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On Writing And Words Angst Poems | On Writing And Words Poems About Angst

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Details | I do not know? | |

Raindrops

Raindrops
are like my thoughts
falling down into my mind
sending goose bumps down
my spine

Their cool aftermath
cleanses me of my thoughts
of fear and uncertainty 
about what tomorrows
pain may bring

They make me feel,
wet with creativity
drenched in my optimistic
illumination. glistening
raindrops, my thoughts
leave paths of pleasurable
distress, and hope of success
which road, less traveled
may be the best

Forget an umbrella
when these raindrops
arrive, I walk outside
arms open wide

Ready to Receive
whatever
the mind storm may bring
because raindrops are
as my thoughts, falling
down into my mind
sending shivers down
my spine

My brain, yearns
for the rain, to wash away
the pain, tomorrows worry
does bring
One special drop
could speed up life's clock
to the time
I can handle my own
and not dwell inside my controllers
home

For raindrops are,
like my thoughts
falling down into my mind
sending goose bumps
down my spine

Copyright © Heather Hill

Details | Free verse | |

Come Back To Me

The Ink Bottle sits, alone,
It’s only Companions,
The Feathered Pen,
The Paper Pad.

The Desk, once alive,
The Words,
No longer,
Written.

Love, abandon,
But wanting not,
The Freedom,
It has.

A Wooden Chair, dusty,
Reclines not,
For the Comfort,
Once given.

Time, a mystery gone,
With passing,
Never to be recovered,
Longing.

Days of gloom, waiting,
Shine not, The Light,
The Heart,
Once brightened.

Come back, to Me,
My words, of Joy,
Of Laughter,
Wisdom, once known.

Copyright © Kenneth Fordham

Details | Epigram | |

Sensationalism or Journalism

(Another childhood or teen years poem.)

Newsprint small talk
in Mediocrity's lead pot
rustles and gossips while,
splashed spectacularly across
the speckled page of
Society's intellect,
a murder making column one
hides the hushed massacre
of minds.

Copyright © Leo Larry Amadore

Details | Ballad | |

Unanswered Poems

Don’t send me more 
Of your tragic poems
My dear 
Covered in blood
Of your monthly flood
Of tears

Don’t send me more 
Of your angry poems
My dear
Carved with the knife
Of your molten spite
And fears

I’m just a peddler 
With a cart
Bringing discount words
To hearts
Broken hearts across the land
Woman left without her man
Broken hearts throughout the world
Anguished boy and crying girl

Your poetry’s too heavy, dear
For me to read, for me to bear
Your poetry’s too heavy, dear
For me to get from here to there

Don’t send me more
Of your bitter poems
My sweet
Forged in the fire
Of your endless ire
And grief

Don’t send me more 
Of your hopeless poems
My sweet
Ripped from the womb
Of the lonely room
You keep

I’m just a peddler 
With a cart
Bringing discount words
To hearts
Broken hearts across the land
Woman left without her man
Broken hearts throughout the world
Anguished boy and crying girl

Your poetry’s too heavy, dear
For me to read, for me to bear
Your poetry’s too heavy, dear
For me to get from here to there

(You see that shadow on the road
Trudging ‘neath its heavy load
A heart weighed down by sands of time
And your poems only make him cry
And he won’t add them to the pile
So he can walk another mile)

(And he won’t add them
To the pile
So he can walk 
Another mile)

Too heavy, dear 
Too heavy, dear
For me to read 
For me to bear

(They make him sad
Make him cry
Beat him down
Deep inside)

Too heavy, dear
Too heavy, dear
For me to read
For me to bear

They make me sad
Make me cry
Feel as though 
I want to die

(And he won’t add them
To the pile
So he can walk 
Another mile)

Too heavy, dear
Too heavy, dear
For me to read
For me to bear

(A heart weighed down 
By sands of time
And your poems 
Only make him cry)

