The Ink Bottle sits, alone,
It’s only Companions,
The Feathered Pen,
The Paper Pad.
The Desk, once alive,
But wanting not,
A Wooden Chair, dusty,
For the Comfort,
Time, a mystery gone,
Never to be recovered,
Days of gloom, waiting,
Shine not, The Light,
Come back, to Me,
My words, of Joy,
Wisdom, once known.
I do not know?
Sing a song of sadness
Pocket full of frowns
Brings us all down.
Rain in drips of sorrow
In colors dark in hue
No better day tomorrow
Only clouds haunting you.
Bear the blame of guilt
And wear it on your shoulder
Tear down all you've built
Soon you feel much older.
Rhyme in lines of regret
For all you've said and done
But as people always forget
Then you'll have none.
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.
Extraordinary, I am
Craving for unusual thoughts
Endless exploration without boundary
Understanding the gift I shouldn't fought
Invisible drawings in my mind
Playing with the words in my head
The food of my soul
I feel so lucky
The random thoughts
A lifetime companion
A self esteem builder
A goal planner
Be my forever life saver
I write more
I talk less
I want to please
I chose to bore
What tickles me the most
Is to know what I'm for
Thinking is my love
When my mind goes empty
That's when I hate
My day dreaming lust
Organizing things in my mind
Playing roles of simulation
Where images of art is my vision
And words of attitude is my heart
I bent over to touch my toes
and the ground tore open like a backbone.
I tried to feed myself the sky;
to splice my tearducts into the universe
so that, when the pavement cried, it would mean something to me.
My fingernails punctured that slimy membrane
congealed with stars,
and I brought a slice of it to my lips,
hot and slippery like a jellyfish.
Peach juice, chalky-sweet, flowed,
fleshy particles snagged in my teeth,
and the colors erupted within my mouth.
Synthesia took over my lungs.
The hollows between my knuckles flooded with synovia
and all the ectoplasm threatened to separate from my cells
with a sound like thunder.
Diphthong tasted rusty like leukoplakia as it tiptoed across my tongue.
Tomorrow rose like the skeletons of trees,
groping for a feeling similar to catharsis
[catharsis tender as the broken wings of doves,
crunching underfoot like shattered glass.]
The clouds opened their thunderous maws
- teeth snicker-snacking, lamplight-eyes flaming the color of E#'s -
and consumed me.
I felt my skin turn to something other than skin:
thick and rough with scales,
my fingerprints melting into something waxen, smooth and opaque,
like pomegranate kisses on coffee mugs.
A feeling ignited deep in my structure;
cedillas blossoming like lilies from my lips,
fragmented sentences stretching taut as guitar strings
between my thumb and forefingers.
A flutter gentle and demonic as Calcifer erupted from my system
- splattering hot and frothing into my hand -
and fluid rushed in.
I dared to taste oblivion,
and the sky swallowed me.
My lungs failed to be lungs.
They flooded with caustic matter,
and I coughed up reflections sharp as fiberglass;
fighting with organs phthisical and sore.
I struggled to find a way to describe it:
the feeling of consuming something greater than yourself,
of opening your eyes and tasting the sound of rain.
It was like swimming,
but inside out.
I bent over to touch my toes,
and my spine tore open;
the loose laces unraveling, veterbrae poking out
like the tines of forks.
I tried to contort myself into the beginning,
but I only found where I end.
Have I lost it?
The writing thing?
Have I been absent for so long that my thoughts are unable to come to a
complete stop and decide to focus...on ...one...thing?
I shudder profusely and then shake....
shudder...shake...doesn't that mean the same thing?
God....this feeling of complete talentlessness is absolutely....bad?
For the sake of being poetic I come up with...bad...seriously!!!
My fingers move at a snail's pace to keep up with the dismay that wants spill its
inerts on this screen in front of me and it will take the hand of God to prevent me
from actually not deciding to hit the delete button and feel justified in my
Ok...I'll leave it alone
be the cheerleader of this...piece...yea.
Words at the edges
Of your Tongue
Are not merely Words.
A Thought trying
Desperately to be expressed.
If hope lie in words
Is Hopelessness the absence?
No sound, no chirp, no brighter day ahead.
Engulfed by Darkness and Dread
If words are crucial to meaning
Why are they misused?
When slang destroys the basis of Thought
When LOL substitutes true Laughter
When a text makes Emotion
What do we do next?
Just ink on paper
Stained but not Bled
We await the future
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.
