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I

Out of the little chapel I burst
Into the fresh night-air again.
Five minutes full, I waited first
In the doorway, to escape the rain
That drove in gusts down the common’s centre
At the edge of which the chapel stands,
Before I plucked up heart to enter.
Heaven knows how many sorts of hands
Reached past me, groping for the latch
Of the inner door that hung on catch
More obstinate the more they fumbled,
Till, giving way at last with a scold
Of the crazy hinge, in squeezed or tumbled
One sheep more to the rest in fold,
And left me irresolute, standing sentry
In the sheepfold’s lath-and-plaster entry,
Six feet long by three feet wide,
Partitioned off from the vast inside—
I blocked up half of it at least.
No remedy; the rain kept driving.
They eyed me much as some wild beast,
That congregation, still arriving,
Some of them by the main road, white
A long way past me into the night,
Skirting the common, then diverging;
Not a few suddenly emerging
From the common’s self through the paling-gaps,
—They house in the gravel-pits perhaps,
Where the road stops short with its safeguard border
Of lamps, as tired of such disorder;—
But the most turned in yet more abruptly
From a certain squalid knot of alleys,
Where the town’s bad blood once slept corruptly,
Which now the little chapel rallies
And leads into day again,—its priestliness
Lending itself to hide their beastliness
So cleverly (thanks in part to the mason),
And putting so cheery a whitewashed face on
Those neophytes too much in lack of it,
That, where you cross the common as I did,
And meet the party thus presided,
“Mount Zion” with Love-lane at the back of it,
They front you as little disconcerted
As, bound for the hills, her fate averted,
And her wicked people made to mind him,
Lot might have marched with Gomorrah behind him.

II

Well, from the road, the lanes or the common,
In came the flock: the fat weary woman,
Panting and bewildered, down-clapping
Her umbrella with a mighty report,
Grounded it by me, wry and flapping,
A wreck of whalebones; then, with a snort,
Like a startled horse, at the interloper
(Who humbly knew himself improper,
But could not shrink up small enough)
—Round to the door, and in,—the gruff
Hinge’s invariable scold
Making my very blood run cold.
Prompt in the wake of her, up-pattered
On broken clogs, the many-tattered
Little old-faced peaking sister-turned-mother
Of the sickly babe she tried to smother
Somehow up, with its spotted face,
From the cold, on her breast, the one warm place;
She too must stop, wring the poor ends dry
Of a draggled shawl, and add thereby
Her tribute to the door-mat, sopping
Already from my own clothes’ dropping,
Which yet she seemed to grudge I should stand on:
Then, stooping down to take off her pattens,
She bore them defiantly, in each hand one,
Planted together before her breast
And its babe, as good as a lance in rest.
Close on her heels, the dingy satins
Of a female something past me flitted,
With lips as much too white, as a streak
Lay far too red on each hollow cheek;
And it seemed the very door-hinge pitied
All that was left of a woman once,
Holding at least its tongue for the *****.
Then a tall yellow man, like the Penitent Thief,
With his jaw bound up in a handkerchief,
And eyelids ******* together tight,
Led himself in by some inner light.
And, except from him, from each that entered,
I got the same interrogation—
“What, you the alien, you have ventured
To take with us, the elect, your station?
A carer for none of it, a Gallio!”—
Thus, plain as print, I read the glance
At a common prey, in each countenance
As of huntsman giving his hounds the tallyho.
And, when the door’s cry drowned their wonder,
The draught, it always sent in shutting,
Made the flame of the single tallow candle
In the cracked square lantern I stood under,
Shoot its blue lip at me, rebutting
As it were, the luckless cause of scandal:
I verily fancied the zealous light
(In the chapel’s secret, too!) for spite
Would shudder itself clean off the wick,
With the airs of a Saint John’s Candlestick.
There was no standing it much longer.
“Good folks,” thought I, as resolve grew stronger,
“This way you perform the Grand-Inquisitor
When the weather sends you a chance visitor?
You are the men, and wisdom shall die with you,
And none of the old Seven Churches vie with you!
But still, despite the pretty perfection
To which you carry your trick of exclusiveness,
And, taking God’s word under wise protection,
Correct its tendency to diffusiveness,
And bid one reach it over hot ploughshares,—
Still, as I say, though you’ve found salvation,
If I should choose to cry, as now, ‘Shares!’—
See if the best of you bars me my ration!
I prefer, if you please, for my expounder
Of the laws of the feast, the feast’s own Founder;
Mine’s the same right with your poorest and sickliest,
Supposing I don the marriage vestiment:
So, shut your mouth and open your Testament,
And carve me my portion at your quickliest!”
Accordingly, as a shoemaker’s lad
With wizened face in want of soap,
And wet apron wound round his waist like a rope,
(After stopping outside, for his cough was bad,
To get the fit over, poor gentle creature
And so avoid distrubing the preacher)
—Passed in, I sent my elbow spikewise
At the shutting door, and entered likewise,
Received the hinge’s accustomed greeting,
And crossed the threshold’s magic pentacle,
And found myself in full conventicle,
—To wit, in Zion Chapel Meeting,
On the Christmas-Eve of ‘Forty-nine,
Which, calling its flock to their special clover,
Found all assembled and one sheep over,
Whose lot, as the weather pleased, was mine.

