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Best Poems Written by Johnathon Souders

Below are the all-time best Johnathon Souders poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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The Payment

When in the dark of heated greed,
There was a shock, a unemployed face.
It had whispered of bad weather,
A storm of flashing commerce.
Parchments expanding the stain of green,
By the light of reflecting fleash.
Man has power in dollers,
Captilism mentaly teases the masses.
Encourging the action of fantsy.
A dream exposed for payments.
Desire in the bare undernieth.
To the Devil and the one percent.
But I to, in my sweet sigh,
Of my Shakspear gaze,
For that strangle of golden lights.
The price is,
The pound of fleash.

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Lost My Poutrysoup Login

Been to long since I posted,
For one lost my login info
But now I'm back
Hope you enjoy my new works
Go by Johnathonsouders2

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I Create

"Every story I create, creates me. I write to create myself.." 

I create;

Memories a hardback of signature moments
Bliss to bottoms, lust to love, 
Heartache to redemption
“Every story I create, creates me”

As nature colors my distraction scenes
A peace only its stillness
Gives me my history
“Every story I create, creates me”

When death enters existence 
A cold wind on bareback skin
A common presence taken
“Every story I create, creates me”

Were love is a brass instilment
to be declared cleverly loud
So others can touch it
“Every story I create, creates me”

MY pen reacts to reality to move
A stranger from coded words
Where God works me
“Every story I create, creates me”

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The Muse

She sat on my bed, red mouth scattering.
Drinking my smoke and comfort.
I was dancing diet pill, with ear buds.
Pestering on my shoulder,
was her dead lovely.

I, am smell of sometimes,
Her, a voice of flavor on the tip.
A whisper of fever,
In her caves,of poor light.

Desire is focused in holes in ceiling tiles,
Ear into eyes, unable to divert.
Her wisdom , a days mock frolic,
Shutting down my nervous faculties.

Feeling small in her Uni-verse,
Mime tracing her outline,
Stubbornly secret,in her intent,
The words flint for wanting.

Adaptation the influence,
No one wants to see,
I loving a soul, be for ********.
In the moment stunned by her pristine.

Her works she read,
I realized consumed, 
The famine mentor, critiquing me rightly,
Charring to a birth within.

And to give shine to an apple,
In her decreeing eye,
I became a heroin's lover,
Microsoft Zen for months.

Regretting I wrote weak-soft,
Now to coffee and wanting it bitter black,
Muse subservient to her a speaking fantasy,
As her red mouth scattered.

(for Silva)

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I'M

I'm
I'm singular.
I'm night-driving.
With vibrant hum
of standard speed.
I'm glowing of dashboard.
Utterances of am talk
alien abductees and remote viewing.
Barely diverts my musing.

I night-drive 
periodically. 
A rite of wanting
Control, of the wheel.
Arm out window
night air cooling me.
Headlight on blacktop.
A yellow metronome.

This nights topic , I'm.
A question proposed,
by a small man in robes.
I started the list:

I'm a modern Tom Sawyer
an ebb-and-flow.
I'm this psycho-manic jester.
Dharma junkie, with subjects.
I'm Charlie Brown on acid
but who love the dog.
I'm a skin head hippie.
A guy with no wrist watch.
I'm a independent film critic
speaks religiously of Fight Club.
I'm these and other clever observation.

I stopped at a neon diner for tools of thought:
Coffee, pen, paper, and consumers of isolation.
Filling a page of I'm
looking for a singular
a true answer.
Just finding personas
and learned traits.

It came to me this I'm.
While leaving the tip.
In my wallet a picture of my children
looking full of me.

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For Alice Part 2

Harold told no one about his evening plans.
His construction buddies already thought of him as odd.
Thirty eight, unmarried loner, 
They razzed him on being quite, his house, 
And how he needed to get laid.
But it was in fun, they respected Harold.
When it came to the job, they nick named him
"The Artist"

Harold looked at the clock on the stove,
And went up stairs to get dressed for dinner.
The vintage suit lay, newly pressed, on his single bed.
The tag "Carol's Costums" attached to the hanger.
Harold decided not to wear the Top hat.
Feeling it was over the top.
and as he struggled with the bow tie,
He was trying to remember the name of his prom date.

