"prognoses" poems
Knees weak and trembling
Lost to rhythm, lost to times
To the flashing lights and ancient lies
Of your laugh and ****** humor,
To your eyes and wrinkled warped wisdom
With how you always held your hands,
With the million ways you used them
And the games we would play
All the days spent on repeat
Poison broken hope hid in hell and
Torment disguising the life and decay
In the bottom of your soul
gone.
Your immense presence dwindling
Into nothing as you cave in.
Defined by your addiction,
Owned and liberated to be
Defined by your prognoses
Still hosting those same feelings
Of self hate, depreciation
Creating your own hell
For temporary damnation
I pray you save yourself,
There’s no one here to help you.
I’m sorry I couldn't stop you,
I’m sorry your life haunts you
Weighs on you taunts you like the guilt
Causing pressure on your chest,
Lung cancer it spreads,
I hate to whisper to myself
Because all that’s left to be said
Is you shouldn't hold your breath.
Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 4:46 PM UTC
There once was a crazy nurse,
She drove around driving a hearse,
Whenever she hit a victim,
She would cry out "Admit 'em!"
The prognoses couldn't have been worse.
Jan 21, 2011
Jan 21, 2011 at 4:13 AM UTC
you stand on the corner of your just-gone home, dirt from below the torn-up asphalt making its way beneath your sunglasses, the distance between now and then something you can no longer stretch your knees and step over. your first love is boarded up across the street, succumbed finally to the burn of nineteen’s shallow pockets and standing in the way of a new apartment complex. you walk on, humming so you can’t hear the heavy step of all that’s taking your place. it’s a strain on your ventricles, loving and losing and owning and letting go, when you’re here again. knowing the porch’s soft wood at number 18 while the door is bolted and a stranger’s boots line your closet floor.
it’s not all lockouts and dire prognoses. your tomorrow professes to accommodate a higher wattage than the sconces in your old room, and your visits taste like love and memory and breakfast, and his bed is warmer than your own because he’s in it, and he welcomes you home like that’s what it still is. it feels like he’s not wrong to say so—sometimes, you still belong there. cold coffee in hand from the farthest corner where they know your order still. an opinion on which pizza joint has better marinara. a favorite bathroom. an indelible mark on your old library desk. some of it is yours.
but some of it isn’t. some never was, and some has slipped through your fingers. you hum a little louder as the months go by and the boarded windows give way to a brand-new storefront—one that never knew you at nineteen—so you can’t hear the heavy step of all that’s taking your place. but you keep coming back.
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 10:59 PM UTC
*confines of mindscape
confides shadowed landscape
coffin lids fastened tight
custodial strife bite where
finer emotions reside
convivial memories collide
custom denial define
comport in social decline
coffers fill with loose change
combined prognoses engage*
_ __ ___ ✒
●○
°
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 6:04 AM UTC
Occasionally notably one may travel and find,
Gawking carelessly on a barn in their midst,
With fruits and grain scattered throughout,
Suffused with the sweet scent of the wheat,
With caulked vapors floret above at days end,
The sundown spreads its beauty upon the lands,
And the obstinate blackbirds singing above
Among the glistening river the burbots jump,
One could never forget the daffodils cordage,
The scent of tilled lands afore one in ones travels,
And consistence a rancher with furlongs of cattle,
Or that old apple cider press in the old southern towns,
But where is the canticle of spring to come around,
Hours pass into days and the days into months,
Where are they when will this wonderful season come,
As the sun percolates warmth upon the flowers to grow,
Carved work by hand of famed craftsman farm gates,
The gates cast round fettered before my eyes,
A prognoses is all too clear of what lays afore me,
Winter will follow the fall as it always will do,
Spring summer and fall will again be part of the past,
As morning comes from eve amass the rooster’s crow,
I guess one can be compared to seasons born and bloom,
It is then we have experienced the seasons at their optimum,
As the canticle of seasons have been attained”
By A. Guzaldo 07/06/2018 ©
Jul 6, 2018
Jul 6, 2018 at 7:15 PM UTC
Certainly it has become a ubiquitous VIRAL DOPE
Here we are so TERRIFIED and trapped in a unique FEAR’S COPE
The search for prognoses remains a huge *****
It looks scary but we ought to hold on tenaciously to any available surviving ROPE
Our vim should skyrocket and never SLOPE
And may we be exposed to the true LIGHT OF HOPE
Will COVID19 prevail eternally? NOPE...!
Martin Addison
Apr 3, 2020
Apr 3, 2020 at 12:21 PM UTC