the door behind him with a soft and quiet click. And all is silent.
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 8:38 PM UTC
"A patient man bides his time,"
Theodore tells the man in the mirror
Tomorrow, all the levees will break
And all the fables will be told
Of distant Decembers and forgotten fathers
Livelihoods will be threatened
And remorse will fall by the wayside
He watches as icicles on the awning
Melt away into puddles on the ground
"Warmer every day," he thinks to himself
He hangs up his scarf and overcoat
The way a simple man, with complex demons, is wont to do
And as his wants devolve into needs
And as all his anchors deteriorate to rust
Her smile unnerves a once-settled man
To think of the quality of glove necessary
To hold onto the wagon in this day and age
So Theodore pulls the door to,
Leaving Chopin's "Horseman" to gallop in peace
And in pieces
He watches her from across the courtyard
"Such sweet bliss in her footsteps," he sighs
And it seems to him as if the snow dissipates
Just from the warmth in her steady gait
Just from the radiation behind her brown eyes
He slides open the dresser drawer
A haven for scattered trinkets, odds, and ends
A place of respite for the weary souvenir
There, amidst all the corroded memories
Lies a corroded pistol, unspoken and unburnished
"And a lonely man drinks his wine,"
Theodore says, as intrepidly as he is capable
For there is a time when fathers stop teaching
A time when mothers stop singing
And a place where the sins stop searching
A last breath is deeply inhaled
But never again will find its escape
With a thud that echoes to Seymour Street
Theodore crumples to the cold wooden floor,
A simple man, finally free of complex demons
Jan 25, 2023
Jan 25, 2023 at 1:19 PM UTC
Virginia,
bathed in the misty Ouse
overcoat pockets filled with the hard grey stones of life
dark rocks to match the shadows
of the mountain heaped upon her back
until she could not bear the load
so she swam, and did not leave a forwarding address
or bring a towel and sandwiches for a picnic
Mar 23, 2024
Mar 23, 2024 at 4:10 AM UTC
Romeo, gosh, I'm sorry how things turned out,
and sorry I didn't die after all like you thought.
I'm old now, you wouldn't look twice at me
but I miss you still, even so, most definitely.
You could find me tonight across from a cornfield
working the St. Lucy's Fall Festival and how would you feel
about that, babe? I wear a lumpy old overcoat
and sell tickets to teenagers so in love they almost float.
I get feeling sentimental and sad about everything
remembering how you said you were the All-Powerful Weather King
and could make the sun come out if I wished it,
or kiss me and kiss me again if I told you I missed it.
My goodness, Romeo, you don't know how often I still think of you,
like when I saw some crestfallen kid with wild hair walking through
the festival like he had something on his mind
and he seemed lonesome, like you, and quiet and kind.
It's almost midnight and the lights are going dim
so I've got to pack up and go home alone again.
I wish so hard that things had turned out different
and I'd say, "Romeo, oh Romeo," and you'd know what I meant.
Sep 17, 2025
Sep 17, 2025 at 5:29 PM UTC
I ask that you be heard, tossed about and dreamed of.
It is your thoughts, my upset energies, and nightly turbulence.
Sleep provokes night and life and darkness prevailing in us.
When we wake up we are gone as our night precedes dawn
It is always the other way, bottom up and spaces spread.
At times we hear the police van’s shrieks, in night’s iron grill.
I ask that you be heard, tossed about and dreamed of.
It is not always the stick beating the road in rhythmic silence
And olive-green overcoat with flapped pockets and heavy boots
And six months old large-sized memories of a Himalayan home
With black-lined large dove’s eyes flitting among coal fires
Their smoke towering over the pines in snow-bound peaks.
I ask that you be heard, tossed about and dreamed of.
It is the turbulence we are speaking of, in the foggy sea we are
Or on the peaks where everything is bound in fuzzy snow
At the mountain passes where vehicles duly pass oiled by hot tea
Or in the mist-filled airports where aircrafts do not take off
Of politicians who decide mankind’s future in the apocalypse.