III

I very soon had enough of it.
The hot smell and the human noises,
And my neighbor’s coat, the greasy cuff of it,
Were a pebble-stone that a child’s hand poises,
Compared with the pig-of-lead-like pressure
Of the preaching man’s immense stupidity,
As he poured his doctrine forth, full measure,
To meet his audience’s avidity.
You needed not the wit of the Sibyl
To guess the cause of it all, in a twinkling:
No sooner our friend had got an inkling
Of treasure hid in the Holy Bible,
(Whene’er ‘t was the thought first struck him,
How death, at unawares, might duck him
Deeper than the grave, and quench
The gin-shop’s light in hell’s grim drench)
Than he handled it so, in fine irreverence,
As to hug the book of books to pieces:
And, a patchwork of chapters and texts in severance,
Not improved by the private dog’s-ears and creases,
Having clothed his own soul with, he’d fain see equipt yours,—
So tossed you again your Holy Scriptures.
And you picked them up, in a sense, no doubt:
Nay, had but a single face of my neighbors
Appeared to suspect that the preacher’s labors
Were help which the world could be saved without,
‘T is odds but I might have borne in quiet
A qualm or two at my spiritual diet,
Or (who can tell?) perchance even mustered
Somewhat to urge in behalf of the sermon:
But the flock sat on, divinely flustered,
Sniffing, methought, its dew of Hermon
With such content in every snuffle,
As the devil inside us loves to ruffle.
My old fat woman purred with pleasure,
And thumb round thumb went twirling faster,
While she, to his periods keeping measure,
Maternally devoured the pastor.
The man with the handkerchief untied it,
Showed us a horrible wen inside it,
Gave his eyelids yet another *******,
And rocked himself as the woman was doing.
The shoemaker’s lad, discreetly choking,
Kept down his cough. ‘T was too provoking!
My gorge rose at the nonsense and stuff of it;
So, saying like Eve when she plucked the apple,
“I wanted a taste, and now there’s enough of it,”
I flung out of the little chapel.