Too heavy, dear
Too heavy, dear
For me to read
For me to bear


Copyright © Catman Cohen

Details | Rhyme | |

Whimsey vs Angst

~~~~Whimsey vs. Angst ( or-
 You Don't Have to Be Drunk But it Helps)~~~~

Words of whimsey from my pen flow,
while words of angst I bury below.
Which is me, you may never know
if it's only pieces I care to show.

Whimsey is as whimsey does.
So frivilous, happy thoughts buzz
around in my brain , as if it was
full of nothing but fluff and fuzz.

Writing of angst is not my thing.
Words of sadness, words that sting.
Whimsical words always bring
a happier mood, a fest, a fling.

So don't ask me for a sad, sad song.
It would definitely be wrong
to bore you with an epitome long
that saddens and depresses the throng.

Poetry of a happier time
flows in verses and in rhyme.
I'll pen you thoughts joyful and sublime
if you just pass the tequila and the lime.

Copyright © Francine Roberts

Details | Free verse | |

Tension Waiting

The swordsman who draws his blade
Heart racing at the keening of steel on scabbard 
Tension coiled, poised for the unleashing
Held back by muscles tight with glee.

I am as the soldier, held in stance,
The lioness crouched beneath the concealing grass
As it sways back and forth, as insects sing along the day
Her every breath is halted, her veins do not pulse,
And just as the swordsman stands
They are statues in this moment,
Statues of derision,
Mocking, with their stillness, the very charged tension within.

And I am as the lioness frozen before her pounce
Coiled with motivation and purpose,
And I am as the tongue held with words clinging off its’ edge
Ready to lash out and strike with direction
But I am as the frozen purpose, held tight
Waiting, for a warrior to stand before me
For a reason to uncoil, to lash out with words and pounce.

But I am now as the pen halting before the purest of paper
White and supple, in askance for the lightest touch
A slash of the tip, drawing lines in ink
Lines like a hunter’s bowstring, taut with intent,

As the pen lies frozen above its prey, the falcon petrified aloft still winds
I am the need coiled tight like a wound jack in the box
But alas, there is no victim to frighten,
No pray to pounce upon, no sword or bared neck to slash against
And I am here, with pen frozen, ink ready to be drawn taut
And I have nothing to draw in the ink, no prey or purpose to evoke
I am coiled tight with energy, but it is release that so eludes me,
I am coiled tight with purpose, but it is direction that so denies me.

And here I am, pouncing at ground before me, 
Slicing away at the air around me
Scratching away with a dry pen, on paper still white in askance
I write about…
I write about the coil within, and the lack without
And alone I wonder,
Is it enough, is it enough to go on, a wound up box
Waiting for the slightest touch, the weakest parry, to live.

Copyright © Samir Georges

Details | Free verse | |

Flinging Poems Into Wind

We seine them up
like dust
in pollen-stained hands,
briefly weight them,
balancing them in minds,
determining worth,
profundity. 

And like those before,
we toss them absently
into wind—
winnowing maple seeds—
whirling them from us—
as we shape lives,
change destinies.

Now, 
they seem to flit
to nothingness,
like us—
pale night insects
pestering
opal moons,
infestations of night
thickly settling
on the liquid glass
of our tongues.


Copyright © Glen Enloe

Details | I do not know? | |

souper's lament

ghosts of the world befriended me
a silence borne of secrecy
ghosts of the world befriended me
to share in their love of revery

ghosts of the world are blind to me
comments section all I see
ghosts of the world are blind to me
though they call me family

ghosts of the world won't hear my plea
we live and die by our own decree
ghosts of the world won't hear my plea
mired in blah mediocrity

ghosts of the world do not live free
attention seekers' comment spree
ghosts of the world do not live free
a silence borne of secrecy

Copyright © Yoni Dvorkis

Details | Rhyme | |

Tribute to Negative People

Here’s to all the negative people
You know how the story goes
If brains were freakin’ dynamite
You couldn’t blow your nose
When people make rude comments
They act without common sense
If you’re negative and reading this
I hope you take offense
When I hear about my friends put down
Every bone in my body cries
If you rub yourself with Preparation H
You’ll probably shrink in size
So if this makes you  pout and cry
I didn’t mean to put you down
Besides someone already wrote a song
About the tears of a clown
I’ve changed my ways in recent days
And try to act with class
If I had run into you twenty years ago
You would have been laying on your @ss
So take your sarcasm somewhere else
And leave our poets alone
And try to find your self-esteem
In a place called the twilight zone.


	Dedicated to those who need to 
Make negative comments.