I'm just a kid, and life is a nightmare
I'm forced to be mature beyond my age
Using my writing as my therapy
Scrawling my thoughts across the page
Every couple days or so
a poem or two I write
I can't sleep while my thoughts process
So i scribble throughout the night
I give you all my thoughts and fears
this is the reason that i write
so that i can clear my head
giving me the strength i need to fight
In this book i write the things
that i cannot say to their face
but letting it all out on paper
helps me to keep my place
writing poems calms me down
and puts me back in control
I have been writing poems for a while no
since i was twelve years old
Writing puts things in perspective
shows me another point of view
it helps me work out what was done wrong
and shows me what i need to do
If you look closley at what I write
I think that you will find
That exposed on these many pages
is the darker side of my mind
Everything i feel, i write
my thoughts are a tangled mess
I write to clear my head and keep myself sane
thats why i'm a poetess
Wordings from the heart
That I’m trying to use
To cover this scented stationery
With my ball point scribbler, I’m proud
To match the sensual scent
Of your lovely and fiery lips
With crimson thoughts, but as I finally come
To end my writings, after so many pages
Hooked thrown into a silent bin
I begin to wonder if it’s better to recite
My love notes to you in person
For this way you would feel
Much, much better…
The bubbling rhythm
Of my heart
Fingers nimbly tapping his
heart onto the page
a rich tapestry of heartache
gentleness and rage
perceptions that astound me
engaging my soul
first one way, then another
a fall down the rabbit hole
who is this gifted writer
who speaks in shortened lines
tap tap tapping out his magic
til my heart he entwines
How dare you take advantage of me like that ,
Leaving me stranded with no way to go forward or back.
Using the friendship that we had led me to believe,
That there was trust and honor between you and me .
How you layed me aside and left me for dead ,
You have caused these hateful thoughts inside my head.
Never could I have done this to any man ,
I can see you have no concious so I know you can.
There just one thing I really want to say about this ,
It's been a long time since I have made a clinched fist .
You have no idea how much hurt you have caused,
It won't be me you'll have to face That's up to God
But you will regret mistaking this kindness for weakness girl,
Bad Karma will surely consume you this is my word.
Yes you were able to catch me completely off gaurd ,
Never again because now I know who you are .
the less i have of
the additional use of
the more it breaks down
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....
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
Written By John Posey
I can see the truth clearly now, and the truth is we live in a world where almost everything is shaded to a lie. (We act as if we are someone else and just can’t be what we want to be.)
Truth remains strong that our very own fables cover our very own two eyes. (We only choose to see what we want to see.)
Only fibs and tall tales are left on the local store corner….for they the only things left on the shelf that we can buy. (Many Profound Truths remain imprisoned while too many lies are out there living free.)
I look at the ground because I can’t look at the sky; I laugh more with death rather than crying with life. (Shakespeare once said “To be or not to be” but I say F%$k trying “To be” because I’d rather “Just BE”.)
Living amongst a world of shaded illusions upon the mind eye, upon which we have many wrongs more than our rights, yeah I know we all want peace but yet we still choose to fight. (We long for death but fear it; we want to go away but don’t know what will happen when we leave our loved ones with certain grief stolen away in the night by death like a thief.)
So why is it so many of us continue to stare at our everyday truths as if we are blind, as if we cannot see our own struggle through our very own lies……..
Beauty of nature
Why condense it down to God?
Isn’t life enough?
...or just thoughts
I just want to create
I guess that’s it, just create
Money does not move me
Fame? Why do people want fame?
Glory? I build in obscurity.
Legacy? How can the dead enjoy?
I just want to create
Just to see it grow
To see it go from nothing to something
Not because of sunlight
Not because of nature
Because of me
Is that wrong?
I guess it is a little vain
I know all things are vanity
But, these are my thoughts
Wrong thoughts, maybe
They are MY imperfect thoughts
I just want to create
Cause and effect
Action and reaction
Thought and fruition
It seems simple
Too simple, to some
They want more
Some verbose explanation
Some critical reason
It is not that complex
I just want to create
I guess that’s it, just create
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!
Dark poetry, slams and vague imagery
Is there something you're trying to tell me?
Poems with messages appeal
Can you write to make me feel?
Share your deep thoughts and allow me to see
Disconnected images confuse
And when the English language is abused
I read no more, turn away
Seek verse with something to say
Writes with clear meanings that aren't obtuse
There's so much talent on Poetry Soup
And never have I found a finer group
But no comments I'll impart
If you're not creating art
Make me think, feel, or I'll fly from your coop
Written for the "Reader's Thoughts" contest
I feel as though time is slipping away,
And more is gone each passing day…
I've seen pieces of it in my head,
Not together but it's there.
