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Shea Lutz Poem
The Miss
I’ll miss you,
A Truth, I’ve always missed you.
An opening act, blurred by time and a feeble mind
Hugs, homework, and the happiest place on earth
I miss your true smile
Then, the split,
a beginning,
An arduous odyssey filled with glimpses and occasions
Apartments, husbands, and cars.
I miss your back tickles
Then he came.
A chance, Appointed queen of the mountain in her castle grand.
Farms, mansions, corn, wine, ski trips, restaurants, drugs, and more cars
I miss your freedom
Then it came
A sentence,
A growth, a blackness at an incurable stage
Hospitals, pills, tears, regrets, love, death
I miss how proud you were.
Copyright © shea lutz | Year Posted 2025
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Details |
Shea Lutz Poem
Starting to think that love isn’t real
Something we say, not something we feel
Frivolous rhymes soften the blow.
A ruse evoked by the brain,
Chemical explosions alter and addict.
Life forces fuse like hot metal,
But cool so fast they become brittle
Tolerance builds, chemicals fade, and the war begins
Perpetual battles for small doses, proving our love true
For some, the doses are enough
Anniversaries with digits next to decades
Others see error in choice, but crave the full effect.
Why do my chemicals always remain?
Maybe my brain is broken like it is with booze.
The cryptic off-switch eludes my fragile heart
Maybe love is real, and it only exists in the broken.
I know what you must think. What if it’s you?
Does toxicity spew from my pours?
Am I the retardant for chemicals adored?
The answers compete with love’s lack of existence.
So now I dwell in my new home,
Between rocks and hard places,
Grasping hope with sad faces
Copyright © shea lutz | Year Posted 2025
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Details |
Shea Lutz Poem
Compulsions to create governed by fear and perpetual query,
Where affirmations are fossil fuels, scarce and costly.
Approval? Qualified? I Dangle upside-down, tethered to a rope questions.
Hovering over a pit of acceptance with a bloated cranium.
A pause in their scroll…
The press of a gesture nibbles away the rejuvenating thread.
How can a dozen feel worse than none?
These little thumbs, those filled-in hearts, these perverted numbers.
The lack of something accumulates, forming a dam even beavers would envy.
Obstructing a river of creative juices that quench the thirst of unfulfillment.
To overcome, to not care. These two rarely coexist.
Perhaps shifting the care could break the levy.
Not what they think, but I, and what laser could separate the two?
The strategy brings hope to a mind battered by rejection.
That’s right, Destroyer of Motives! Disguiser of Truths!
I will get up and press that power button, double-click that software, and create.
Not for whoever they are, but for me.
So, blast the damns and let it flow!
Who knows, maybe they like it..
Copyright © shea lutz | Year Posted 2025
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