Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
My Insomnia is a ****.
He keeps me up at night and keeps the end of my bed warm.
When the sun sets and the moon comes up, I should be dreaming of soft things or wacky situations that could never happen.
But instead, I'm trapped here, with my Insomnia at the foot of my bed, keeping me on my phone.

My Insomnia is a patient man.
I've tried, believe me, to ignore him. I've laid for hours in my bed, wrapped up in blankets.
I've counted thousands of sheep, let them hop to and fro from my bed to the door.
But he shoos them away when they get to close.

My Insomnia is a jealous man.
He doesn't like Sleep and her warm and gentle touches. He favors his cold and sharp hands.
He doesn't let her take me until he's had me to the sunrise, where I should be waking now instead of sleeping.
He keeps me until my eyes are stinging and I'm all but begging to be released. He let's go only because he'll return at the end of the day when the sun sets and the moon rises.

My Insomnia keeps me in a prison.
I can't see the night progress through the blanket I've hung up on my window, as a makeshift curtain to keep the sun out of my eyes as I sleep the day away.
The night pities me and the day yearns for me. My friends wait for me and my sisters lose patience as I miss out on plans. My grandma worries for me, and pulls me from the gentle embrace of sleep.

My Insomnia is a cruel man.
He keeps me chained to my phone and my computer, to the horrors of my mind as I only seek relief through sleep.
The chains used to cut when I was eleven and so exhausted and so confused when he had first graced the end of my bed.
But now, when I'm edging into eighteen, I'm only tired and defeated. I can only let him run his course, and wait for school to arrive so I can imprison him with sugar-coated pills bought over the counter.

My Insomnia is an *******.
For even as I drift off in the warm arms of Sleep, I can see him drifting above my bed.
He whispers promises to return at the end of the day, to which he always does, to torment and keeps me awake until my eyes burn.
To keep me awake until I regret everything and burn in memories that resurface when the sun has gone away, and Sleep can't protect me.
My Insomnia has an iron grip on me, that not even Sleep can break as I rest in her golden arms and breathe in her strawberry hair.

My Insomnia is a spoiled man.
And he always gets what he wants.
Nat Lipstadt Sep 2013
December 25 - 28, 2010


Stuck in Miami, Florida, because of bad weather in NYC.
Composed after reading the poetry of Campbell McGrath, who lives in Miami.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
­
electric pinpricks of
unfamiliar red and green lights,
bedroom traffic guidance
courtesy of a stranger's
tv and cable box,
an emblematic totem tonight,
of my physical dislocation,
reminders that I'm enslaved
by weather machinations.

I lay, resting uneasy,
in a strange bed,
one night too many,
snow storming in my head
snow storming up north aplenty,
a blizzard of ruminations are
my white coverlet,
while stuck in Miami.

faraway drifts have
force fed and freed
an imprisoned restlessness,
a multipurposed, slashing.

Miami midnight incision has
let out the bad humors,
let in an unfamiliar odor -
lechón asado,
which texts my Pharisee nostrils
in Cubano,
words muy ironico,
a single waking thought,
"who ya kidding?"

Everglades rain
imported from California,
recycles on rooftops,
thrumming a heart beating,
syncopated, watery refrain,
a regifted heavenly present.

the sound waves mark
as a barely undulating wave,
inside this super soaked brain,
that transforms wine into water
and scan lines into these letters,
"who ya kidding?"

all this exponential signage
of this NYC boy grousing, are his
defrocked muses annoying,
with a serenading blizzard
of one trick pony repetitions,
coronets trumpet his unmasking,
this essay, a revelation,
a product of their
harmonious discordancy.

a single note crowns his head
as he weeps whole food
organic, non-recyclable tears,
products of his new inquistional,
a self-inflicted interogatorial,
"who ya kidding?"

compiler of an
occasional talented catch phrase,
strung'em together like
cheap pearls,
pretensions of literary acumen
once populated his Id,
articles of spilled word *****,
but Florida rain has cleansed
his Northern haughty pretensions,
with an injection of truth serum,
a pharmaceutical wonder of
a local poison labeled,
"who ya kidding?"

