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Heather Horner Sep 2017
The sun lifts its head
To open blue skies,
New promise, new life
New twinkling eyes.

But not mine.
Numbness crawls down my spine.

Children, dogs and footballs
Bounce upon the grass,
Breathe in the fragrant air
Spring is here at last.

But there's no spring in my step.
An emptiness sinks to my depths.

Daffodils and daisies
Catch blossoms on the breeze
Bright sunlight beams
Through green, lush trees

But I'm down on my knees
Screaming, please.

Close the curtains,
stay down, hide.
Wear black to reflect
What's curdling my insides

Direct me, distract me
from this crippling grief
This season's prescription
Gives no fresh relief.
C S Cizek Mar 2015
You've got a flat screen mounted
on your kitchen wall with zip
ties and chewing gum.
There's an ashtray by your left
wrist, and a tattoo on your right
of a midnight street light sunshine
shine
down
on a reupholstered love seat,
only used twice: once for the Eisenhowers,
once for last weekend watching Seinfeld
reruns, putting out Sonomas and *** talk
on the twill-like cushions in that dank
basement apartment w/ poster'd brick
walls.
Slayer, Sinatra, Sabbath, Springsteen,
a Space Cowboy, and something Sanskrit
above your box-springless mattress
about the cosmos spitting hellfire
next month because we didn't sacrifice
crumpled dollars yesterday, or Clinton
in the '90s. There are masses of humans paying
for the market collapse that sent 800,000
oranges rolling into the street, cold.
God-fearing couples are abstaining from ***
to save their souls from the ******
Rapture. Cable cords are being unplugged
in the middle of A Christmas Story so people
can hang themselves from church steeples
to avoid ruining their Chuck Taylor Loafer
Tennis Shoes in the molten **** suffocating
saplings and parking meters. Christ'll save
the righteous ones, the ones strung up closest
to the bell tower.

The parish hall radio says salvation's
only as good as a new haircut.
And that we should all pick up the warped
acoustic guitar in the cellar, and try
to form barre chords with our swollen
knuckles and arthritic wrists now
because punk music will be dead tomorrow.
Hell, the postman will be dead tomorrow,
and every little postcard, paycheck, and print
coupon he's carrying will be dead, too.

There is an ashtray by your left wrist,
and a tattoo on your right.
Angela Trolove Jul 2015
I have no spring in my step
but I have no shortage of springless steps
enough to lay a path from here to my wakefulness
Dolores Jun 2021
Bluey the boy
Who will never get old
He lives in the clouds
Never cares about the passing times

Playing with his wingless kites
Tracing down the cold dark nights
Bathing in the rays of sun
Making jokes, oh it's so fun

Springless years
It never rains
Still loves every day he lives
Loving good ones, stealing thieves

Bluey don't you grow up please
Hopeful days will come my way
When I figure out that you're okay
They always sing it's not today.
Andrew May 2020
As I walk into my bedroom, I stub my toe on my far too narrow doorway.

I lay my head down on my rock-hard pillow,
and attempt to get comfortable on my mattress that has far too many springs poking into my worn back.

The smell of rotting food from my kitchen engulfs the room, and I cant take my ear off of the constantly running toilet that I've been too lazy to unclog.

However, life hadn't always been like this.

We used to live in a villa, on a quiet coast in Greece.

Three people could enter the doorway to our bedroom at once.

Our pillow was made of goose feathers, and the mattress?
Springless.

A personal chef prepared our meals everyday, and the only sound around our home was that of the ocean below us.

So much has changed since she left, yet I could've sworn the house was the same.

— The End —