IV

There was a lull in the rain, a lull
In the wind too; the moon was risen,
And would have shone out pure and full,
But for the ramparted cloud-prison,
Block on block built up in the West,
For what purpose the wind knows best,
Who changes his mind continually.
And the empty other half of the sky
Seemed in its silence as if it knew
What, any moment, might look through
A chance gap in that fortress massy:—
Through its fissures you got hints
Of the flying moon, by the shifting tints,
Now, a dull lion-color, now, brassy
Burning to yellow, and whitest yellow,
Like furnace-smoke just ere flames bellow,
All a-simmer with intense strain
To let her through,—then blank again,
At the hope of her appearance failing.
Just by the chapel a break in the railing
Shows a narrow path directly across;
‘T is ever dry walking there, on the moss—
Besides, you go gently all the way up-hill.
I stooped under and soon felt better;
My head grew lighter, my limbs more supple,
As I walked on, glad to have slipt the fetter.
My mind was full of the scene I had left,
That placid flock, that pastor vociferant,
—How this outside was pure and different!
The sermon, now—what a mingled weft
Of good and ill! Were either less,
Its fellow had colored the whole distinctly;
But alas for the excellent earnestness,
And the truths, quite true if stated succinctly,
But as surely false, in their quaint presentment,
However to pastor and flock’s contentment!
Say rather, such truths looked false to your eyes,
With his provings and parallels twisted and twined,
Till how could you know them, grown double their size
In the natural fog of the good man’s mind,
Like yonder spots of our roadside lamps,
Haloed about with the common’s damps?
Truth remains true, the fault’s in the prover;
The zeal was good, and the aspiration;
And yet, and yet, yet, fifty times over,
Pharaoh received no demonstration,
By his Baker’s dream of Baskets Three,
Of the doctrine of the Trinity,—
Although, as our preacher thus embellished it,
Apparently his hearers relished it
With so unfeigned a gust—who knows if
They did not prefer our friend to Joseph?
But so it is everywhere, one way with all of them!
These people have really felt, no doubt,
A something, the motion they style the Call of them;
And this is their method of bringing about,
By a mechanism of words and tones,
(So many texts in so many groans)
A sort of reviving and reproducing,
More or less perfectly, (who can tell?)
The mood itself, which strengthens by using;
And how that happens, I understand well.
A tune was born in my head last week,
Out of the thump-thump and shriek-shriek
Of the train, as I came by it, up from Manchester;
And when, next week, I take it back again,
My head will sing to the engine’s clack again,
While it only makes my neighbor’s haunches stir,
—Finding no dormant musical sprout
In him, as in me, to be jolted out.
‘T is the taught already that profits by teaching;
He gets no more from the railway’s preaching
Than, from this preacher who does the rail’s officer, I:
Whom therefore the flock cast a jealous eye on.
Still, why paint over their door “Mount Zion,”
To which all flesh shall come, saith the pro phecy?

