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Ira Dawson Poem
She hallowed out her heart again,
She tore out all the black.
Then scraped the walls with her bare hands,
Until she reached the back.
She washed off all the rusted screws,
And broken veins, and pounding wounds.
She tried to make sense of this scene,
But honestly, she could not think.
She knew she had to start fresh,
But in her chest was left a mess.
But in her hands was left the flesh,
Of memories and secrets kept.
Copyright © Ira Dawson | Year Posted 2012
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Ira Dawson Poem
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Copyright © Ira Dawson | Year Posted 2012
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Ira Dawson Poem
The sky is weeping
Tears of relief and despair.
I absorb them all.
Copyright © Ira Dawson | Year Posted 2012
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Ira Dawson Poem
You’re the bee’s knees between my knees.
Sweet as nectar,
Tart like blood.
A wolf in sheep’s clothing
Shopping for sheep,
Shopping for mercy,
Shopping for me.
To the naked eye
You’re just fine
But to the naked touch
Your skins too rough.
Your eyes too beady.
You’ve lost your touch.
The lone wolf in sheep’s clothing
Losing his meaning.
Copyright © Ira Dawson | Year Posted 2012
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Ira Dawson Poem
Love is just a red
satin sheet, blinding our view
of what’s underneath.
Copyright © Ira Dawson | Year Posted 2012
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Ira Dawson Poem
Can you hear me?
The monster waited outside of my bedroom door.
My body pressed against the floor.
Looking, waiting for someone to save me.
The silence slices through the air.
Mommy didn’t try to scare him away this time.
I felt my heart beat in my ears
And felt his nails caress my hair.
What makes you happy? Why is this happening?
My screams trapped inside my pillow?
My eyes red from tears?
Are you thriving from my fear?
All the King’s horsemen are dead.
The next day, I made my bed like terror never lived.
Tucked in my blankets and fluffed my pillows
Erasing the memories of last night’s shadows.
(By Ira Dawson and Brittany Spaulding)
Copyright © Ira Dawson | Year Posted 2012
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Ira Dawson Poem
Can I be your punching bag,
Your dirty rag,
The one night stand you never had?
Can I be your stepping stone,
The place to go,
Your in-between of yes and no?
Can I be your one and only,
Your only family,
The dark at night to keep you lonely?
Can I be your lethal injection,
Your deadly infection,
The devil in your holy section?
Can I be your great escape,
Your favorite place,
The lonely latch on your rusted gate?
Can I be your means to say it,
Your way to fake it,
Your moaning face hid by the blanket?
Can I be your only breath,
Your source of stress
The only thing that makes you wet?
Can I be your blah blah blah,
Your la la la,
The flat note that changes it all.
Copyright © Ira Dawson | Year Posted 2012
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Ira Dawson Poem
His yearning passion filled the backseat.
The flame flickered wildly,
They both felt the heat
When the tender bloom peaked
It’s head through the soil at the base of their feet.
The tender affection had grown to obsession,
Their relationship simply perfection.
They cherish the moments they created together
And ignore the scorn they felt grow for each other.
His inner soul urged.
“Bamboozle all oppositions”
He knew better than to attempt to listen to intuition.
The struggle in his inner soul— his lack of compassion—
Washed away the foundation of their makeshift relationship.
A handful of abomination seeped out his fingers.
The ghost of who they were would indefinitely linger.
Copyright © Ira Dawson | Year Posted 2012
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Ira Dawson Poem
I don’t wanna rhyme these words
Or strum these chords
Then lead the chorus and the verse.
And I don’t wanna make amends,
Or save these friends
Who left me when I needed them.
I can just hear your voice,
A siren on a hearse,
Letting death ricochet off the ones who hurt most.
I can’t just play along
And right these wrongs
Then plead with placation when the sparks gone.
I can’t answer your calls,
In the dark of my car,
When I’m parked by your house with the lights all turned off.
Feed my obsession.
Fill me up till I’m miserable.
Feed me.
Copyright © Ira Dawson | Year Posted 2012
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Ira Dawson Poem
Her charred tar lungs,
Like weathered sacks
Release and intake
The smoked filled air.
Escaping from her cratered lips,
Absorbing in her now white hair.
She married smoking in the ‘60’s
And wears the dingy yellow ring
To remind herself of this breathless demon.
Lurking deep within.
This commitment,
Her only commitment
Has now come back to teach her
The ways in which this wicked world works.
Pursed lipped breathing,
Hands on her knees,
Smoking billowing across the tar black sea.
She laughs because it’s easier
To have the chuckles take the place
Of the black tar life
She reluctantly lives today.
This wasn’t her intentions.
She never was a martyr.
But it’s simply the beginning
Of a black tar filled tomorrow.
Copyright © Ira Dawson | Year Posted 2013
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