A day laborer, nothing more,
rise up at five, brown bagged,
a client of Mammon's *****,
soul sagged, life hagged,
a sum of cultural cliches,
a cell phoned baby boomer,
a would be millennial,
constructed of paper mache,
who on occasion,
has been known to say,
"Let's play poetry today."

the poseur chokes
on this new poison,
delivered by unhappy stance
by the arrows of his
current misfortune
for he now suffers from
the deadly disease of
"compare and contrast."

a slim book of poems
of Campbell McGrath's
(his phraseology,
a veritable theology)
shoos the blues traveler,
over to a funhouse
where an honest magic mirror
cuts him down to size.

his poetic aspirations,
a residue of self-infatuation,
are summarily dismissed by
the truly gritty, quick justice
of a master poet's
"who ya kidding?"

so watch how a would-be
poet disappears,
in a barrage of bullets marked,
nevermore,
his dignity, more than hobbled,
his cheek, gone, gobbled,
his juice, a currency unaccepted,
his holiday present,
a ceasefire of conjugation,
a cornucopia of declinations

dare I ever write again?
who indeed, am I kidding,
other than myself?

I am an addict, not a poet.
Circa 1994 Jan 2013
October 3, 2012 10:49pm

It’s a sensual process.
Watching him paint.
But today I’m his subject, and there’s no talking. He likes it completely silent when he works. He talks about his paints like they’re a person, his brushes – a fine wine, and his canvas – a beautiful lady. He’s the kind of person that has a mind so complex that after a five minute conversation with him you’d just assume he’s dumb, or extremely high.
He says he can taste color. Sometimes I think I’m dating an eight year old. Then my eyes roll over his body, and I remember why I put up with it. When my eyes get to his waist he makes a hand gesture, signaling me to look at him. He wanted this painting to be profile. He’s very persistent about keeping eye contact. He says that the muse is as much the artist as the painter. They’re both part of the process. I open my mouth to say something, but he puts a finger to his lips and shakes his head. I scowl at him from behind wisps of my unruly curls. He smiles. He loves when I pout.
I’m wearing nothing but an oversized, tacky Bill Cosby sweater and a pair of his grey boxer-briefs. I’m sticky. I can feel the sweat dripping down my back. He’s been at it for an hour now. I’m uncomfortable, cranky, and tired. He says It’s ****. He says I look better when I’m all grungy.
The cat curls up in my lap. He looks up from his canvas and frowns. He walks over to where I am on the couch and shoos the cat away. He walks back over to his canvas. It’s so large, he can nearly hide behind it. That’s saying quite a bit considering his large frame that stands as a whopping six feet and two inches.
Sometimes I think he enjoys painting more than he enjoys physical intimacy with me. When I see the way he looks at them – the paint, the brushes, the canvas – the way he speaks to them – the way he touches them. I envy them. What I wouldn’t give for him to caress me so gently. To whisper so sweetly. To love me so tenderly. My heart aches.
His fingers are on the canvas. He’s smearing the paint. He pushes his hair back from his brow and gets some blue across his forehead. There’s yellow on the bridge of his nose, and green on his left cheek. If I could taste color, I’m sure he’d taste divine.
He finally drops his brush against the easel, steps away, and smiles – admiring his work.  I stand and he waves me over. I look at it. It’s beautiful. Gorgeous even. But it’s not me. The girl in the picture is radiant. She’s flawless. She’s happy. She’s what he wished he saw when he looked at me.
We’re all just somebody’s muse I guess.
I wish I were the one behind the canvas, instead of the one on it.
Bottoms Feb 2015
I

Side street in a yellow town,
Nothing happens but a heavy breathing man.
Careful steps to Linda Linda’s home,
This day, thinks he, is a barn owl’s song-

Something else moves the wind chime,
Something else shoos the leaves.
Linda Linda
if you will.

Did you lock your keys in the car again?
I walked.
Just be quiet.
I willed.

But dust covers furniture as love eclipses better love
When wetted too much down where divers don’t dare,
Dropped. Left in mud.
Linda Linda did and dared.

II

Whale 1 one looked at Whale 2 and sighed, swimming off.

III

Owl,
You *******.
Where love is once now love is mud,
Look what these doctors have dared and done.

Whales,
You kindly kindred floated friends,
You saw her last
Sinking moment

And you’ll see my last eye cried dry,
Something else moves the yellow tide.


And ******* You,
Smile crying, drowning and fat now,
It was probably
Just as beautiful as you wanted.
Angela Okoduwa Jul 2016
There's a fae
Who lives in a fern.
Her wings so little,
Her feet so kittle.