V

But wherefore be harsh on a single case?
After how many modes, this Christmas-Eve,
Does the self-same weary thing take place?
The same endeavor to make you believe,
And with much the same effect, no more:
Each method abundantly convincing,
As I say, to those convinced before,
But scarce to be swallowed without wincing
By the not-as-yet-convinced. For me,
I have my own church equally:
And in this church my faith sprang first!
(I said, as I reached the rising ground,
And the wind began again, with a burst
Of rain in my face, and a glad rebound
From the heart beneath, as if, God speeding me,
I entered his church-door, nature leading me)
—In youth I looked to these very skies,
And probing their immensities,
I found God there, his visible power;
Yet felt in my heart, amid all its sense
Of the power, an equal evidence
That his love, there too, was the nobler dower.
For the loving worm within its clod
Were diviner than a loveless god
Amid his worlds, I will dare to say.
You know what I mean: God’s all man’s naught:
But also, God, whose pleasure brought
Man into being, stands away
As it were a handbreadth off, to give
Room for the newly-made to live,
And look at him from a place apart,
And use his gifts of brain and heart,
Given, indeed, but to keep forever.
Who speaks of man, then, must not sever
Man’s very elements from man,
Saying, “But all is God’s”—whose plan
Was to create man and then leave him
Able, his own word saith, to grieve him,
But able to glorify him too,
As a mere machine could never do,
That prayed or praised, all unaware
Of its fitness for aught but praise and prayer,
Made perfect as a thing of course.
Man, therefore, stands on his own stock
Of love and power as a pin-point rock:
And, looking to God who ordained divorce
Of the rock from his boundless continent,
Sees, in his power made evident,
Only excess by a million-fold
O’er the power God gave man in the mould.
For, note: man’s hand, first formed to carry
A few pounds’ weight, when taught to marry
Its strength with an engine’s, lifts a mountain,
—Advancing in power by one degree;
And why count steps through eternity?
But love is the ever-springing fountain:
Man may enlarge or narrow his bed
For the water’s play, but the water-head—
How can he multiply or reduce it?
As easy create it, as cause it to cease;
He may profit by it, or abuse it,
But ‘t is not a thing to bear increase
As power does: be love less or more
In the heart of man, he keeps it shut
Or opes it wide, as he pleases, but
Love’s sum remains what it was before.
So, gazing up, in my youth, at love
As seen through power, ever above
All modes which make it manifest,
My soul brought all to a single test—
That he, the Eternal First and Last,
Who, in his power, had so surpassed
All man conceives of what is might,—
Whose wisdom, too, showed infinite,
—Would prove as infinitely good;
Would never, (my soul understood,)
With power to work all love desires,
Bestow e’en less than man requires;
That he who endlessly was teaching,
Above my spirit’s utmost reaching,
What love can do in the leaf or stone,
(So that to master this alone,
This done in the stone or leaf for me,
I must go on learning endlessly)
Would never need that I, in turn,
Should point him out defect unheeded,
And show that God had yet to learn
What the meanest human creature needed,
—Not life, to wit, for a few short years,
Tracking his way through doubts and fears,
While the stupid earth on which I stay
Suffers no change, but passive adds
Its myriad years to myriads,
Though I, he gave it to, decay,
Seeing death come and choose about me,
And my dearest ones depart without me.
No: love which, on earth, amid all the shows of it,
Has ever been seen the sole good of life in it,
The love, ever growing there, spite of the strife in it,
Shall arise, made perfect, from death’s repose of it.
And I shall behold thee, face to face,
O God, and in thy light retrace
How in all I loved here, still wast thou!
Whom pressing to, then, as I fain would now,
I shall find as able to satiate
The love, thy gift, as my spirit’s wonder
Thou art able to quicken and sublimate,
With this sky of thine, that I now walk under
And glory in thee for, as I gaze
Thus, thus! Oh, let men keep their ways
Of seeking thee in a narrow shrine—
Be this my way! And this is mine!

VI

For lo, what think you? suddenly
The rain and the wind ceased, and the sky
Received at once the full fruition
Of the moon’s consummate apparition.
The black cloud-barricade was riven,
Ruined beneath her feet, and driven
Deep in the West; while, bare and breathless,
North and South and East lay ready
For a glorious thing that, dauntless, deathless,
Sprang across them and stood steady.
‘T was a moon-rainbow, vast and perfect,
From heaven to heaven extending, perfect
As the mother-moon’s self, full in face.
It rose, distinctly at the base
With its seven proper colors chorded,
Which still, in the rising, were compressed,
Until at last they coalesced,
And supreme the spectral creature lorded
In a triumph of whitest white,—
Above which intervened the night.
But above night too, like only the next,
The second of a wondrous sequence,
Reaching in rare and rarer frequence,
Till the heaven of heavens were circumflexed
Another rainbow rose, a mightier,
Fainter, flushier and flightier,—
Rapture dying along its verge.
Oh, whose foot shall I see emerge,
Whose, from the straining topmost dark,
On to the keystone of that are?