Copyright © Vince Suzadail Jr.

Details | Blank verse | |

Love Song

Here’s what I’m thinking now 
at the end of the world: 

There are no atheists in foxholes— 
no theists in politics. 
If knowledge is power, 
and power corrupts, 
then why did I bother reading you, Cicero? 

Does it matter that I didn't’t love you? 
Would it have mattered if I did? 

There’s a poetry reading tonight 
whence I’I'll chide other poets 
who don’t sit alone. 
I won’t bring up death 
but I might have to breathe, 
even into a mike 
and mouth lines to get a snap or a boo 
maybe even a wince or two. 

Just maybe I’I'll talk about love 
and how following your heart is like following a dog— 
it only leads to vittles and (female dogs). 
But how many times have I used that line 
since the story I wrote about you, 
a witty and sexy and fictional you? 
Most likely I’I'll read something tonight about you. 

I won’t recite it from memory 
because I don’t think about you that much anymore, 
not even when I search for my socks in your drawer 
or when I put on the scratchy sweaters you give me, 
horizontally striped to bring out my eyes? 

I don’t remember your eyes 
except they are blue. 
And I don’t remember you, 
not even when I smell cucumber and apple, 
not even when I sleep on my side of the bed 
or when you walk through the door 
happy to see me; 
even then I don’t remember you. 
Does it matter that I don’t love you? 
Would it have mattered if I did? 

How about a few one-liners 
for the end of days?— 

Depression is self-awareness, 
which you’d know if you were; 
I need Ritalin to listen to you, 
Lithium to hug you, 
Viagra to feel you, 
and Valium to sleep. 

All you need 
is me standing there, waiting at home 
with turns of phrase and word plays 
telling you about why I hate Ayn Rand 
but want to buy as much as I can 
and how I love celebrity gossip 
and detest poetry slams 
and find rhyming trite 
except when I am. 

Hypocrites can still be right, 
which you do understand 
because you nod at my nonsense 
about fighting the man. 

But now, at the end of all things— 
I’m speechless and witless and pointlessly well-read, 
and you’re just sitting there, smiling 
asking me to pass the bread.

Copyright © Nick Hertzog

Details | I do not know? | |

The Clown The Fool And Me

Many nights I've sat typing things for which none will ever read.
Burning midnight oil only to add to this mornings trash.
Then going about the act of pretending it's all good.

Wearing a mask of my own creation.
These long nights of endless confession to empty wall's.
Hollow thoughts from a bitter heart to scared to exist as himself.

The page lay beaten only to be erased.

the circus of life is a deception for after the show when the dust settles 
the magic gives way to truth.
Tempers flare  and thoose happy clowns appear to be just angry ordinary
people who hate and loath there so called friends.

Dream that it would have all been diffrent if not for this or that.
never taking blame just putting it on others like normal so called adults.

These long nights breed anger and that page takes  the punishment
and like a coward I look apon this act of pure thoughtless work.
And second guess myself wishing only for the approval of people who yearn only 
for the approval  of some one else.
Like hamster in a wheel never getting anywhere.

For who wants to be themself when you can be a watered down version of someone who 
wasnt good to start with.

I cant say the comforts of being a clone wouldnt be nice .
But I never did like things that were nice.
Never cared about being on a list  or kissing someone's rearend just 
to have them talk about me as soon as my back was turned.

Be yourself and cherish thoose who hate  for  the bitter and cruel amount to
nothing  and there only hope is to lure you down there same dead end life.

The clown tries in vain to make you laugh.
The fool doenst know or care if you laugh.
And me Im just the jerk adding to the mornings trash empty 
as the page that sit's befor him.

Copyright © John Patrick Robbins AKA Gonzo

Details | Bio | |

A Note To the Young Girl On The Other Side Of This World

Hello, Farrah....
It's 7Am here, and cold
Just awoke, with,
Oh, Here We Go Again!
Fever, Pain, Confusion,
And Lots of Other Groovy Things
To Keep My Mind Busy...
Many more people know of you
than a few days ago....
Did you ever hear of Rod Mckuen?
Professional poet/ musician/songwritter-
One of the reasons I love poetry...
Not only will you understand him, you should
enjoy him.....Sorry about your work load....
My French is rusty.....I'm pretty good in geometry though;
received 100% on NYS Regents Exam when young-
an unheard of thing, scores in college of 97-99% for the term's work,
and it seemed easy as pi    (joke- pie, etc....oh, why am I explaining it,
sorry, I forgot who I was talking to.......)  Hope you have a happy day.....write an 
