i write of strange places
i write of foul deeds
i write of stray wants
desires and needs
the real the imagined
the best not yet said
ethereal moments
that present in my head
i write of pale yearnings
i write of unrequited desires
i write of flames cool and warm
as i gently fan the fires
the confusion illusion
fat and frequently fed
will burst if not tended
will bruise if not bled
i write of hate in our hearts
i write of love in our eyes
i write of angry voices
and contented sighs
fragmented images
become thoughts
and then the words
lend themselves
to the sentence
the sentence in time
may eventually rhyme
but not always
About the Creator
Bren
"It's just a token of my extreme!" - Frank Zappa
"Cause it's all in the heat of the moment It's all in the pain!!!" - Devin Townsend
Centre Stage with the wonderful Heather Hubler
I'm writing it out not acting in doubt!
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Five—One Grounding
Five—Locked in a perpetual battle against my failing senses and reason, I fight to survive, to get through; I am afraid of... nothingandeverythingallatonce—...—my mouth is dry, and my muscles seize up... what can I see? I can see the birdcage and birds; I can see the watercolour my beautiful wife painted many years ago and unlocked her journey into art; I can see the empty mug of tea as it sits perilously on the arm of the sofa; how many is that now? Three down, two to go; I can also see a jackdaw on the roof of our neighbour's house across the road and a bookcase of potential—Five things you can see.
By Paul Stewartabout 17 hours ago in Poets
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By S. A. Crawford2 days ago in Fiction
Comments (2)
My record recently was 10 poems a day, but then I'm left with few days without my own new poetry. There are always old edits and fiction. I guess "the best not yet said". I wonder why love is not in the hearts, but in the eyes? Is this how men see love?
You're knocking it out of the park like three times a day while I'm struggling to even step up to the plate once a week. It is, sir, truly fucking inspiring.