Dressed, he walked down the long creaky stairs.
His wrist watch telling him "two minutes"
The nervous anticipation quickened his movement,
As he brought out the feast.
The large Grandfather clock began to chime in the living room,
Harold surveyed the dinning room, 
As he would do after a construction job.
He smiled proudly to himself, "The Artist" he playfully said aloud.
Knowing Alice would like the room as it was intended.

As the chime hit its last twelve, 
Harold herd the fimilar sound,
Of Alice's feet stepping on the creaky stairs,
And when she martialized in the dinning room,
Alice looked around at what Harold had done for her,
Harold new the night was what he had planed to build,
As Alice's  ghostly eyes, looked at him lovingly.

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Her Taste

My single-serving wait,
That flavor missing,
A sugary rush of femine.

Candy hard, and undesolved,
I salivate, on a smoky.
Bake, for a sleepy fullness.

Craving awake, to 
Late-night in snak,
Wishing, a telling tea at sunrise.

With my fruity-logic,
Time's bagged lunch,
This returns starvation.

Left-overs interrupted,
A cynical side dish,
Questioning my expiration.

In past pallets,
To reality diet plan,
This hunger unending.

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Body: True Story

I stood on a wheat-grassed hill,
It's crest a overpass.
Pine rows below overgrown.
Forming into forest behind.
My childhood grounds.

Three boys, friends in time
Winter of "78"
When clouds dropped heavy
Deep covering, white cold
Draging sleds, overstuffed
In snowsuits.

The boys used this hill
With joyous lust
And loud laghter.
Slicing with metal runners
Above depths of storms.

A ramp.
Formed snow tight.
Near bottoms incline.
Shot there pleasure upwards
Twards a haze of gray,
In the quick, gravity's glee
Bodies held tight, gut waiting
For ramps flight.

Later that spring
A newspaper tucked
Under my arm
Told of a woman,a  body.
Beaten, burnt
Left in the fall.

We stood, three boys looking.
Polices tap streamers,
And vehicle tracts.
Seeing black Reminisce
On white grass shoots.
We could smell decay
Were the ramp use to be.

Three boys, guilty faces
Scilently reminiscing  joyouse lust
On the back of violated dead
Over and over to the haze of gray.

Life kept the body and heavy.
Burdend by snow-pleasure.

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Howl Revisted

I.
Written,
Upon a TV snap,
Exquisite implosion, for
Crippled words,
In land of lords, and
Crimson shepherds.
My I, and 
Hands at play.
Now moments are
Me bitter.
To work then, 
This sharp,
A blade to sunlight,
To cut our fat.

      II.
A Howl,
In New York,
Black and white,
By the day's genius,
A fad long past,
With a wish, return.
When I Deep,
Held naked, In rhythm
His shaky, pitch,
Mantras voice,
Erect,
Brilliantly nasty,
Tentacle opean,
Nods to comrades.

      III.
Need beats,
And crazy men,
Gay jew,Buddha alkee,
Agent Lunch,
For we are no better.
Personally,
Been raised by woman,
In there works,
Need wild Intel.
Abstractly man, 
Baby.

     IV.
Arrogantly, Once,
Proclaimed, I was
The beats reincarnate,
Madman's conciseness,
Now, Have to be.

Details | Johnathon Souders Poem

Over the Dream

Aphrodite is worshiped by a devotion of
a past flesh- self taught to dream of 
a girl's face for my partners music

flowers in freckles with long red hair, naked
for warm lust- for the facts are absent, all
conjured by fickle thoughts

Staring to see, the elusive companion that
contemplates my needy comfortable, as  
I plunge for a lottery needle

Dropping my black magic into a enchanted feast
of temporary- wend on procreation by teen
films and Disney media

A masculine endeavor for two, hold sex down for 
biblical ethical  exemptions , solitude
is the solution of this fix

To sprout a seed, deep in black basic crawling for 
self-light-  moving the soil of souls
warm decaying energy

Sit alone to accept all my demons
"The Dream Is Over"