VII

This sight was shown me, there and then,—
Me, one out of a world of men,
Singled forth, as the chance might hap
To another if, in a thu
Tonie Wasco Jul 2016
I own a hula hoop
it's red with black and white racing pattens circling around the red
like something a person could use for a race
I own a hula hoop
shockingly i am not a little girl with pigtails who uses it
no i bought it at 19 at a fair
and people stared while i just didnt care
I own a hula hoop
not because it seems like a new age thing to do
or simply because its a good workout tool
no i own a hula hoop because i love the way it moves with me
i love the tricks and turns i can do with it
i own a hula hoop because it makes me feel in the moment
in turn with myself and my surroundings
it makes me want to buy another hula hoop
For many years I have grow you
seen such individuality of your leaves
your green and white stripes
elongated pattens of delight
it's like you have a bar code
on those slender leaves bowing to gravity

Every few days I water you
as you like little your plant food
just a sunny position on my window seal
does seem the magic to make you flourish
as I tend to you everyday
my sweet humble spider plant


By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Shevek Appleyard Nov 2022
Home is an old red rucksack that my mother took round Chile
filled with my baggiest trackies for months
where home is trains and tubes and my headphones on coaches
Home is the rain when it batters the outside of a humble caravan
Home is a little wood burner, and a long green coat that was gifted unintentionally
and worn by many

Home is waiting for the triangle bus
Home is a cup of coffee in the right shaped mug
Home is a cigarette, shared with my sister in a pub
Home is our brother owning the pool table, modest and silent
Home is now the sea, but not in summer
mid-November waves, rough and lonely

Home is the river, the flow and the feeling
the fish and the constellations of a shared celling
Home is mums’ casserole and fresh bread still warm but under proved
Home is a shed, strangled with ivy
Home is tea and malt milk biscuits
Home is magic stars pasta beans and cheese and Netflix
Home is my duvet
Home is crumbs creeping into a lumpy mattress

Home is the day, lazy and underwhelming
Home is grandmas own tomatoes
Home is a laugh from an inside joke
Home is her long red hair, her stumbles and soup
Home is hazel eyes singing, by light from candles in old gin bottles

Home is a spoons breakfast with zero sleep
Home is a sink full of washing up
Home is cobwebs and a faded hoodie stained with paint and the smell of hash
Home is sharpened knife that can nicely slice when I am cooking to the bass my mini rig creates

Home is in the woods a maze of plot twists
mapped in childhoods haze of coordinates
Home holds smiles from guests and strangers who become family
Home is vats of marmalade, in sticky jars that collect dust they sit for so long
Home is the chorus of a Finley Quay song
Home is the journey I am on

Home is the field
the mud when its ripe beneath my toes
the grass worn with love
Home is a guitar (sandy with stickers)
I am home in her lyrics that swirl through the air
captivate by this Home we created
and our feet know the pattens of the beat
Home is the taste of freshly smashed melon
Home is a cluster of tents around a fire
and a tarp of scribbles

Home is the purr of Roo
Her velvet fur and trills of love
Home is an overgrown garden I used to tend to
Home is holly leaves transformed into wishes
Home is memories of butterfly kisses
Home is a hug when words aren't needed
Home is where I'm not alone

Home is him, the smell of his car and comfort of his arms
Home is his orange overalls
Home is a rhetorical question when I’m looking at his face
Home is not always a place



(Needs a big edit still)
Star BG May 2017
Good-day writers readers and being of love and light, I speak to you
as Sananda spirit of love. I wish to anoint you inside your own power. To give you purpose to release dark judgements, fears and doubts to make room for abundance.

Your purpose at this time is to shed old mind pattens and old habits that don't align you with all of who you are.

You are sacred, divine eternal and filled with gifts when you head  limiting thoughts.

The world is changing rapidly and there is no reason for dark energies to linger when you connect to the love present. Many beings who are in the eves unseen are of service to you so call upon them.

It is time to align with Mother Nature and all her allies who are of service to you as well.

Breath into the new energies knowing you are meant to transmute and stand in your power. If people are in your life that do not fit the bill for you to live gracefully with grace then let them go.

Let yourself soar as you are meant to in harmony bliss and with compassion for one another. Put down your weapons of hate, greed and separation.

All are one. All are One.

Blessings
A channeled message
Star BG Feb 2018
On my eternal quest for love
I meander along
releasing layer after layer
of armor.

