with pen sword in hand

Another day met with adversity, shocked by only my surprise of it 

The gate is undoubtedly strait, as Henley put it

Perhaps I’ll forge on, or forge my credentials, as to gain a proper standing

Perhaps some unfortunate bloke will pay me for this sheet of paper, and its inhabitants

Perhaps I will return to the island of indifference, where my social standing wades with the comings and goings of the tide

An unforeseen Greek tragedy will make me laugh, 

And one day, the world will seek my epitaph 

a moment with a pen

He asked if I was writing War and Peace

Fool, I am writing a piece of the war, or living it perhaps…

With that nudge, I still won’t budge, so here are a few words to hush the void

Silence the truth, that time has been anything but kind

The rain refuses all requests for reprieve, depression is all I conceive

On the rarest of sunny days, my mind tells the stories my hands fail to write, and then come the mornings of anguish and writing unnecessary bits for monetary scraps

On this mother's day, I swallowed some eggs made by others, but the day is still not mine, it hasn’t been in such a long time, all I ask is that the sun does what I must each day, put in the work regardless of pay

Writing would ease my pain and soften the woe, but the misery refuses to go

Swallow your sugar and chew it too, for happiness is lost within you, until the bright bitch in the sky returns without an apology and once again gives you life

The City

Scribbled bits of shit,

This wall smells of piss,

Don’t eat a single thing until you emerge from this subterfuge of supposed humanity

Back to the grasslands and plastic toilet cans, out of the gutters we flee, a slice of pizza for prosperity   

how to properly loath someone

I hate you because I can, I’m old enough to know I can, you are older, not wiser, uglier, yes, and a bore at length.  

Do not presume I will fill in for you on occasion.  

My occasions are full and out shine your dull persona.

I’ve mended all of your mistakes in the past, but now I mount my accomplishments alongside your wrongdoings.  

Your greatest treasures include a musician and a child in need of haircut.

I am bored and you are purposeless.

Get out of my chair, strange odd woman with unkempt hair.

These are all for you, the days you asked me to sacrifice, the days of my life I cannot replace, take them and may the weight of them bury you.

tired of poetry

I slept and I dreamed of being awake.

Then I woke, and dreamed of being alive.

I recalled what being awake used to mean, and I could no longer sleep.

The reverie was brilliant in its past.  

I yawned and settled back into my cocoon.  

When I awake again, my existence will cease.  

All this time, I wasn’t where I was supposed to be.