I ask that you be heard, tossed about and dreamed of.
It is my dreams as they were and the neighbor’s dreams
In the straw-roof, in the banyan trees with glints in their eyes
And much fine-powdered dust on their thick –coated leaves,
In lonely watchmen’s houses on the bleak stony spaces
And lonely watchmen keeping vigilant eyes on boulders
Strewn in brown spaces and scraggy bushes with strange lizards.
I ask that you be heard, tossed about and dreamed of.
It is the towering tombs and the trees that enveloped them
The children playing cricket in flying bats and stone stumps
Outside the vaults where kings and queens lay dead for ages
Their cold breath felt on the broken glass of Time’s windows.
I ask that you, I and women play a game of kabaddi in the trees
When it is still not dark enough in the minarets in the west
And children are still hitting ***** visible in the green of the trees.
Jul 15, 2010
Jul 15, 2010 at 3:33 AM UTC
You taunt me, your
perfection,
your tan skin glows like a god's.
your legs pale with a criss-crossing of
light brown hair,
a furry overcoat.
Your veiny forearms
and blotchy red face, pink with
acne and scars.
Chapped lips and eyebrows
forever quizzing what has been said,
artificial black hair gelled into
stiff shapes.
I could look at you
forever
but you still seem to
puzzle me.
Sep 25, 2013
Sep 25, 2013 at 9:45 PM UTC
I met Netanya
at the rail station
it was January and cold
and she was dressed up
in the blue overcoat
and headscarf
and I was
in my combat style
overcoat and hat
you made it ok?
I said
yes he asked
where I was going
and I said
for a walk to get him
out of my head
she said
we got tickets
and boarded a train
and off we went
to Brighton
the carriage was crowded
but we seemed alone
or so it felt to me
will he imagine you
going to Brighton?
no he won't think anything
too busy watching TV
and drinking his beer
she said
she held my hand
and talked of her kids
and her father
who wasn't well
and looking forward
to meeting you
she added
I looked at her
as she spoke
her hair dark and curled
her eyes bright as stars
we made it to Brighton
and got off the train
and walked down
to the seafront
hand in hand
the sky dark
stars
moon
and lights from shops
and pier
and somewhere
out there
I thought
another life
another world
buzzes on
while here we walked on
along the seafront
taking in the scene
the smell of salt
and sound of sea
crashing on the shore
and her hand small
warm in mine
and the sense
of life going on around
and I feeling
(oh)so fine.
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 4:47 AM UTC
The phone slips from a loose grip.
Words were missing then. Some apology.
I didn't want to tell you this.
No, it's just some guy she's been hanging out with.
I don't know. The past couple of weeks, I guess.
Well, thank you and hang up the phone.
Let the funeral start;
hear the casket close.
Let's pin split-black ribbon to your overcoat.
Well, laughter pours from under doors.
In this house, I don't understand that sound no more.
Seems artificial, like a TV set.
Well... haligh, haligh, a lie, haligh
This weight it must be satisfied.
You offer only one reply,
you know not what to do,
but you tear and tear your hair from roots
of that same head you have twice removed now.
A lock of hair you said would prove
our love would never die.
Well ha ha ha.
I remember everything;
the words we spoke on freezing South Street,
and all those mornings watching you get ready for school.
You combed your hair inside that mirror;
the one you painted blue and glued with jewelry tears.
Something about those bright colors
would always make you feel better.
But now we speak with ruined tongues,
and the words we say aren't meant for anyone.
It's just a mumbled sentence to a passing acquaintance,
but there was once you.
You said you hate my suffering
and you understood
and you'd take care of me,
you'd always be there,
well where are you now?
Haligh, haligh, a lie, haligh
The plans were never finalized,
but left to hang like yarn and twine
dangling before my eyes
as you tear and tear your hair from roots
of that same head you have twice removed now,
a lock of hair you said would prove
our love would never die.
And I sing and sing of awful things.
The pleasure that my sadness brings
as my fingers press onto the strings
in yet another clumsy chord.
Haligh, haligh, an awful lie,
this weight would now be satisfied.
