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Best Poems Written by Somebody Somewhere

Below are the all-time best Somebody Somewhere poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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It’s just a matter of time

Uncle Eugene’s breaking down.
Murmurs come from the room down the hall -
Surgery. Blood clot. A third kind of cancer.
“It’s just a matter of time.”
But for now, I’m laying by the fire,
warmth seeping into my bones.
My grandparents are alive,
one falling into incoherence,
but not bad yet.
My mother is here.
My father is upstairs.
We are under one roof.
And I am escaping into a written world
by the warmth of the fire.
The world outside is cold,
and eventually I must face the chill 
for the sake of my dog
and because time marches forever forward
with graceless strides.
But for once, my mind is calm,
and I will drape myself with this moment
when the wind picks back up.

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The church is a man-made institution

How dare they take the words from
Your mouth and the nails from
Your hands
and pass them off as from
their own flesh and blood.
They, who never bled a single drop in the name of others,
have crafted a halo of thorns
and adorn it,
”holy”
(self indulgent, self proclaimed).
What gives them the right
to denounce their equals
and lash the whip over their neighbor’s back?
Don’t they know that every drop of Your blood that touched the earth
sowed seeds of ceaseless forgiveness?
That every splatter ricocheted off the dirt
and echoed the promise “I love you”?
Holy? Wholly?
They know nothing of Your word;
they only twist it to tighten chains
they bind around the black sheep.
Little do they know their wool,
once white in Your hands,
is stained dark as sin.

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Breathe in, breathe out, start typing

Back straight, shoulders down. Straighten the computer. Stop staring at the purple walls.
Light the candle once, twice, three times -- why won’t it light? --
before the flame finally catches,
the scent of pine blooming among the wisps of smoke.
Breathe in, breathe out. Start typing.
Sunlight slants across my fingertips, and I turn to face the source
impossibly far from the window.
The clouds are tinged the golden white of times flown by,
of the yarn of the Fates that winds tighter and tighter and tighter and tighter in your chest until you’re suffocating, asphyxiating, gasping for breath, panic turning your body to crumbling stone.
The saprophytes know this process well. It’s been etched in their DNA since well before humans were graced with the knowledge of how to care for their dead.
Over the eons, they’ve befriended Time and Death alike.
What would I give to dance with the two as an equal partner?
To sit back amongst shadows that drape me like a blanket rather than grip me like a vise?
Too much time has passed. Too many seconds lost. Time, time, time, slipping away from my scrambling fingers.
Can’t grip the yarn; too silky, too precious. Clotho, skills refined through eons unknown,
wove quality too fine for mortals to grasp.
Clear thoughts like an etch-a-sketch, sending fireglow hair flying.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Start typing.
The words that appear are damn near incomprehensible, shrouded and hidden
by ghosts of memories weaving through my thoughts.
A fog-veiled lake house dimly lit by candles and the fire in my eye
as I take my grandma “exploring” over forest-colored carpet
and around oak tables,
a land in which she’s long since gained familiarity.
How do I rectify that vision with what’s facing now?
112 feather-light pounds of gray hair and fading eyes,
reality’s cruel reward for a life brimming with purpose and love.
I’m scrambling to keep up with all the changes, but my grasp is slipping.
Suddenly she’s falling faster than we thought.
The heater’s white noise is the only constant,
handfuls of M&Ms the only distraction.
I’m all too aware of the bills I’m racking up,
too cognizant that synthetic dopamine only shoves away what’s real,
but I’m crumbling too fast to care.
Shaky breath in. Straighten the computer. Stop staring blankly at the purple walls.
There’s too much to do; the future’s jumping down your throat and running away.
Start typing.

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Blue Marker Castles

I’ve always had the sneaking suspicion I’d never grow old.
I mean, when I was younger, I scribbled plans in a notebook.
Drew clumsy castles with blue marker and proclaimed loudly 
that I’d own one one day.
But when you’re a kid, “old”’s just around your twenties,
miles away from that wooden gym floor and your friends
sitting criss-cross applesauce next to you.
Now I’ve got my license
- probably a prerequisite for castle ownership -
and I’ve driven those miles to that point
just to find it’s a cliff edge.
Every version of me - 8, 12, 16 -
echoes in the sigh of relief I breathe
when I see the drop-off ahead.
I used to be so scared of heights,
thoughts of rock-climbing would send my hands tingling
and my knees to weakening.
But this yawning chasm greets me like an old friend.
I've been here time and time again,
if only in imagination.
The wind blows softly at my back,
and if I close my eyes and follow its whims,
maybe my movements won’t be entirely my own.
Maybe I’ll have reason to fall.
The momentum conservation principle states that when objects interact,
the object pushed gains momentum from that with which it collides.
Sure, the wind’s not solid,
but maybe they’ll overlook that fact.
I’m sure doing my best.

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I Drank the Blood

I drank the blood. 
Shuffled up to the altar,
pearly white shoes scraping over
faded white tile dirtied by the footsteps 
of countless sinners.
(I knew, even then, that that same grime already claimed my soul.)
I accepted the golden chalice with shaking 
hands and brought it 
ever so gently to my lips.
It tasted like poison, but I drank the blood.
I’d never feel so holy again as I did that day,
wholly pure in untouched white satin,
bursting with life and joy
and the light shining from the proud eyes of the parishioners.
But the light of their spirit would soon curdle in my veins 
from the hatred of false goodness.

I pored over page after page,
dutiful scholar I was,
and found nothing but tongues lashing like the Romans 
they should’ve disdained, 
not mirrored.
Every biting indictment corroded the gleam of my soul
until the only light remaining
was the reflection of that glistening chalice.

