"screechy" poems
As the café fills
with youthful chatter
and screechy laughter
I wonder
what it’d be like to have a friend.
At the billiards
hip teens lovingly roast each other—
their style and form
bring warmth to my lonely day.
Would I ever play billiards
or is that game
reserved for people who have friends?
I sip my strawberry tea
and imagine
having a good friend
To unwind with storytelling and gossip
We'd drink pink martinis
and be so chic in black.
And we'd be loud and open.
I'd be so happy
That I'd never have to write poetry again.
As the fantasy fades
I smile into my strawberry tea
Not too pink, but plenty of sweet.
This is alright. This cold drink is a friend.
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 6:22 AM UTC
And honestly,
At this moment
All that's running through my head,
Is rock n' roll,
And near memories..
Cotton candy sky,
And oxygen breeze.
My droopy eyes
Are that of relaxation,
Not any earth-grown happiness.
My slow heart beat is smooth sailing,
Not candy-like pills.
natural high
So beautiful in a way,
But darling..
Do you remember being high with me?
High on life and love..
Together,
Our hearts beating a irregular tune.
But that's no longer,
So I sit and listen to angry melodies,
Screechy guitar riffs
And lay here,
High alone.
Not nearly good as being high with you,
I can no longer hear your heartbeat..
Nor mine..
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 5:30 PM UTC
As the Nightingale sings...
His sweet song of happiness
Driven by bountiful liberation
Relieved from timeless crappiness
Fluttering, making a joyful noise
Trials to deprive him of craftiness
Surely fails at inflicting such harm
He sings gleefully, free of nastiness.
As the Nightingale sings...
His wrenching song of fear
Realizing his time can easily fall
At any moment danger may appear
Songs of melodic screechy whistles
Alerting of predators lurking clear
He's hurt, used to frequent viewing
His kin die, for each he sheds a tear.
As the Nightingale sings...
His sensual song of passion
Strong vocals of desired courtship
Refusing to share his ration
With many rivals upon his branch
Alluring females with his attraction
Mating rituals commencing in love
His plumage thrives in new fashion.
As the Nightingale sings...
His saddened song of sorrow
Wishing for better times to come
Hoping to make it to the morrow
Living below a abundant food chain
With a short lifespan to borrow
Singing til his last breath is breathed
Eloped to heaven, a angel he follows.
© Michael P. Smith
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 9:52 PM UTC
Your words---love , deserve, forever---
Cling to my skin
Like clothes sopping wet,
******* futilely at my neck,
Impossible to shelter from
The torrential nature
Of your need
Your need,
Like the clamoring cries of an infant,
Screechy, demanding,
Hanging helplessly on my arms,
You pine for affection
From this absentee mother figure;
Futility resurfaces.
I feel the weight of you,
Pressing on my chest:
The crushing force of responsibility,
Of dedication, of obligation eternal.
I have written nothing
Since your frigid winter crept into my home
And ravaged my bed, my body, my dreams.
You created my hollow life.
You carved your name
Into my tender wrists
With teeth honed to knives
And fingernails like acid;
You seared it with a kiss,
Poured your toxin in my veins,
Planted rue in my garden.
Ruined.
Never before have I wished more
For death's swift embrace
Than when I hear
My name in your mouth.
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 11:51 PM UTC
black carbon paper lips
peyote nothing to eat
lord made em sick
prayed to jesus in a backseat
after birth behemoth's armpit
the end.
the end
the end
the end is near
white flags folded in memoriam
klansmen's hoods
bartered goods for gunpowder
kinds who werent designed
for human eyes to see
cause see son
their light is blinding.
they sleep
when the sun is shining
lying in a field of drug flowers.
hugs for smokes & hot showers.
what's the headcount.
man I was done yesterday.
I'm sitting here suffocating
numb to the new world
attitude & outcome
smothered in
carnal crimson summer
not for money or love or
anything or anyone.