I'm gonna give you only one reply;
I know not who I am.
But I talk in the mirror
to the stranger that appears.
Our conversations are circles;
always one-sided.
Nothing is clear.
Except we keep coming back
to this meaning that I lack.
He says the choices were given,
now you must live them
or just not live.
Now do you want that?
Jul 20, 2012
Jul 20, 2012 at 3:36 PM UTC
*dive.. dive..
dive*
1.
I am eating fog on this pre-dawn bridge
an overcoat of no particular mood
keeping intact considered-sincerity of warmth
inhaling air tight with thin droplets
the c-cold of someone's click-clack in the distance
only an echo of studious-oblivion
glancing over the rail as the water swirls, dense
the silent hum of a slow-passing vehicle
windows darkly stare
I wonder who'd possibly be passing by here
and would they be connecting with that swirl, too
2.
there must be a walrus under there
(shrinking-violet, that it is)
its projections long and probably needing plumbs
the departing fingers of night gnaw
attempt to steal what little shelters here
consent delayed by vertical-curses in bloom
and I'm thinking of a cat I used to have
who certainly didn't favour water
protests become latent-airborne, take off
as screeching squawks swoop by
hungry heartbeats gurgle, drip valiant
station within view.. phew, made it!
*an accordion starts to play..
an elegy fit
for a dive.*
st64, 3 April 2014
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 3:47 PM UTC
We know as children that you shouldn’t stare directly at the sun,
“You’ll go blind!” parents say. Still, we take mischievous glances,
Scared, brave. Trying to separate the perfect, lemony roundness, from the burnished halo all around.
I remember standing on the front path of my Aunts house,
Eagerly waiting for a solar eclipse, the pebbledash grazing my back.
4 children staring boldly through a square of tinted Perspex. It was novel.
The first time I looked at you, I looked away, eyes glaring, seeing white.
It was like looking at the sun, I needed the dull, brown tint.
Eyes adjusted. “Hiya!” you yelled. Golden
In the moments after the rain,
Look at the sun, in the moist air hangs a rainbow;
Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo and violet.
You’ve worn them all, not a colour left alone.
Joseph looks on, jealous, in his dull, lifeless overcoat.
You’re a solid rainbow, one that you can touch, feel, put your arms around.
Laugh with, learn with, drink with, dance with, love with.
A rainbow personified.
For L.C
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 1:48 PM UTC
black lung whispered
abject terror in my ears
a circle of candles
and closed eyes
made plainly naked
by the thought of you
beneath the rising tide
i poured raw honey
down your abyssal throat
stole a different form
and fell into your arms
only sweet goodbyes
as i grabbed my overcoat
Dec 5, 2017
Dec 5, 2017 at 9:11 AM UTC
They don't speak, all the long,
winding bus journey. They are
strangers, with nothing in common
besides the No 50 route
and the free travel passes
afforded to them on account
of their quietly advancing years.
She sits in the seat in front of him.
Their eyes never lock. His myopic
gaze through thick NHS lenses
rests neutral on the back of her head,
her softly blue-rinsed curls and the collar
of an eminently sensible overcoat.
They sit, both silent, as
- outside the foggy bus windows -
winter has one last chew on
time's bony old carcass.
She has a slight stoop which
she's doing her best to hide, and his
shaking hands make his liver spots blur.
They stand - the bus stopping at their
mutual destination - shuffling sideways
into the aisle, and something
unexpected
happens.
The bus jolts suddenly forwards,
then lurches to a startled halt,
and she falls backwards
into his arms
and he
catches her.
For a second,
strange gravities assume control.
There's a moment,
governed by different laws of
physics and chemistry
and half-forgotten, half-remembered biology.
She flushes, infused with something
warm and thirst-whettingly girlish, and he
surges with a newfound potency,
standing taller, the woman he's supporting
somehow lessening the burden of his age.
Her spine straightens, and
she laughs. His face, smiling, youthens.
His hands hold her unstooped shoulders and
don't tremble.
Sun breaks through cloud outside the window.