I am not the one who bit the forbidden fruit,
and yet the sweetness of its juice mixes with
the blood on my dry, cracked lips,
crimson trailing down, down,
down my ashen face.
A stain of my humanity.
A stain of Your hands.

I drank the blood.
The transplant attacked my system,
draining the life from my eyes
until I was left pleading You to sop up
the few lasting drops with a pitying rag.
Merciful as You’re written,
I begged you,
knees bloodied and scarred,
to transform me.
Make me whole 
or dismiss me to the depths.
Fix me,
or allow the scourge and fire to purify me
for ever and ever.
I called into the night for year after year
before I realized it was as vacant as I was revolting.
Was I right?
I may never know,
but I do know something inside of me broke those days,
shattering me from the inside out.
I try to escape, peeling back rotten layers,
but it courses through my veins 
steady and permanent as my beating heart.
I cannot claw it out, no matter how I try,
for I drank the blood.

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Premature Decay

I’m decaying prematurely,
with a marked efficiency I never utilized in life.
Bits of ash float from my mouth each time it opens
and my hands mark all I touch 
with a temporary smudge.
I’m going out like a burning star.
I can feel it.
My friends receive text after text of inane thoughts
impossible for anyone to appreciate.
They have no value;
I’m simply yelling into a void.
I want you to know me before I go.
Take what you can from this ash I leave.
Through the rubble lies sunsets and love for you.
Maybe it’s ruined, but I’ll heave it towards you anyway.
I hope there’s any value in it
to make my passing slightly bittersweet. 
I’ll love you from below.
I swear on it.

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ComeHoming - Matthew 15:4

You’re an asshole.
Words muttered out of context, out of line.
A rage-shadowed truth,
but with such unexpected forthrightness,
it missed its mark,
serving only to deepen our divide.
Home is no longer where happy is.
I’m not sure it ever was. 
There’s no abuse hurled or fists weaponized,
and much
— if not all —
is done with the intent of love.
But even so,
my nerves are frayed, and I can take no more.
Three hours pass, 
and I begin counting down the seconds till escape.
Has distance weakened me so?
Have the miles between myself and that tumultuous guilt-laced anger 
made me so fragile and contemptible of thought?
The fatigue enters my very bones from the moment I cross the threshold,
and anxiety-heightened feelings fight their short leash
with new resolve.
Where before I ruled my emotions and responses
with resignation and an iron fist,
I’ve become a feeble-willed sovereign,
allowing them to run amok with freedom previously unexplored.
No part of my reaction 
or unbidden tears 
are based in reason,
no matter the (harmless) judgments passed or words that can’t be rescinded. 
Countless crueler realities play out
near and dear to my heart.
I must be pathetic and wicked,
(for others truly have a cross to bear; I have none)
and I should believe I deserve 
to pay for my disfavor 
in the very blood that runs through us all.
Matthew 15:4:  “For God said, 
‘Honor your father and mother’ 
and 
‘Anyone who curses their father or mother 
is to be put to death.’”
I cannot apologize enough
to erase the stains of my thoughts,
nor can I gather the resolve to twist this on myself
any longer.
I am unworthy of a love such as that which I receive.

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Ten Lines from Ten Poems Entry - Crumbling Memory

I've always had the sneaking suspicion I'd never grow old.
I'm decaying prematurely,
slowly rotting in my core with every mind-numbing day.
"Why must every good thing get ruined?"
Home is no longer where happy is.
So why have you staked your claim on my psyche?
Cold blue tile is the foundation from which two children build their world.
I can discern from it nothing but terrifying probabilities.
Everything has an end.
Here we are timeless.

Poems selected (some from this account, some from another, some never posted):
1. Blue Marker Castles
2. Decaying Prematurely
3. Saturday, December 22nd
4. Words I'll Never Say
5. ComeHoming - Matthew 15:4
6. On Cybercoercion
7. Airport Cherubs
8. Winter's Warning
9. Who am I without achievement?
10. Nothing really changes in an airport

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Bed rotting’s not quite the right term this time

Found myself doing my damndest to sleep through the day again.
Wake up, pull the wool over my eyes, block out the world, repeat.
Certainly not a positive omen (what with Halloween and November 9th),
so I force my eyes open,
if only to scroll for an hour or two
(anything to keep from slipping).
There’s a man on my screen,
dark bearded with an oaken guitar in his hands.
I listen to his sweet,
wine-dark voice,
and it begins to enter my bones.
Fills the holes in the marrow with the base warmth of love and life
and as the sun breaches my blinds,
everything becomes okay again.
Or maybe it’s just easier to breathe.
Wake up.
Wake up.

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O Holy Night

Fall is breathing its dying breaths
and a chill settles deeper into the air.
The first flakes of snow have dusted the ground
leaving the world glimmering,
starlight reflecting off each crystal
and casting a beautifully eerie glow.
Nighttime silence is unbroken 
save for the sound of my surreptitious breaths,
which cloud in front of me as they’re slowly released.
I can sense God here.
An all-encompassing presence that fills the emptiness with calm 
despite the uncertain shadows lining the ground.
For a moment, just a moment,
(I refuse to allow myself longer),
I am not alone,
and I take comfort in His grace
until I’m greeted inside by the laughter of my family
and the warm glow of the fireplace.
This I can be certain is real,
this tangible, palpable love.
This is what I’ll live with my heart set on.
Where I land in the end is known only
to the holy adjudicator.
But as my mother’s love is enduring and unconditional
(unlike His, daily damning innocents and the joyously enamored),
I choose to establish my acts within such power 
rather than living by divine ideal.