Everyone stinks of something
But not all can smell it
Dependant on your olfactory frequency
Is what gives the odour credit


Pitched above or below them
And they inhale in ignorance
But tuned
Right on the money
And they will look at you
Askance.

"If you truly love them, let them go"
But what about me?
I did the right thing
Yet here I am, hurting and crying
Wondering when it will stop
They say that time heals all wounds
But so much time has passed
And the wounds are still there
I did the right thing
But I am punished for it
I let them go so they can be happy
But they left the pain with me

There's a firework inside my head
Pulling me away from tasks
Begging me to rest
Slamming the doors to others

Maybe it's "me time" once again
Just me, and the quiet of being alone

It’s getting loud—
Can barely hear
I’ve been drowning
In all my tears
Words convincing
They cut like a knife
I’m barely wincing
Another: girl vs. life
It’s my head that’s the problem
It knows what it’s done
I’ve hit rock bottom
And it’s no longer fun
I tried to drown it out
But it’s tattooed in my brain
And it’s making me doubt
And now I’m in pain—
It’s getting loud in here
And I want it to stop

It came to me
In the dark of night
On a morning too early
Sometime muttering to myself amid the day
That tomorrow I will curse the man I am today
Much like today I curse the man I was yesterday
But it hasn't changed anything at all
Tomorrow I will stare back at myself as I write these words
And despise what I am right now
So I can ignore what I will have become tomorrow.

Even if my lips grow parched
I will still refuse to yield
to your rose red lips.
I will refuse their nectar,
your petals and your
siren scent.

A long endless road
Reaching out to desolation
Mile markers stand
Martyrdom, tribulation

Foot after foot
Miles or kilometers
A heart of soot
It doesn’t matter

Grevious each step
Calculated disaster
Lonely tears wept
The big there after

And I see
The invisible things
We are ‘we’
Dents, bruises and dings

And I know
The language we speak
And I show
The birthright of the meek

It is all upside down
We color outside the lines
World will bring us down
We dance out of time

A moment to find
An ancillary rhyme
In limerick skew
We do what we must do
To take ownership of our time

Air we need
It's free for all.

Freedom we want
It comes with a price.

If I were a cost
would it be worth
the effort to lay it down on paper ?

The woods would be
full of rotting timber
not fit to burn on page

The rivers would be
contaminated
with foul thoughts
from all the words
of poison that they spray

The clean up costs
would be prohibitive
The emotional cost
devastating

So trying to be
cost effective
leaves little to
be me

Then why do I continue to write poetry ? 😠