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Best Poems Written by Ryan Speir

Below are the all-time best Ryan Speir poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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An Orange-Juiced Christmas

congregate and anticipate please,
eliminate traces of old dirty fleas.
please don't confuse any old thoughts with these.
christmas trees smell better without presents.

pungent, pulpy stenches float up my nose,
duct-taped paper-clips make a nice rose,
miniature villages, cotton-ball snows,
oranges and pine needles smell good.

recycle orange peels which first were caressed,
while cookie crumbs gather underneath an armrest.
the winter holidays detest:
over-commercialized representations of Santa sporting Old Navy vests.

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Track-Lest:

Music jogs my memories, sonnets sock their toes,
where parts are missing holes are filled with frilled and fancy flows.
Sometimes sadness lurks where repetition works,
and overplaying certain songs will draw out nasty smirks,
not smiles that represent the happiest of times,
memories that weaken knees can compliment cruel rhymes
about weakness and flagrancy, lies and bitter spite,
where fools fought faithfully to fix an idea that was trite,
neither won, in fact both lost and still continue thus,
so now what songs will soothe a reignited, unrequited fuss?
I’m left with decent tunes to tempt me on a lonesome night,
where cigarettes and darkness fuse into a muse, I might,
replay certain parts, but then again why reinforce a dark despair?
In new playlists I’ll make sure certain songs are never there.

Details | Ryan Speir Poem

Good Morning, Again

i wake up feeling heavy, stuck in the mud of self-pity.
some weight is lifted as i sip the day's first pot of coffee,
which brews in my stomach acid.  as i exhale
an ambitious aroma, the metallic remnants of yesterday's
regret allow me to briefly forget my karmic debt.
wet with anticipation, my tongue craves conversation,
but i plug that yearning with a cigarette to help me focus
on the importance of today.
as a hard pull coats my throat with thick tobacco resin,
a thought gets caught in a filter that pauses
diseased impulses, so they can be reconsidered before
compulsion becomes action.
satisfaction is not guaranteed, i don't have to feed
my consistent need for change or try to rearrange
feelings for the sake of filling a void,
sure, i might get annoyed and try to avoid
some sad ones, but they'll pass.

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Breaking Up a Bad Habit

all i'm trying to say is that laying on the tracks leaves me open for a crash,
and if i take out the trash by myself i might throw it all away,
just for today, i'll say don't stop, and really mean please stop,
talking to me is like chopping down a dead tree,
and if you can see through my complaints and i ain'ts,
the bark will break your tooth, just like truth,
it leaks like sap down the side of my mouth,
and further south it rests on my chin, as you begin
to lose interest.  this is not a test, i cannot rest
until you're still, long enough for me to take
a picture of your frown.  i'm a sad clown
whose crown of thorns and thistles
propel teardrop missles, smearing across my cheek
and as eyes leak, i speak some strange line
about how i can't stop, won't stop,
yet, i cop heartbeats from your rhythm,
because i was running out of time,
here's where i rhyme, again.
two torches' flames dance and spark a duet,
i knew it, you blew it, your disinterest gave it away,
so again i'll say something, and blow out my own fire
as i admire the shape of yours.
you should give tours of the circles you run around in,
other people would get lost too.

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Everyday Noise

White noise echoes equally from wall to painted mural,
dancing like a whimsy wisp of width;
where waters drip and notes all slip,
sound patrols the minute holes that cause acoustic depression;
pizzicato strikes like bikes on blacktop every day,
leaving skids for little kids, loud scats scoop brats away,
with solos soaring boringly and duets dazzling dew,
it’s hard to not hear voices, different choices scream at you.

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Doggie Paddle

I sometimes enjoy sinking into emotional pools,
where air seems fair, and swimming dogs might seem like drowning fools,
but breathing in between the strokes of happiness and sorrow,
can cause a loss of memory, sometimes I need to borrow
older thoughts when life was simpler, and sadness seemed so fleeting,
recurring waves of anger and distress leave me retreating,
to the shallow end where black and white define two simple sides,
and life’s unlucky breaks and dumb mistakes are like amusement rides,
you give the man your ticket, have a thrill and then it’s over,
instead of broken hearts, hospital charts, and searching for a clover
that’s supposed to save your life with luck and maybe spare a tear;
and when you never find it you might inhale some liquid fear,
but moving to the deep end provides a larger wave,
that yields the shifting spectrum that I find I often crave
where swimming simply, taking dives, and coming up for air,
make emotion’s spectrum pool-like, and my lucky strokes so rare.

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It Takes Two Shoes To Tango

to dance with secrets is to tango with regret.
if i forget where cares were met,
i wouldn't dare share their sources...

a different course of action might reveal unreal concern,
and unravel feelings' fleeting, slowly, repeating
healthy burn.

flaky drying skin remains, combustion stains,
my pain's real source,
a forceful foe, but now i know:

emotions can be like chains.

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Burnt

Scorched, alone, I stand ensconced, waiting for a sign,
watching moonlight’s flight at night, looking for what’s mine,
I’ll scour stars for paths to take, and slake my thirst for fun,
resentment stains my brain with pain, yet I am left with one,
more score to settle, burning blazes barricade my heart,
and sappiness’ cool caresses won’t succinctly start,
to put out fires from my misplaced ire at its source,
I’m stuck with burning bridges, at their ridge is my remorse.

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By the By

while you smile at me, i'll try to pry
the smirk off my face. and as your giggles fade
without a trace, i'll erase any remnants
of my tough guy mask.  all you have to do is ask,
don't bother playing pretty girl eyes,
i despise games and disguises.  lies leap out at me
quicker than fruit flies flock to old moldy apples.
true, i do tend to spit a few of my own,
but now that i'm a grown up i can own up to them,
and i won't pee in a cup and tell you it's lemonade.
i've made that mistake before, or that mistake made me
regret a bet i made against myself, to take that bait.
now, as i wait for idealized and unrealistic expectations
to be fulfilled, i'm still not thrilled with the outcomes,
or lack thereof.

like a glove it's fitting, that of
all the times i've tried to jive with bull***** and high five
people that deprive me of self-confidence,
this thick tube of tainted attraction sticks with me,
and eats away at my teeth and tongue,
like a battery acid toothpaste.  it makes me weak,
and burns my cheek, i just don't want to speak
about a crack that caused a vulnerability leak.
now i'm on a streak of sick decisions.
i might still seek visions and delusions of that happy place,
where i've still managed to save face,
after all, my fall from grace,
certainly was not graceful.

Details | Ryan Speir Poem

Vapidity

Meager attempts leave lofty goals out of reach;
while thin thoughts leech away my creativity,
I pry perfunctory pieces from flighty sources,
searching for literary gold.
Holding my hands in place, I wait to erase a mess,
in case someone decides to test my poetic valor.