Some poems are like a great shit

The kind preceded by deep pain

And a sudden rush to the toilet

Wherein much horror is released

The refuse and garbage of a sour gut

Built up throughout life

That needs to come out

It is ugly, and the stench –

It drives everyone away

But the relief that follows

Puts you in mind to create beauty

After flushing the ugly down.

my suitcase of calamity
my many faceted streams
they linger on in screams
they echo in my dreams
just waiting for a time to rise again;
they cycle through the bog
that terrorizes my mind
it happens all the time
i wish that i could find
a way to stop it from continuing;
you’d think the horror show
would have ended with the decades
but still there are the parades
the tortuous evening charades
that keep me haunted and afraid
to drift off to a peaceful place;
someday i’ll find that magic spell
that coin dropped in a wishing well
the balm that halts the ringin’ bell
and sees me stand in strength
to greet a morning at full length…

Voices echo through my mind

Hidden in plain sight

Reminders of treacherous acts

That threatened to sink the ship

So that one wonders

If people actively wish to drown

Or if they simply wish others

To go down instead

The sun sets for a reason

The moon is needed

Each hour,  each moment,

Each season

Else the world would scorch

And die in flames

One needs the cool silver night

To quench the day’s heat

And sail overhead as bright

As bright carriage across the skies

Evening birdsong

Permeates the warm, humid air

As the sun declines

And day gives way

To twilight night

So many calls

“I am here. Come find me”

This feathered community

Wants to be known

Beneath this faded blue dome

Soon to be purple

Then light speckled black

When the chorus goes quiet

And drifts off

Glory is the slow rise in the morning

Silently laying in bed together

Waking at the pace of the hour hand

Letting life in one breath at a time

As we lean into one another’s warmth

Twin rising suns setting the world ablaze

Slowly coming to life in each other’s arms

This poet

Is like a simmering pot

Overfilled and left on the flame

Until the water erupts out

As hot and angry words

Burning those who come near

Not out of malignant malice

But because this is his nature;

He is a walking volcano

Burying his nearby Pompeii

In a caustic pyroclastic flow

And weeping over the wake

Covered in dead,  dry ash.

If i can

Remove you from sanguine

To something harsh

To something wildly dark

Does that mean

I can exsanguinate

Those that buzz noisily

Within my precious space?

Does this make me a vampire?

Do i drain you of your life?

Do i want to

Drain you of your life?

Perhaps.

Sending smoke signals on Pinterest

Letters in the aether

Like calls in the dark

Also draw predators

Worth claws and shining teeth

Bright eyes watching

Expectant in the night

For all the anger

Underneath my skin

Contained barely

Keeping me awake

Overwhelming

Frenetic

Fucking awful