Some forged in past lives,
that harbored loneliness and abandonment.
Others in this life where spirits orchestration
gives challengers.

My quest for eternal light continues
as I hike along
releasing old mind-pattens
for new beginnings.

Sometimes dancing in sunshine,
where birds sing gracefully.
Other times crying to water
seedings of dreams buried.

Seeds, that now can sprout
in fields as I continue my quest.
Inspired by Valsa George. Many thanks
Star BG Apr 2019
Verbal herbs infused with an om
I will create.
A soothing ointment for the world to hear.
I shall lace it with light song.
loving breath,
and the essence of lotus.

My herbs are free for the asking
just focus and breath it in.
Let it soak into bloodstream
and flood your heart.
Allow its mixture to enhance your being
by releasing old mind pattens unneeded.
Let it pour onto eyes aimed at precious mind
so doubts and fears are dropped.

My herbs are sacred permeated
from the loving shadows of angels
for inner peace to anchor.

Its remedy will reborn one
into their divine self.
Its cure will relieve
any troublesome journey.
Even that of the writer.
Smoke Scribe a grand writer who, inspired me. Thanks
Star BG Oct 2017
Inside craters of mind I wander,
feeling fumes of dark energies rise.

Shadow figures embark
attempting to take sanity,
trying to drown self in sea of sorrows
where pity is infused in undertow.

Breath of inner resolve circles within
building momentum,
as standing position is taken
to conquer negativity.

Reprograming process commences
as craters become basins of light.
Deep breath integrates voice
saying farewell to dark
Hello to self love.

Inside pause under moon rays,
warrior within takes over.
Affirmations fly
as each word
is knife of power. cutting away dark.
“I’m a trooper who shall never give up.”
“I will conquer demons from past lives.”
“I believe in self and am sacred.”

Canyon of heart resonates
with power phases enkindling peace,
in all cells as mind pattens of past sadness
find exit route with another breath.

Light hugs inside delicate song
ridding self of baggage of loneliness.

And freedom rings while heartbeats plays
Never alone. Never alone, evermore.
I read a poem about being trapped in loneliness and feeling alone so this poem was born.
Nivine Nahli Feb 2019
There’s a pattern in our lives.
The moments where things are fine,
We forget to write and express our minds; 
Until the sad days come around.

When these sad days come around,
We search for ways to free our souls
From any darkness or any hurt
That we have to feel once again.  

Wishing these pattens of highs and lows
Wouldn’t come back again and again.
But what is a life, without hurt?
What is a life with pure joy?

Our happiness comes from sadness.
To feel happy, we must go through pain.
Believe it our not, it’s the steady game.
The game of life, the patterns

Of sadness and happiness always shifting.

n.n
There’s no middle ground.
i like to watch the fireworks flying way up high
a fantasy of lights flying in the sky
making different shapes a work of art above
i like to watch the fireworks its something that i love
exploding in to space with pattens all around
as i look above watching from the ground
lighting up the sky lighting up the night
bringing so much fun that fills me with delight
L Feb 2021
She woke to the sensation that her body had abandoned her
Lips frozen in a sentiment she didn’t understand
Legs so accustomed to fleeing they became circles
Unable to open her eyes, she felt. Listened.
She soon realized, despite feeling as though she did not exist,
she could sense heat spreading to her from an exterior source
This meant two things:
1. There remained a piece of her still tender enough to experience warmth
2. She was in opposition to an exterior, meaning she herself contained an interior, which saved her from the frustration of being caught somewhere in between. Sparked by these perceptions, she inhaled, or became aware that she was inhaling, and that she possessed a nose, in which she smelled cement. Pattens began to form inside her eyelids, dancing and slithering, tempting her into sleep, into undoing all the hard work she had done to exist. Her eyes flew open, thrusting her back into the body she felt she could not trust.
Star BG Dec 2019
ONLY YOU can stand strong
in the face of adversity.
Can shift your demons
to move inside heart.
Can breath deep
to let go of expectations.