indepth poetic bio??   I'd love it, so would many others....
you are known in literary circles here now, I'd venture to guess....
surprising, the power of words, n'est pas?  Je ne sas pa, rien du tout....pardon 
my spelling and french......it's unused since early 1960's (ancient history)  What 
city are you in?  Ever travel???  A favorite destination???  Any questions about
the enigmatic nature of "Americans?"  We're really well meaning, just sometimes
seems we might misinterpret, or misunderstand things obvious to others (and 
vica versa....) Do you get to see movies???  Need books to read??  I got a library 
of 10,000 books, at least, being handicapped gives me too much time on my 
hands, and my health leaves me precious little of a future to expect.   I have lots 
of funny stories.   I hope you are okay....I never met anyone so brilliant in 57 years 
of living.   Youf friend in poetry, tom."

Copyright © tom bell

Details | Free verse | |

Another Name

Tears
Such a soft, gentle word
For an experience
With the power to
Shake the soul
Wrack the body
And flood the hollow spaces
Of the heart
The hot, hard tears
Of anger and frustration
The constant clinging tears
Of grief and loss
The uncontrollable tears
Of irrational despair

Someone should invent 
Another name
For the relentless pain
And shrouded darkness
Called “crying”
And free the word “tears”
To mean only the iridescent
Tears of pure joy.

Copyright © Ginna Wilkerson

Details | Free verse | |

From beyond the Grave

Your hands would just reach up 
And control my life 
Your eyes would open wide 
And rip open through my spine 
You would stir awake in your casket 
If only you could 
Your vengeance would never cease 
And you would rule the world 
From beyond the grave. 

Your will would just drive everyone away 
And I would be alone 
Your words would be heard by all 
And none would hear mine 
You would wake from the dead 
If only you could 
Your vengeance would never cease 
And you would rule the world 
From beyond the grave 

Your desires would stir the restless 
And they would do your bidding 
Your arms would open up wide 
And prepare to embrace the sky 
For you would rise to this occasion 
If only you would 
Your vengeance would never cease 
And you would rule the world 
From beyond the grave. 

Copyright © Troy Nelson

Details | I do not know? | |

Why I Really Write (2005)

I grew up where my opinion was a waste
Everything was chosen even my taste

Speaking my mind was seen as rude
Everything I said caused a feud

I speak my mind 
It helps me unwind

I'm honest and don't beat around the bush
But after every word I heard 'hush'!

To develop communication it needs to be fed
All these words should have been heard and not read

I was told that someone would cut off my tongue
I was very young

I could barely read or write but I had little choice
My pen and paper has become my voice

Copyright © R Kumari

Details | I do not know? | |

Go to Hell

(This is a fictional poem)

You called me a bastard and that was uncalled for.
I don't want to be your friend anymore.
You're not only a jerk, you're a loser as well.
I'm tired of taking your abuse so you can go to Hell.

Copyright © randy johnson

Details | Lyric | |

More Than Words...

Once again as my pen fails the page
In a humble but sincere effort
To honor my loving sage

As I ponder and attempt to deduce
In a low, soft chuckle, “more than words”
My rhetorical excuse

By function; words exact, color and define
And with Webster’s sword levied I chase
Definition of you into the sublime

Concept, newly born of insight and ash
Presents no attempt at justice
So its fate is sealed to trash

And alas, as a thousand times tense
I seek to corral feelings
By pen within paper fence

For moment’s sake, suppose these words I cannot cage
I humbly offer in place of love song
The feelings that surround this page

Copyright © James Burns

Details | Verse | |

My Words

Sometimes my poetry is just a case of words, 
and not necessarily my reality;                                     
and that’s what is so beautiful about writing

You can be who you want to be on any level 
and tell secrets about fantasies that may never be;  
or take trips to other dimensions on mental journeys,                                                                        or places that some don’t even think exist

They mimic thoughts that manifest themselves as poetry 
and rest on pages patiently waiting to adhere
My words are a reflection of my heart 
and they reveal the truth behind my mask of fear
they deliver reality doses  whether they are just cases, 
or me in the absolute right here

My words exude positive intentions; 
my imperfections apparent but I accepted rejections 
and reversed dejection  
and decided to bare all my fantasies, my flaws my very soul 
and temptations

Uncertain how voiced verses appeal to outside sources but internally they set me free