All of a sudden it disappears
Blackened thoughts fill the air.
Creativity turns to despair,
As writers block takes a bow,
Another stolen premier...
silent is my whisper
silent is my pen
silent is my wimper
should they dare
to listen in
nothing says this poem
nothing says this page
nothing says ideals
that i keep inside
gone are all my feelings
gone are all my words
gone are dreams
that are very seldom heard
barren is my cleverness
barren is my clown
barren is the poet
i always kept around
absent is the artist
absent are the claims
absent is the messenger
that bids remember
missing are the phrases
missing are the verbs
missing are the verses
that made souls
away is the conscious
away with the pride
away are the love letters
somewhere locked inside
without a purpose
without a plea
there is nothing
inside of me
zero spark of light
zero taste of saddness
nothing with which
Oh that I could break the chime that addles my brain constantly
That implanted seed of rhyme that worms in my subconscious
That causes me to live and dream in my restrictive literary world
Courted by couplets with ballad intoning in the near back ground
I hear the thoughts of betters that advise me to divorce my love
Perhaps I will beg my vowels and consonants to free me for a time
To let my mind flutter like red admirals on blossom filled buddleia
With the promise that I will return with gifts from afar to share
That I will gather my love in sweet nectar scented embraces
To assure them that I will always return to childhood friends
Freedom freely given will strengthen our knowledge and ability
Will let be seen that which hitherto was the domain of others
I do not know?
haiku or senryu
a million dollar question....
my hanged laptop
Pop may be catchy
But not lyrically deep
Case in point: Chris Brown.
(N.B. Poem written after hearing "Don't Wake Me Up")
Life is so crazy/
Death so busy it never get's lazy/
Thoughts blurred and blinded by true lies that they always get hazy/
The mother ****ing devil is always trying to chase me/
But I'm stronger than that I won't ever let *****like that ever ****ing faze me/
I no longer care if any muther ****ers want to over or under rate me/
I've already been ****ing up on my own lately/
I take your ****ing criticism greatly/
*****es I'm too real for any of you fake mother ****ers to fake me/
I'm too ****ing still in God's foundation to let the devil shake me/
I'm the general, the king of my own *****nobody can't ever break me/
**** what people say for I am the maker of my own *****people can't ever make me/
I'm the leader and deliverer of my own *****you can never take me/
Who want to question *****about *****mother ****ers thats why I'm Writer Crazy.....
I think I self-sabotage unknowingly
because of fear
So my message goes unheard because I’m afraid to let the people hear
And end up drowning in the poetic blues
doubting my ability to write about the truth;
I dug deeper and deeper into myself trying to write a poem good enough to be free of judgment
Then I stepped out on faith and suddenly I was triumphant
and my writing grew
and I was loving it
I had finally passed the fear of speaking and caring about who the fu*c! was judging it
As I wait to be inspired for the next poem,
I sit and think alone and drown in my sorrows
Listening to jazz, blues and a.m. radio
trying to find an excuse not to perform at the SLAM
because again I can’t think of a damn thing to write…..
Drowning in poetic blues
Will this be the one that will be thrown away and never be used
Or will this be the one that transcends the others
and finally prove that poetry is blues and blues is poetry and hip hop and jazz and r&b,
Poetry is music and the words dance around in my soul
and I am free once they become spoken
In the meantime the paper is where the words will rest
until the silence is broken
Drowning in the sea of proper delivery
My voice, my stance, my intensity
How will others interpret the words that I’ve chosen so diligently?
I wrap my soul around the possibility that none of the words I choose –
will keep me from becoming deluged and trapped by the poetic blues
Somehow my heart refuses to accept that I don’t deserve to have my words heard
and it takes over this whole process
No more time for shrinking and feeling less
I was born to make my words manifest light
I am a gorgeous medium to the truth yeah that's right
I was sent here to give you a piece of good news
Remember that God is with you when you get
The poetic blues
If written by God,
Why lost rhyme, measure?
DEATH OF A BELIEVER
The death of soul steals slowly through the years
the fog of mind that's never known to be;
brought on by laughter, love, and hate and tears
the fate of all that few can ever see.
It brings the withering of life, and all its leaves,
once green and shining in the morning sun,
now setting on it all, in evening grieves
for lack of interest in what life has done.
Compassion leaves the mind, once fired and prime
and old and tired now beats the heart we knew
life now mundaned by passing of all time,
there's nothing left the heart would like to do.
Old man, you're numbered to your final breath
and no one cares for all your sweat and tears,
your rest is not until it's done in death,
but keep the faith in what you've done for years.
© ron wilson