She was a tease,
But certainly not the least.
She flits through the grass,
With a skimpy dress of brass.

She hides in the shrub,
And offers a defiant shrug.
Her whistles beckons to the birds,
Even the goblins dare leave their beds.

Her step on petals are of light springs,
Even with hair tied in ribbon strings.
Mischievous little thing she was
Other wary faes ought to pause.

So carefree she treads,
Even mama could not knot her in a thread.
Most often, mama warns and shoos
Always, she'd never heed but coos.

One moon-ful night,
When she forgot her plight,
Into the sky, unwarily she soars,
And ends up torn in the bellies of owls.

With all her strenght did she beat
But the night birds had had their bits!
A mournful dirge for a fae no bigger than a wasp,
But who ends up dying with a gasp!
Clem N Tine Jun 2014
My name is Janey and I am four
I like coloring books and playing hopscotch
and today i learned a word called "war"
Mommy says that's where you're going
"He's a super hero, Janey
he'll come back stronger than before"
and she hugged me a little too tight
I laugh "Let go of me!" She laughs.
But she's looking at the floor.

My name is Janey and I am six
I like dancing and drawing pictures
Mommy misses you a whole lot, I see it
Every morning when she wakes up sad,
until she brews her dark brown drink
and then i have my mommy back
"When will he be home, do you think?"
She shoos me away and says "Just a little
while more,Janey dear" so i offer my pinky,
I want her to promise me
Our fingers lock
But she looks unsure.

My name is Janey and I am eight
i like playing in the lake and reading books
i don't know much, but I know one thing,
that you're not here
And you're not coming back
Things have changed a whole lot
I still talk to mommy while
she drinks her happy drink, it's not brown though
It's clear
And i don't ask about you anymore.
For: You
StakesV Jun 2020
i spend the afternoon, gently
weaving a conversation
about myself into
the hands of my mother
who shoos me away, leaving,
going, turning away after
i ask her,
"how would you react
if i were gay?"
and i am gay

and well, there could have been
worse outcomes, an aftermath
that could have broken me
further
but the silence
was deafening
and i could not cover my ears
but my mouth was zipped
shut, no words; and my mom
threw away the key

we let the night
pass by like a ghost
and the next day, the sun
was rebirthed; my mom
slips me the key
to my mouth
and i unzip it
but it continues
to be silent
with my voice kept unheard
mark john junor Jun 2014
the backyard lawn freshly cut
provides vivid perfected image of summer
half in shadow of the rubber tree
half in unyielding sunlight
i feel at peace drinking this scene in
i feel the strength of possible futures
i feel the beautified past
summer my old friend
summer my home

barefoot reluctance in the shallow pool
splash her sunning
she gives mock angers and throws a grape at me
this grape of wrath falls to sandy ground
to lay sweating in the sun
forgotten fruits of our laughter's and joys
seeds for tomorrows we will always dream of
and dreams planted in stealth of night
growing to smiles we share today
summer our silent companion
summer our dear home

her voice as she talks is echoed by birdsong
she blends into the days beauty
she is the days beauty
i kiss her while she talks on the phone
she shoos me away
then grabs me and pulls me back in again
and bites my lip tenderly
summer my friend
summer my home

laughter and joys can be seen
in the fluttering's of birds
in the plane climbing into clouds high above
in the insect crawling with intents to the
spent remains of my breakfast
summer is full of life
summer is my home
Ellen Stewert Apr 2014
They all look at me and believe I'm innocent
Yes, I don't do drugs or drink
Yes, I don't smoke cigarettes

I'm tired of feeling like a teachers pet
I'm tired of feeling like a goody too-shoos
I'm tired of feeling like a plain Jane

I'm not perfect
I'm not innocent
I'm not a ******

I crave him constantly
I want him more than anything
I crave being touched
I want to be kissed

I'm not the christian girl I used to be
I don't believe in "God"

I want to be perceived differently
I want to be seen for who I am
I want to be seen as an adult

I'm no child
I'm a women and a strong one at that
Just ranting
spooky doopy Dec 2014
They say she sleeps ad infinitum
Eternal recurrence burns my furnace
Warm my bedded head
In her sleep she swoons and croons