ONLY YOU can move through tornado
to ground in your divinity.
Only you can carry trust
even when it’s the darkest night.
Only you can move inside dreams
to birth a miracle.

ONLY YOU can find peace in divine plan
even without understanding it.
Can go deeper into heart
to find compassion.
Can recall your own mission
as a child of God.

ONLY YOU can release old ego pattens
aligning with joy and abundance.
Can live authentically
to spread a wave of love.
Can choose to
open your heart and find love.

It’s the life-line for harmony.
Its love that shifts
human evolution.
YOUR TURN...ONLY YOU....
Star BG Oct 2017
A day in my life unfolds.
Breaking bright sun illuminates,
Causing heart to sing.
Daisies of Summer open gracefully,
energizing visions to make me smile,
finding love inside
Gratitude.
Heart filled steps
Infuse energies that dance within.
Jewel like leaves sparkle.
Kittens cuddle with a purr for ears.
Love tickles all senses,
Making me feel alive.
No mind pattens to block.
Only peace moves inside self.  
Playing to center in moment while  
Quest to find joy is found.
Sunlight tickles,
To the moments
Unanswered questions,
Vanish as wisdom is revealed.
Wholeness is felt within an
X ray telescope of eyes for clarity  
Yearning to reach in oneness as on
Zabuton I sit whispering a song inside love.
Just playing with the alphabet
Denxai Mcmillon Nov 2021
Cadence
Has always seemed odd to me
Falling casually into pattens of speech
Pressing my words together
As if a breath is something I may never find
Colliding combinations of chaotic,
cascading,
Words
Pressed permanently through pressed lips
Pulsating the air
Puncturing silence purposing
Punctuation’s predominant purpose is
Silence.
To end, needless, nonsensical ramblings.
I want to walk, willingly,
from a wriggle in my mind
To a writhing sense of wonder.
Let me speak quickly
Let me fumble over words
Let me speak,
Even if no one is listening
niann smith Apr 2021
Taking cover in small places
It now seems like random things can set it off
No warning

But you must of know exactly how to flicker the switch
Without using your fingertips

Huge disarray, around my
Quiver feets
Always your doings
But you’ll never realize it

I won’t tell
For am not gonna blow the whistle
Am far too honorable by making you denial of all my misery

So yes, when am conned again by your concocted
maternal bond

I can’t seem to find the perfect match to
Mellow down your rage,
Pressing my knees tightly to my gut
Quieten down, don’t want to
Cause another row.

So yes, I have indeed been lying
But only to protect you
So you don’t ever have to
Walk with ***** and chains

So yes, I sleep with the deadweight
So you can sleep peacefully
Suppose it loves
Or maybe I also being holding some
Buoyancy in my inconsiderable heart
I never let the formula spill.
It is our untidy secret.

Every deep breath through the nose
And the mouth is a conflict to end this…

Pattens
That I try to ignore
Once again my fault
Mistakes, disappointment that I cause
Make me jumpy
Sick to the pit of my tummy
Stem of tears
What is the worst to come of this

“ she asks if I’m crying”

I speak nice and slow as to
Not Trimble over my words
“no”

Tried but to traumatize
For sleep

discomfort in my chest

Tinker is beating too many beat

oh, how will I survive the night?

For this to be my last breaths
Surely I would become an overburden that she wouldn’t know how to bear.
Matthew stetson Dec 2020
Sick of teasing demons
Shackled out of arms reach
Snarling, hungry for a chunk of flesh
Patient for days, weeks

Following silently, cold malicious desire
Whispering deadly temptations
Joyfully dumping fuel
Enraging my eternal fire

Shackled to life’s patterns
Evolving and growing, pattens match stride
Shapes that appear gone and broken
Still spread ripples far and wide

Places and friends that felt like home
Left behind, changed or no more
Hold a spot in my heart forever and ever
And alone I will endure.

— The End —