They remember it's spring out there somewhere.
Mar 11, 2016
Mar 11, 2016 at 10:45 AM UTC
Transcendence and unity was always my friend
I know,
Something that doesn't exist yet always lingers
a man in black, everywhere, always filling cups
and know I'm staring into the face of that man though he no longer exists
There's an undiscovered idea or concept, nobody sees it but it's here
with me over my shoulder always
Do you hear those voices on the mainline when the shore is out
why do you see today, when not yesterday, was blind
a certain sense of paranoia, uplifting
Behind the lamp post on the corner there's the man in a black overcoat
and on the roof, over there
and in trees behind brick houses
everywhere
I see him
How can you escape these walls when captive men's lives linger on
Sighing again, it's morning, did you cry today?
Those headphones passive pass no mas but moreover we're dying
cerebral disconnect
everything changes
creativity dies when the keyboard intervenes
and the blackness of one turns into itself and everything dies before being reborn again somewhere else
somewhere different
Erratic thoughts but these are dying words when they come each night, the terrors
Is there anybody or anything anymore?
Resistance to life now is dull and over. Done.
heavy lungs still breathing but detached
Where the ghosts of Saturday night roam in pilfered streets
and numbed limbs crawling
re-percussive Robitussin and gushing percussion, oh the jazz-hall bells
swing la
swing
oh its yellow in nightlife fever fervor forever
Gábor!
Tell me these sweet dreams again
great white flags on the shoreline as the ships arrive home
and the war is done
Did I import the brown in past lives?
Jeer jazz man jeer!
and this wild hair is the sea, swim with me forever
the guiding hand on my wrist is not my own
the door slams shut in echo chamber corridors and the tension in the neck is incredible
but the end is never that, it's only the beginning in disguise
I am constantly haunted by my psychosis
Amphetamine dreams
and Sunday dawns
the hazy yawns
- to sleep
Dec 1, 2013
Dec 1, 2013 at 9:18 AM UTC
some songs i will always like
others songs i have long lost use for
so there is no song for you
all these years later
a quarter of a century
is too many years for someone like you
even for someone like me
you looked like everything was catching up to you
as your face hung, stubble showing through
your make-up
did you ever try and leave this town
this small, expensive town
you never left it
well i did and sadly came back
it was raining
when you got off at the stop
in the bad neighborhood
probably the closest place to town you could afford
i wondered if you weren't doing well finacially
and smiled to myself
remembering you telling me i was so ugly
on many different occasions, a few times
as you burnt incense in your bedroom
making shapely hand guestures in the air,
playing and counting your many cassette tapes
as pictures of madonna looked down
her mole and redlipstick
still look down for you
because you were dressed
the same way you were dressed
in highschool
long black overcoat to slim yourself down
black creepers to add height
i stared out the window
into the look time decided on in your eyes
at you walking on to the only home you could afford
and it looked like something
very fair had finally happened
Feb 5, 2018
Feb 5, 2018 at 1:53 AM UTC
do you think you'll ever lay her to rest?
allow her to sleep?
she's stayed awake for months on end
and every time she tried to close her eyes
you shook her awake
again
telling just one more tale
one more tall story
one more lie
that we must all
simply listen to
listen to this little ditty
i'm sure you'll recall it
once i'm done
do you remember the time we...?
no.. not really..
without sleep
all she sees are hallucinations
disjointed recollections
of the tissue paper life
that blows..
in the breeze
did you know
sleep deprivation
is a form of torture?
and you have kept her up
long enough
and she's tired of being worn
like an overcoat
as your splendid outer garment
in all it's melancholy finery
passersby remark
on how well you wear her
and you have the audacity to say
'Oh this old thing'
she's wearing thin and eventually
she'll disappear
altogether
she's becoming threadbare in places
and no matter how tightly
you wrap yourself up in her
she won't keep you warm
but that's only because
you don't want her to get warm
or let her go to sleep
you just won't let her rest in peace
will you
Jul 15, 2016
Jul 15, 2016 at 2:51 AM UTC