teenager in training
wanting his own way
exceedingly dramatic
lazy and sluggish during the day
vibrant at night, playing video games
excited about peers and friends
October can assuage the gloom
when asters, mums, and pansies bloom,
lift spirits with a harvest fest
or day of thanks, for we are blessed,
or move a poet’s sluggish muse
with nature’s unique autumn views.
Growing up with
You get what you got
You better be grateful
You weren't forgot
The South is unforgiving
The heart better be stout
If you show intelligence
You're booted out
Can't have thinkin' minds
Upsetting the cart on its way
Target children are carefully picked
For dumping what parts won't play
You can never expect care
And you better forget consideration
Your own birthday won't give you cake
But your presence is required for participation
Scarcity and sluggish movement
In the process of growing fruit
Gives every pawn a small portion
In accordance with what the person is willing to do
...for Leftovers
Written by Trudy Schrader on 09-24-2026
Song in the car.
It’s delightful as delicious as richness.
Didn’t sleep for a while.
Roomy.
Sitting.
But it’s more.
Some songs are like stop signs.
They get hit by people who don’t pay attention.
Song in the car.
Makes me slumber.
Next to the house, got back after work.
Makes me want to be the engine.
At rest.
Revving.
Song in the car,
You don’t care that I have to do the dishes.
You just make me sing as if I’m driving.
Home is stillness.
Sluggish.
Whining inside.
So I slept in the car with the song on.
And the engine singing.
In summer, listless feel of sloth he gets,
stops the sluggish time, the clock hands he sets.
In hot kitchen he doesn’t go,
keeps whipped eggs on portico.
He snoozes in shade, sun cooks omelettes.
Burnt out.
Bent.
Wired.
Wild.
I’m shallow as old trenches.
Oof.
Maybe a pail filled with old cables.
A slab of me in my prime.
Undesirable.
Like the sluggish way sap dries.
Or doesn’t at all in the humidity.
Like dead ladybug tea.
My best times were just that:
Soggy human skin flakes.
A drought of mental warmth
Brittle, broken down bones
A foundation on the verge of collapsing
What kind of pathetic man is he?
Sick in the head, feeling half dead.
I hear he’s a loser, sluggish and lonely.
An unclogged hole pulling me further
sapping away strength with brute force,
leaving only a hollow vessel.
What kind of miserable face does he have?
Not an ounce of motivation in his body,
nor a drop of confidence.
I cannot cry, for all of my tears have been used
screaming is futile, no one can hear me.
Unable to reach out, I’m lost in exile.
What kind of depression does he carry?
He’s the weakest one here
A guy with not even one millimeter of muscle.
What kind of performance will he put on today?
Which mask will he chose
how many times will he lie about himself
I bet he’s sad and pathetic.
listless
sluggish, jaded
lagging, snoozing, uncaring
exhaustion, sickness, fervor, zeal
observing, regarding, indulging
vigilant, studious
attentive
Eyes lull as the night draws in,
curtains of the day pulled shut.
As the sun wallows in its resplendent orange,
smiling as it takes its leave.
Tired limbs fall heavy,
lids pulled tightly shut.
As the moon rises, in cold, white glory
joyously it races to its peak.
Young and free,
the great orb speeds on.
It’s cousin the sun
seeming sluggish and dull.
The dreaming masses
who rest while moon races;
wait until the old, sluggish sun
rises again, wallowing in orange.
No longer does the subtle breeze
Bring relief on searing days
Hidden below the willow trees
Wherever love-thick fades
And leaves bleed
Or with the shadows on the moon’s farside
Along the dark lagoons
Of forever abandons collide
And where no one notices extremes
Swarms of wasp stings
Sluggish are the foothills furthermore
No way into the clouds
Forgotten by them
Love’s tragedy victims
Are hers to spare
The bond of love,
Amoris giver, no longer is seen there
Numb are the empty wells
Tears no longer fall
Dry are the fields
Where she lays her lowered head
Nor do the flames of affection feel
Not even the weeds sway across the fleshy
Fruits that fall for her,
She is anonymous
After all
although the snail’s response was sluggish
it was the slug who was moving at a snail’s pace
although the wasp made a beeline for the jam jar
it was the bee who became waspish after arriving too late
although the bedbugs were as fit as fleas
it was the fleas hoping the bedbugs wouldn’t bite that night
although the fly had opened up a can of worms
it was the worm who wished he could fly
although the ant quietly beetled away after the party
it was the beetle who kept dancing like he had ants in his pants
although the moth had butterflies before the fashion show
it was the butterfly who was a moth to the flame for the cameras
As I stare into this empty glass,
slowly, an outline of a figure appears.
Sluggish movements, incapable of structural integrity.
An exhausted sigh of relief fills the air.
As the day dwindles into night,
reflections from a puddle mirrors the window.
A sudden shift, cracks abruptly spread.
Grafiti hides a section of the glass,
a pitiful display of raw emotions.
A soul evicted from its home.
Distilled water infects the glass.
The cracks? The stains?
What an embarrassment.
This quality and shape,
I can hardly use it.
Pieces of the glass here and there,
Reflections that no longer exist.
I can't see anything.
I don’t recognize myself.
Despite everything, it’s still me.
Grey is for thunderstorms
Bulking pregnant with rain drops
Rumbling uncomfortably
Grey is for soapstone
Treacherously slippery
When rain soaks its fragments
Grey is for forest
When teeming downpour
Presses green into background
Grey is for ocean
Heavy and sluggish
Stretched to the horizon
Grey is for warship
Full speed ahead, throbbing,
Crew at their stations
Grey is for torpedo
A white trail behind it
Lifts warship from water
Black is for deep sea
Embracing the sailors
When the light goes away
I must confess, I get a crush
I wish to banish my eyes that haunt
But I gat a heart rush
Though wants it cooled and kept
I get it real bad
Yet wish I never had
Wanting everything she has
May be I wish for the death of silent vaults
The swift in her smiles
What a glee she got in her eyes
I want to taste her lips
I wonder they could taste like her
I wish it gets slowed down
But won't mind her magic touch
To ceil my head a canopy
Could have wish I am secured
Enclosed in a save underground room
Really wants myself drawn
In the cruet of her balm
Seems my swift is so sluggish
What if my wildness is impeached
May be then you would come to me as much
Jellyfish
Once I had a wild wish
To be a jolly jellyfish,
A quietly quivering jellyfish
Shivering in the sea.
I did not crave to be a crab,
A sideways-scuttling, crusty scab
In sluggish sludge and dismal drab
At the bottom of the sea,
Nor wish to be a sucking sponge,
Sea-sway drudge of the fathoms' plunge,
Dredging supper from the soupy gunge
In the dungeons of the sea.
I might have wished for shark or whale,
To lord the oceanic trail,
My dorsal fin a regal sail,
Imperial in the sea;
Or dared to dash through the dolphin waves,
Gliding where the wild seas rave,
Dive to a shipwreck's sunken grave,
Sunken deep in the sea.
Instead, I wished for a jellyfish,
A parachuting jellyfish,
A gossamer drift in the seas' vast dish;
That's what I wished for me.
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