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Cecil Miller Nov 2015
Wherefore art the shadows chased
Far into the recesses of the past?
The world is sans perception
With them wilted into retreatment.
Thither - they that matter.
All else exist for their splendor.
I long to see them frolic, once again,
As did that wild lorneful and youthful creature,
When I was he.
I hope you like it. 11-10-2015
  Nov 2015 Cecil Miller
Hanna Mae Mata
There is no such thing
as a bad writer,
just one who isn't sad
- not sad enough.
Cecil Miller Nov 2015
Across the bed, she has lain,
Not breathing not in vain.
My mood is as stoic as her skin's hue.

It started early with how the day
Cut ***** windows with sunlit rays,
Was as southern as a slice of honeydew.

She was leaning by the gate,
Like Christina Applegate,
As willing as a pauper without a clue.

I never asked her name,
To me, they were all the same.
(Somehow, I think this one might stick with me.)

There is an absence in her eyes
I have loved since her demise.
She will stay this way in my memory.

I pour the powder on her pale,
****** belly, then toot, inhale.
Through my nose, I feed my mind.

Sticky dryness of my mouth;
It's time to leave the south,
Go somewhere no one can find.

I can still hear the sound
Of the drive by shooting down
On the street from around the block.

The room is a vestibule
To the starlit harlot's tomb.
When I'm done, I leave her on the cot.

As I move through the door,
And leave behind the *****.
I muse, briefly, how I stay in the clear.

To all the good Catholic boys,
May you bang up lots of toys.
Have a ****** belly Christmas this year.
I was hanging out with friends a few seasons ago and one dude remarked that a girl, our friend, baring her mid-drift, had a ****** belly. We, being of a twisted sort, parleyed that into joking about doing coke off of a dead ******'s belly in New Orleans on Christmas morning. Please, take this as satire. Don't give me no heavy lip. I am out of meds, anyway.
Cecil Miller Nov 2015
There's a sorrow for every season,
When you're a target for love's treason.
The bittersweet and twist that's raw,
There is no love without the fall.
Love is gory; tears at the heart,
Never pauses at the start.
You may vow to skip the pain.
One day, you'd die to love again.

In the springtime, love is young.
In the summer, burns in the sun.
In the autumn, hearts may ache.
In the winter, hearts will break.
Once a hopeful, spry young man
Has been haggard by love's hand,
He may vow to skip the pain.
One day, he'd die to love again.
I came up with the phrase "a sorrow for every season" yesterday. I wrote the rest of it just now. It took about half an hour.  I hope you like it. Nov. 4, 2015
Cecil Miller Oct 2015
We three wished upon a star.
One is fairest, one had the car.
One is the bind that is the love.
We three stare at clouds above.

Slowly, softy, changing shape;
Like we; folding, holding, loosening chape,
Warmth of breath upon taut strength.
We roll, and stick, and cling.

For each other, we sustain.
Pleasures ache, quakes refrain.
Touch brings shivers, slivers wide,
Ever growing, rolling tide.

Upon the Earth, beneath the sky.
We three embrace, nuzzle, sigh.
We recede from the crest.
Reluctantly, we rise and vest.
I wanted to write something a little ******, but also a bit on the alternative side, a little bit of the underground.
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