I'm just sitting here
burning under the moon
thinking about alpha omega
& who took it upon themselves
to leave out the in-betweens.
godless heathens.
screechy gospel
that goes on for days
straight trip no stops.
Jun 25, 2015
Jun 25, 2015 at 7:21 PM UTC
At night
the sky
becomes
dank
dark
mysterious and shaded
At night
the sounds
become
loud
long
inconsistent and screechy
At night the sights
become
gruesome
ghoulish
nightmarish and scary
At night
The room
becomes
cold
creepy
unwelcoming and stale
Night night
Sleep tight
don't let the bed bugs
bite.
May 5, 2013
May 5, 2013 at 12:00 PM UTC
Slow peek
Whiskers twitch
Pause
Little twitch
Nostrils flare
Pause
-
Immediate acceleration
Straight-ahead scurry
Speedy tick-tack of claws on hard floor
Cat appears
Screechy scratchy panic spinner
Ducking skidding
Heart racing
Slalom chair legs
Cat crashing, collapsing
Running home hungry
Barely in time
-
Re-prepare to retry
Jul 3, 2017
Jul 3, 2017 at 11:10 AM UTC
Stagnation.
Here— how we are now, your gun at my head, my knife at your throat. Checkmate.
Our kings are toppled.
Maybe if it were another time. Another place.
Maybe if we met as we are now, better, at twenty and twenty two— in a cafe— at the movies— at school— through mutual friends. Hi, you’d say.
Maybe if it were not us as we were then, at thirteen and fifteen— in an opera house— far from home— during the intermission— in the bathroom. This place stinks, you said.
This might be a weird question, you’d say. There is no question weird enough for me, I’d say. We would laugh.
I had blushed. You were so good at that. Making me shy— making me second guess myself. You were so good. I don’t mind it, actually.
Really?! Your voice was so high. A screechy little thing. I was a tall little girl, but you managed to dwarf me.
You and your long hair and your big hands.
You were so big.
Is today Thursday?
It would be Tuesday.
I would laugh— and I would laugh and laugh. In this world, I wouldn’t cover my mouth when I laughed, because I never had you to teach me that.
You would frown like you always do when you don’t get a joke— eyebrows drawn together, frown half-up half-down. What?
I thought for sure that would be a pick-up line.
Another time, another time. Not fourteen and sixteen, when I realized— a year too slow— that I loved you.
Not sixteen and eighteen, when you kissed me like a loaded gun. Turned around and forgot.
Oh. Is it too late for it to be one?
No. It’s never too late.
I drew my knife, then. Knew I would never be safe.
Nov 20, 2019
Nov 20, 2019 at 5:08 PM UTC
I've studied you like a doorway
so that I know your in's and out's
like how you shake your head when you're mad
and how you show your love in weird ways
like picking up my speech patterns
and how I don't send you things early in the morning when I know you're not awake
because I don't want to wake you
and how you only make that cute screechy noise when you see dogs or boy's faces
and when you bite your nails and fix your hair I know you need a hug
and when you force me to listen to rap music I know it's because you want it to give me the same happiness it gives you
and ****** I think that's the purest form of love
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 8:53 AM UTC
It was hard to write about being depressed
I’ve only told 3 people since it happened
And from that depression
Came the lingering anxiety
And it’s something I can’t get rid of
Like a stomach virus that leaves you weak and unstable for days to come
Except the anxiety I feel
comes and goes
and it rises with stress and uncertainty
I feel like I’m carrying my depression around like a gold medal
Except the medal weighs 100 pounds and drags on the floor and makes a loud screechy sound for the world to know
It feels like the whole world is staring at me sometimes
And I can’t be myself
I have to hide my emotions
To be accepted in a society who’s people think depression is a phase
Those people have never been depressed
And are ignorant to the fact that depression is just a nicer word for wanting to **** yourself
May 31, 2018
May 31, 2018 at 9:39 AM UTC