it happens when you least expect it
"et tu, brute?" were the last words he uttered
before falling down on his knees
a witness to a horrific scene
where Brutus stood with the crowd of assassin
with his dagger in Caesar's heart
it happens when you least expect it
Caesar's cries echoed through the halls
the hurt was caused by a dearest beloved friend
who promised to stood by and defend the empire
Did Brutus ever shed tears or did he ever stopped his hands?
23 stabs but only one hurt that came from the one who he loved
Dissolve again.
Into some puddle of oil.
Sink, and sunken.
Then turn into an oil painting.
Dissolve again.
Like a penny.
I don’t think pennies ever dissolve.
They just get dropped into the sewer sometimes.
And no one looks for them.
They turn into monsters.
Dissolve again.
Like gray.
Gray just-
Crunches underfoot.
Stabs my feet.
Until I get rid of all of it.
Chisel it away.
Day and night.
If you’re wondering why I never get help.
It might be because I can make my problems seem miniscule.
And I can take their uniqueness away.
So that all my problems seem ordinary.
Like bones in a barrel.
Or maybe not like that…
Unless I close up the lid.
And toss it out to sea.
Dissolve again.
Yes they will.
Scars
and Sun,
with their mark
a gruesome glow.
You can taste that edge,
as the knife stabs your throat.
Cut pumpkins swallow the Sun,
now this final curtain is warmed.
Ostentatious heat clings, darkness waits
for that first bittersweet taste of autumn.
I wrote something a while ago
I was mad that you were back
But now I feel myself letting go
It's all numb and the anger I lack
I am giving in to you again
Hold my writes out
And let you tie them
"Why can't you just figure this out"
The thought sparks in my head
And stabs through my heart
The glass shatters and all I see is red
"You can never just face the bad part"
Always need someone to carry you
Never strong enough to just make it through
Weak broken and alone
That's all you will ever be
You beg them so an ear they will loan
You are a burden and add to a load heavy already
I always go back to you
Because it's easier than doing the real 'work'
The idea tempts and I go through
You clouded my thoughts with your senseless murk
Stamens and pistils
delicately poised
Shamans and pistols
making too much noise
Soft buzz preferred,
a silencer’s desired
Pollinator’s sense
the triggers just fired
Nectar brings balance
agape open wide
Willing the seeker
to do laps inside
Comes with a snag
also stitch in the side
Fulcrum of a rose
the thorn realised
My soul’s not a flower
just gives and takes
Wants what it craves
accepts all, even fakes
Opens too early,
closes far too late
Can’t tell if I’m full,
yet knows when I’m sate
Possesses a thorn,
and stabs by design
Fulcrum of my soul’s
human not divine
Protects at all costs
only thing that’s mine
Not pain or loss,
just my life to define
It’s hard to tell if they’re playing tag,
or thrusting nectar-drunk love at each other—
mid-June attempts at getting it.
Maybe they’re fighting over first flowers—
legs twitching in hypoglycemic half-paralysis,
like the buzz of waking mid-vacation,
still dazed, muscles aching, but that stinger,
coiled stiff for the week.
Their terror-tails would end me,
or at least suspend me, breath held between
here and wherever histamine takes it.
I appreciate the bees, I really do,
their work, their faith in growing things.
But the anaphylactic risk of their existence
in relation to mine turns close proximity
into a kill-or-die situation:
all stabs and fury, and neither of us
wanting it to end that way.
sans caffeine feasting, sans water; thirsting
growl of stomach - a rumbling roar
e
p
i
d
u
r
a
l
stabs me in the back by noon
will it serve me snacks
after patient endurance
of
walking through water by weeks
to strengthen the core; waiting
by wades back and forth,
forwards, backwards, do the course
r
a
p
i
d
heartbeat, hush
Great Physician heal
the ankle, shin, calf, thigh,
the source
I am here,
on this bench,
as if the world’s still spinning
but I forgot how to move with it.
The air is thick,
like it’s waiting for me to do something
to lift the weight off my shoulders.
But I just…
sit.
Leaves fall,
but I don’t notice
when they hit the ground,
just that they were once up there,
free,
and I wonder if they ever felt
light.
A man jogs past,
his feet like little promises
on the pavement,
and I envy how his legs keep
the rhythm.
I wonder if he knows
how it feels
to be stuck,
to not have the energy
to move
even when everything around you is moving.
A kid’s laughter stabs through the air,
sharp,
like a sound I don’t remember
ever making.
She runs in circles,
spinning,
and for a moment,
I almost remember what it was like
to be free—
but then the memory slips,
just like the wind,
and I’m back here,
alone
and unremarkable,
on this bench,
waiting for something to change
but knowing it won’t.