They provide a medium of light and creativity
A chance to apply knowledge and a time for reflecting on and making changes in my frequency
My words are attached to my soul and its overwhelming ability to just be
They reflect what I was before         
the choices I’ve made and the reasons that this life is perfect 
according to divine order

They represent the voices of my ancestors from the beginning of time 
because up until now, 
the ending wasn’t within reach so I make sure that I
carefully choose the format and the right place and time 
to deliver the message that may be blatant or hidden inside – 
of the abstract placements of verbs
giving praise to the source of power that calmly submits to the voice 
connected to my words
I am the originator of my own words
I hope that you are inspired, or simply entertained
by the process by which I've placed my words

Copyright © humble b

Details | Limerick | |

Cheaper To Keep Her (Divorce Club)

(Haiku)- * Motive, infidelity messing with the Queen Bee's Honey*

Queen Bee sits on throne,
Bumble and drone bees as one
Sample flowers dew

------------------------

(Limerick) - *Admission of guilt leads to compensation*

Indeed this is how the story unfolds,
Pete said, "It's a poor rat with only one hole"...
Love had taught a sad lesson;
Divorce court was now in session,
Judge rules favor, Pete's pockets full of holes...

----------------------------

(Couplet) - *Take vows seriously payback often belongs to Spouse - Queen Bee*

Love said, "Pete too late you've opened your peepers"....
"Man, you should know it was cheaper to please her"!






Submitted for P.D.'s Divorce Club Contest (Haiku-Limerick-Couplet)

Copyright © Adell Foster

Details | Concrete | |

A Written Soldiers Fight

A supreme soldier walks truly alone in the depths of night
he is soft spoken from a life of being so hard that he was stoned until his eyes filled red bloodshot in his sight
he notices what he once thought to be? Was wrong and very far from right
So he asks God for forgiveness from his very own darkness that it may to like his Redemption be shone upon his lost light
He knows its no longer about the bullets in this battle for it is the words in his very own Mind that will matter most in this life among death upon a written soldier's fight.....

Copyright © Travis Lone Hill

Details | Free verse | |

and Woody Herman played

Blues in the Night.

A malignant moon
shines his metallic claws -
combs my hair and brushes me forward.
I am alone in the shadowy crooks 
of a poisoned metropolis.

A clandestine garbage chute -
where waifs and strays burn
within the fetid bowels 
of a cavernous concrete underbelly.

The orphanage awaits my arrival,
as muted outcries are crushed 
beneath my footsteps. 
A parentless prison
teeters atop Utopia's dreaded brim;
the hamlet where Orwell slew Hilton.

St. Peter has been released
and no longer tends the kitchen.
Agony and angel wings reneged
a redundant brotherhood of sorts.
His recipe for remorse shall be missed. 

Blues in the Night.

In the distance, 
feigned epileptic outbursts
placates a patron's fears.
Caffeine injections

stimulates another's venial sins
as it magnifies their cardinal options.
An insomnious woman converses
with a napkin holder. The surface

is dull and unreflective, like she.
Banter never-to-be heard
by her never-to-be gentleman caller.
I am home –
amongst the dead I adore.

A haggard waitress serves me a menu.
A laminated journal stained 
with melancholy and mustard.
Desolation and demi-tasse
are tonight’s midnight special.
Ten cents additional, if you order deluxe.

Blues in the Night.

I twiddle my thumbs 
for I have no other’s to borrow.
I catch my rugged reflection 
in the asylum’s window.
I espy my counterpart again

in a twisted spoon -
realizing I’m three utensils short 
from a grievous quartet salted
with Mack Sennett misfits.

A collection of dishes clatter
above the sanatorium’s jukebox. 
I place my spoon on the counter
and pick up a lifeless knife.
I envy its potential and possibilities

as Woody Herman croons 
in the background.

Copyright © John Heck

Details | Haiku | |

Haikus About God: III

Beauty of nature
Why condense it down to God?
Isn’t life enough?

Copyright © Dan Keir

Details | Nonet | |

My First Time

What will I write for my first Nonet?
It’s something I have not tried yet.
To some they seem very hard
Later will I be scarred?
Pain will not last long
Try writing song.
Then you’ll find
Nonet
Rhymes.

Written By John Posey
12/26/12

Copyright © John Posey

Details | I do not know? | |

Writers Block

Revelation 
  is such a 

Temptation 
   that leads us to

Damnation 
  which always seeks 

Salvation
  relieving us from the

Frustration 
  of the lack of 

Creation....

Copyright © Karen Dominick

Details | Free verse | |

Poetic Robbery