Cockatoo flown past what I'd grasp for
Can't catch that flack slack back snapped crack
My pursed lips perched like a mourning dove
Shoos yew canoes past blue pools and coos
"No new news"
In this hallway I walk through it
Acknowledge and be with me here
Not there at the end

She begs for company
An affirmation of the sufficient subsets,
Experienced in essence through forms
She can't sleep
Ada Lace Sep 2013
the wind
is willing me to the ground
and the sun
scrutinizing
squinting down in criticism
while i squint up in fright
and shame
but of what

plants curl
up
every which way to the sun
while my growth
is stunted

nothing is mine
i am not worthy
to see the sky
it is not mine to see
the wind
does not want me to stand
the sun
does not want me to stay

go
it tells me
you are not wanted
you are not worthy
these things
are not yours
go find something that is yours
it tells me
it shouts
and whispers
and pushes
and wills
me to move
away from the wind
away from the sun
anywhere but here
go
move
it shoos me
with
upturned noses
closed eyes
and beautiful
dainty hands
you cannot stay
we do not want you
not here
move
but i cannot move
so i hide
in the dark
in a room
from the sun
from the wind
from the light
but
so much beauty
i want to see it
i am drawn to it
but banned from it
i am not allowed
to see
Gears and gears alone can bring the motion that is everyday
Time shoos us forward as we fumble and trip into our subordinate routines
We blunder through space like old records
And discover ourselves in a smaller world every dawn

Disassembled by disapproval we submit to work
And our neighbors build their humble steads alongside us
Are days here for us or for others?
A question for the asking before we shuffle to work
I was asleep outside the church door
when at a quarter to four
I get a boot in the chest
And a loud voice boomed out
"I think it's best
if you leave"

I quite sleepy, replied,
"Is it the bible that lied
Can I not sleep in the heart of my maker?
If not,
Then tell me who is it, that is my creator"?

A silence ensues then he shoos me away
I limp off to the methodist church
where more people lay
on the cold of the stone
chilled to the bone.

I don't blame God for my lot
for I'm in his plan
just a plot on his graph
and you've just got to laugh
when you see it like that.

We are the crossbeam
in the dream of a better day
and you'd better get used to it
you're going to see so much more of it
It's **** and you know it
do something about it or do nothing
and hope that tomorrow will bring
something more than a cold church stone floor
and a boot in the chest
I leave it to you
I'm sure you know best.
The boaters who pass by the canal
are friendly and cordial
like good Southerners
I love sitting out on the pier practicing my Japanese
suiei,
oyogu,
mizu,
and they paddle lazily by
hardly making noise
wave
smile
good evening, Miss

The wind from the ocean
shoos away the the mosquitoes
I almost feel bad
people from these parts are so sweet
I'd don't quite fit in
but they don't mind it

No one lives here
All the homes are rented
there's a silent understanding
that we are all vacationers.
Eyelash Wishes Mar 2014
I have nothing but love for a blue sky
and how its glory opens up my mind.
How it shoos away grey thoughts
of color neutral, sleeping forests.

Oh blue sky.
If I had wings
I'd make you mine.
You'd be my canvas
and my feathers,
your delicate brushes.

Oh bright blue sky
If only I had time
to sit under you
and admire your clouds.
You wear them so well.

Instead in a monotone,
desaturated schedule
I march onward.  
Only able to admire
for passing moments
inbetween places and times.
Blanketed by your sunlight.
David R May 2021
A smile is the sun
emerging from grey cloud,
the aroma of baked bun,
that wafts through street 'n crowd,
as splendid as tawny fox,
lounging lazy, loud 'n proud,
as sky of equinox
after rain of stormy cloud,
as the cool wind on the rocks
of cliff 'fore climber's truckle,
as the scent of perfum'd phlox,
of sweet Jasmine 'n Honeysuckle,

so why let a black mood
chouse you out of the day
when a small smile brightens all
and shoos the cobwebs away,
a person is as person does,
it's not the thoughts that make us,
it's what we choose to make us buzz
that can build or break us.
BLT's Merriam-Webster Word of The Day Challenge
ringnir Feb 2016
Littered with gravel —
a path diminished.
A draft depriving
my nature as such.

Barked giants shadowing,
luring out doubt.
No difference distinct since
I never look up.

But lo, a lark,
staring back at me.
Any bid to steal glances
were met by peeps.

