poetry in the blood
pumping
through
a paper thin

heart

crimson ink
feeding

flesh

as needful
of inspiration
as it is of

oxygen

Pain as the
needle sharp pen
scrapes the inside
of the cockles

next the tattoo
parlor


all my being
cries out to

WRITE!!

my
atoms
neutrons
quarks

The God Particle

screams

write

Write

you jolly-well


WRITE!



Invisible inc aka
Write of Passage aka
SoulSurvivor
(C) 5/21/2016

write of parlay

we chatted over manners and harboured edges. these things … moved the line into a place of rural contemplation.

I’m tired.
You’re tired.
Sleep required.

But things are not right.
So staying up. Pouring a cup.
Hot chocolate…

And later fixing, always fixing things.
And the day was overwhelming so drinking. Shutting down, feeling worse than before.
Of course, a cycle of more, more, more.

And less rest, stressed.
I’m not alone, yet so alone.
Not a home, not a place.
Parents from back in the days saving face.
Not the children.

Like having them was also just a social construct.
And it hasn’t changed.
But now parents are supposed to give them a choice.
As if they have any.
Being put in this world.
It’s empty.
Sad and demanding.

So we freeze or escape.
At least we try to.
But some need to stay, it’s not their time to.
Not their time to leave.
It goes on forever, torture, pain, fighting, grief.
So much learning, developing, experience.
Never ending.
Story.
Telling.
Finally telling.

No longer covering up truth pouring out from our insides.
No more.
Lies.
Saving face.
Just crying and sad.
Save us!
Let us be, set us free.
Let us go.
World of sorrow.
Let us live.
Not be dead in here.
Die in fear.
Let us run and escape.

Fly like heroes.
Take our own shape.
Have our own love.
Find our kin. From whitin, fly above.

Above the pain that’s been going around.
Cycles finally broken and we are found by mothers of the universe.
We are loud, proud and free.
Having experienced this for eternity but now finally we come out.

Millions of rhymes
Going round
Inside my head
Some about the
Living
Some about the
Dead but
Mostly
from
The
words
I’ve read.
I am tired
Going to draw
The line
This is Guinness
Number nine.
**** I haven’t
Fed the cat
Never mind.
Because Thats
Just that.

Quite ugly, aren’t they?
The words that aren’t yours,
but still spill from your pen -
that roll off your tongue,
yet feel stolen again.
A symphony turned to pandemonium,
a melody that doesn’t impress -
This poem isn’t mine,
but I’m writing it nonetheless.

The birds singing in the morning,
The sun shining brightly,
Yet there's cloudy sky I see,
There's no you beside me,

The moonlight shines quarter to two,
In those beautiful view,
For thy absence,
All I see is blue,

For there's no thy laughs I hear,
The world were silence,
For there's no thy smile I see,
The world were ugly

Wannabe Love Poem
By a poet who's never been in love
Never found the one
To hold under the night sky
And smile while the world is ending
Because they're in their loved ones arms

Wannabe Love Poem
By a poet who's never loved
Who's never been kissed
or told
"I love you"