The day is solemn
time to reflect
a thankfulness for sacrifice
Flags placed to honor
Names carved on stone
Dates of lives gone
Grace and silent prayers
No need for spoken words
shed a few tears
White crosses far to many
numbering those lost
who gain us this day of remembrance
The Quiet screams louder than a thousand bombs
rapid screech of gun fire
explosion of a grenade
the agony cry of a bayonet piercing life
hand to hand combat as the knife stabs through the heart
the dead lying silent on a bloody battlefield
Deafening sound of war.
We are here for the few that go
our way of life lives by the lost of their souls
we speak through their silence
Scripture read, prayer said, Taps bugle calls
tears flow
The Quiet.
Under the tree where the bodies hang
swaying, dancing in the gelid breeze
neath their rotting toes, the children sang;
slow circling a boy; they taunt and tease.
"It's your father and your mother, too,"
they chant, as one, fiery eyes aglow,
"Who dance on the rope, and soon will you."
to the cadence of a cawing crow.
"We'll slice you up and cook us a stew."
the chant gets faster. Each takes a knife
"Then we'll boil your bones and make some glue."
thirteen stabs put an end to a life.
They braise the boy, then each they follow
from dark black cauldron upon a fire;
of steaming stew, they take a swallow;
each with each other, they now conspire.
"We sliced you up and cooked us a stew."
the singing slows as the children fill
"And no one cares because no one knew."
soon, sleep takes over the early thrill.
Wolf was waiting on the edge of dark
thirteen children who once danced and sang
become just a stain, a bloody mark;
under the tree where the bodies hang.
“To be abandoned by your own
is the most painful sadness known”
_by Poet
She lives alone, although her son lives there
a floor below- but they are worlds apart.
He comes and goes without a single care;
this sad abandon stabs his mother's heart.
He pays no rent or helps with any chores.
Her food's delivered- ordered on the phone.
She cannot drive or visit any stores.
So with a broken heart, she deals alone.
Three other children live some miles away
and try to visit her throughout the year;
but cannot force their sibling to obey
and help their mother out by force or fear.
Abandoned now at eighty-two years old;
how does a mother deal with such great pain?
To get him out, the family was told,
“You can't expel a son from their domain.”
No course exists to remedy this wrong,
a son who so abandons her this way.
No reasons for his actions came along
for her to live this hell from day to day.
These knives cut so deep it hurts
Please God remove these knives and heal the wounds
The first stab come from malnourishment
Then another jab kicked out at 15
Before I know what I’m slashed with another knife sh*tty ass living arrangement
The Devil last and says I’m not still not done with you
So another stabs me the knife of being raped twice
God stands before me the devil says I’ve already started the reversal process The knife of malnourishment I’ve turned into a rose of being thankful
The knife of being kicked out 15 I will turn into rules of learning about yourself
The knife of sh*tty ass living arrangement I have turned into a rose of having a stable home
The knife of rape but I have shown her the beauty of being true to herself
So go ahead devil but she is indestructible and beautiful like the time and she is
Life
Pain that stabs you like a knife
Rusty and sharp
Will pull you apart
And break your heart
Will warp your perception
And wither away your hope
Life
That brings you to tears
And relives your fears
Always miss guiding
Leaving you biding
Your time till it’s over
Life
If it were good
If we flew
If we never knew
Life
Will stab you like a knife
Will bring you to tears
But if it were good
So much more could
If we lived happily
We would see
How to be
So here is my plea
Just let me be.
Life
Hail nails the skin.
Wind stabs the spine,
the mountain stretches,
breath freezes the tongue,
Snow visible on the summits
High-altitude crumbling
cracked hands claw at dry stone,
Paper thin air
sharp, jagged edges.
Bald Eagles circle overhead
Alpine sky, dry and broken—
no more Earth Day vegetation
Cherry Creek scrapes the sand
She lifts the bedpan
Chapped gloss superstar lips
Cocoa fur, stained by cigarette smoke
and the wind carries all,
The Zephyr rolls in
Grand Central Station
Peaks in background
Inspired by Iron Maiden’s “The Final Frontier:
#18 on Best New Poems List , May 16, 2025
I am but one person
on a mission that went wrong -
locked out of the safety
of the spaceship I was on.
Black ink is spilled around me,
vast and never-ending
as into nothingness
I find my body wending.
The oxygen inside my tank
will last perhaps six hours.
I can see stars - stabs of light
that twinkle not – cosmic flowers!
Forlornness embraces me -
a suffocating feeling
so unlike my loved ones’ hugs.
With gloom my brain is reeling.
I travel in my mind
to things I cherish most -
my family and friends.
To them I’ll be a ghost.
A ghost forever floating
in this upside-down endless sea
which will be a graveyard
of black surrounding me.
God, I am imploring you
as I drift and drift and drift,
may I soon be in your light -
my death both peaceful and swift.
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