Some mornings I wish,
That the ink would run dry.
-And my thoughts were again invisible,
To the naked eye.
The more of me I spill,
The more they think they know.
These pages slowly kill,
Yet effortlessly they flow.
A wounded poet,
A tortured shell of long before.
I carry the burden well,
But it frightens me to my core.
While I’m tongue tied and battered,
The pen is well spoken.
My heart has long been shattered,
I still masquerade it as unbroken.
The story behind my eyes,
Is far too consuming.
It’s hard to revel in the sunshine,
With such darkness always looming.
A splendid breeze made time freeze,
It momentarily set my mind at ease.
This brief release, merely just a tease,
She’s back on my mind, and I’m back on my knees.
Will the memories flee? Or, will this always be?
Ingraved in my conscience, consuming me.
Looming over and ultimately dooming me,
Unable to resume as it continues assuming me.
Taking over. Perhaps that’s why I find myself here,
What I wouldn’t give just to have her near.
Dancing circle of light from the candle below,
Beneath the covers, enjoying the winter snow.
Unable to close my eyes,
The falling flakes take my breath.
The beauty they possess mesmerizes,
As they plummet to their death.
Tempted to draw the shades,
To squelch this distraction.
Instead, my eyes grow weary,
In this calm. I find slumber and satisfaction.
The Dali Atomicus, photo by Philippe Halsman (1948
I approached the shadowed corridor,
Leaving a piece of me behind.
Never succombing to it’s allure before,
Trying to maintain my peace of mind.
Wrapped in pride, this invisible sin,
My sleeves in neon lights.
My excursion and where it begins,
I must improvise through the night.
I keep my head, despite it’s loss,
Burden can’t collapse my shoulders.
My eyes fixed upon this albatross,
My emotions become colder.
Pushed, Pulled, Depleted and Duplicated #8
By Karin Davies
I see things differently,
I’ve adjusted my motivation.
Like a crisp morning’s breath.
Anything is salvageable,
Before you meet death.
Introduce yourself to serenity,
Make a good first impression.
The answer to divinity,
Is attained in slow progression.
My eyebrows, raised.
Peering into the sky,
Wiping away this malaise.
The sun has interrupted,
This constant grey.
And though the horizon shows,
That it will soon be away…
My face soaked in it’s rays,
As it lit the meadow emerald,
I gave our maker his praise.
The Super Moon shined prominently,
Antique white with a hint of peach.
So large in the sky,
It looked close enough to reach.
And though I knew,
It was too far away to touch.
I extended my arm,
And pretented I could clutch…
And hold it in the palm of my hand,
I’d blow away the lunar dust.
And then throw it through the atmosphere,
With the easiest of thrusts.
I’d return it to the starry skies,
For another imagination to hold.
Back where it belongs,
Dominating the night, so bold.