Contractual agreements with publisher caused DELETION

Copyright © JSLambert Mister ROBOTO

Details | Dramatic monologue | |

Leashed Down

Leashed Down


Bound by my hands
Bound by my legs
Bound by my waist 
Bound by my neck
I can't  hear
I can't  smell
I can't taste
I can't see
I put everything away and only thought of
What brought me joy.Nor do I want to
Cry leaving my captures to smile about
To gloat,to have that unknown brutal power
Over me which is held in one tear.
My  body numb,my heart is stopped,my mind is blank
Is this dying? Why am I paralyzed? Could it be falling a sleep?
These chains are cold but everything is hot.What feeling beside
Pity would become of me?..Be it not grief not sadness not even remorse.
But as I stand up from this seat,I am nothing more then a well mannered
Pup on a tight leash.

Copyright © Marcedies Rhodes

Details | Ballad | |

The Forgotten Ones

Forgotten somewhere in the midst of steel and concrete. 
Bound by shackles and chains even in our sleep. 
Living like wolves preying amongst lost sheep. 
Concrete tears and pains so mindfully deep. 

Forgotten by those on the outside. 
We cant even run no where, we cant even hide. 
No choice left but to sit and fight. 
In here only the strong minded survive. 
Truth be told in here what is wrong is right. 

All most os us got is wasted M&^*&F*^&&ng time. 
We sit back and work out and write heartfelt rhymes. 
Not to be a victim of prey we all trying. 
Many stories are told, songs are written of truth over lying. 

We are gone for the moment but not truly forgotten so the hurt we must not show it.
 We are to old while we young to be crying in front of full grown men for this is a time we must out grow it.
 There aint no way out this hell hole and we all know it. 
Feelings of hopelessness surrounds te heart to the point where we can no longer control it.
 
In here there is only time no fun. 
Darkness fills night no light shone in here from the sun. 
Only by our own selves we may be out done. 
BECAUSE IN HERE IT FEELS LIKE WE ARE TRULY THE FORGOTTEN ONES....

Copyright © Travis Lone Hill

Details | Ballad | |

Im Gone

Life as a lonely lost poet bred from dark cracks 
Lost soul living plain and simple among the people black and white 
Drug along with alcoholic among us distracts 
Lost values and principles around one many continue to lack 
Everyday simple facts, its like breathing through plastic sacks 
Slowly suffercating until the brain goes wack 
Once death comes my way I must keep it part of my past 
Aint no way God going to bring my little brother back 
I guess its a curse upon all those of us living like outlaw of an outcast 
How the **** will I ever truly outlast until I heal and break out my cast 
God cant you see Im tired of wearing this permanent mask 
I know my poetry has hidden answers if I look and read closer so I shouldnt have to ask
 Staying lost is a choice in the open road with no gas 
So as a lost poet through hardships now and in the future I will outgrow it 
The devil trying to get my soul and behold it 
but I know only this one man controls it 
Its too priceless for even my own greed to have sold it 
So as a lost poet I will climber higher than high if not then right below it 
Found in a world of lies with few truths as but another lost poet

Copyright © Travis Lone Hill

Details | Ballad | |

Family First

I cant believe Im going to have my own family, something I never had; 
Its time to step up and be a real dad; 
Now I can remember the things that make me happy and forget the things that make me sad;
 Its time that I start doing good than the bad; 
I want for my child to see me as a role model; 
Its time I break my own chains to that alcoholic bottle; 
I want to be that someone who can be trusted to follow; 
I silently cry at night because the truth is hard to swallow; 
I jus hope I can make that change today not tomorrow; 
I got to change before I end up in an?early hearst; 
My art is my gift and alcohol is my curse, I must break my own alcoholic thirst;
 I must relieve my own selfishness tendencies before they burst; 
I got to stop making alcohol my only because its no longer just about me, because my very own family comes first

Copyright © Travis Lone Hill

Details | Rhyme | |

Blank Page

Too long have I been staring at this cruel blank page before me, My crazed, hysteric mind screaming and imploring I know there is a message that's dying to come out— I need to fill this confounded page without the slightest doubt! It's a simple predicament to manipulate, Into a mass of thought A futile attempt to insinuate, Weak hints are left with naught I sit here in silent desperation, What can fill this page? I slap myself in indignation, My eagerness becoming rage! Like roaches sporadically running from light My thoughts are but a haze The words I write just don't seem right, On this cruel blank page!

Copyright © Laura Breidenthal