We amused and laughed,
flattered in bursts.
If this is truly a trick, then
God deserves my curse.

Her hair sweeps the gravel.
Her voice shoos the shadows.
Her light dries my eyes
along with the puddle
in which she resides.
Chiral - An object or a system that is distinguishable from its mirror image.
Have you tasted the
azure kisses of my
beloved
and rested your head
on His bonny blue *****

Sweetness of
His divine presence
shoos away
the dark carrion
embrace of death
a distant memory now
cawing, swooping
shadows of a dream
we once walked alone
and confounded

O how my heart jubilant leaps
for every living being
who hastens to His waiting arms
and wastes not a moment on
anything less than
God’s immortal Love
Bolan sings Dylan,
Dayan's on the Golan
the radio's howling
"Caroline"

Back in a time back to front
where the future we hunt
shoos us away.

McGuire's in the evening
bleeding,
the Magic Dragon's on the run
Summer in the City is like
Summer in the Sun
only colder.

what now?
Telegram Sam with electronic spam?

Still busy reading the instructions
destruction's a hard thing
to master.
but I'll get to the burn out
worn out
and turn up in top hat
and tails.
c Aug 2019
What happened to the nights of preying upon the chances of what could I have said, what songs could I have told you to play on the stereo, what books could I have told you to read — the nights I tried so hard to save and keep and ripped away from the moribund seconds that lives in the far end of the intersection between two tangent lines?


Nights that had been like a Christmas present wrapped in your voice that floats from across the other side, a smile breaks wide upon hearing it—almost meets my receding hairline.

I think maybe the cherubs have carried me to your feet, to fill an empty ribcage with butterflies and moths and all the decaying caverns in my flesh because in my prayers, they altogether weeped.

And in these nights that were strewn from the strings of fate – crafted only for me – I think I hear my angels singing and crying and dancing



Oh, this must be it. This must be it. Maybe.
This have got me feeling. So maybe.


Here with me, you are the hero that shoos away the phantoms that were born out of my skull. There with you, I am the ballad that makes you dream as you sleep with your lights and stereo on with the music I insist you play.



Here with me, a memory of the static, of the silence that embraced two people. Nothing but a buzz that you could make a song out of, a strange delight that warps and ties a knot to my chest. Now that I think about it, even if you don't talk, it pays every word I ever heard.





I wish you sweet dreams now from the other side of the world.
I wish you sweet dreams for the nights that brought you down. I wish you a calm heart when the thunder roars and a field of lavender for when you feel worn out because you have been the magic that puts me to sleep, at ease, when all the nights have turned out like rough seas.
Salmabanu Hatim May 2020
through window saw clouds
make funny faces at me
breeze shoos them away.
6/5/2020
newborn Aug 2022
the days won’t slow
the nights won’t drag
they move too quickly
it’s all too fast

i’ve always hated august
her grip
on my arm
her drinks
in my bar
her laughs
so far
away
but i hear them
echoing off the walls
of the barn
in this particular
part
of the season.
it’s starting to
feel like treason.
i give so much love
lying in
summer’s arms
i hold her like
a three million
dollar diamond ring
and i give her everything.
she leaves me broken
and shattered
likewise the mad hatter
and i collect her
fragments like a good
little child.
a good little
disciplined child.
she discards the wild
in me,
although i
keep
her summer breeze
alive.

i’ve always hated august
the anticipation that
comes along with her
heated embrace
her clammy hands
on my face
she wants to be
a motherly figure
to take my mother’s
place, but she’s
just too forceful
not merciful
enough.
i want a refund
for all the
money i spent for
her
to keep loving
me,
but she lets me go
like i’m some
contagious cold
that only wants to
keep you close
so
it can give you
the most sniffles.

i’ve always hated august
her savage remarks
how she gets so dark
when i just want to
feel her presence
at eight o’clock.
she’s always busy
getting wasted,
her neglecting
so shameless,
she shoos me away
like a poor peasant
begging
at her feet.
the actions she
never apologizes
for,
she adores seeing
her
tanning children
suffer,
cry their brains open
since they have
no hope
and
no happiness.

i’ve always hated august
cause it always
seems
like she hates
me.
i wish we had
a better relationship
but she’s always made
my life a living
shipwreck,
again, i am beached.
i swear i can never enjoy august cause i’m always too worried about school.

8/17/22

— The End —