Poetry Over A Bottle Of Merlot

Shotglass Post

Late Nights of Late

My
mind races,
My
Hearts’ been stopped.
My fingers
bleed.

 

Her

She said,
Im yours

He repeated.

They were already taken
by the
sea

 

The Edge

Here,
the edge is where i totter
drifting between opposing circumstances
containing fate.
Security
has long left my mind
my body
my home
my rationality

I always find myself running into such wild

uncertainty.

 

Madness

I can remember there was a time
when madness wasn’t liquified
in my veins.
Pumping threw me
alive.
Madness is a form of art,
a walk of life,
a nod of the head or
the shake of the hand.
Madness is a discipline
that tells you to dress well
to get a job-
to act accordingly
 
to create order;
or the thought order could exist.
Madness is a comfort
to the weary and disavowed,
to the lovers and the lonely
to the technocrats governing
us all.
Madness is a style,
a patter
a movement
to compare the legitimacy of riotousness
Madness is me
and i know it
i can escape it
I have succumb.

 

The Wake
My throat raw
My body aches
My soul Has dissappeared.
My mind wanders
Back to the point-
My ass hurts
My eyes squint
My life flashes before my eyes
The spark of radiation
Like the sun exploding.
I laugh at the turmoil
that has absorbed my
essence.

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3 thoughts on “Poetry Over A Bottle Of Merlot”

  1. there is one run which is useless and pointles
    the run from being yourself
    what you are
    what i …is?
    i’ll never be the third person.
    i am what i am.
    and will always be.
    in russian we say not
    “i’m speaking my mind”
    in russian we say
    “i am pouring my soul
    out.”
    so fond of liquids we are.
    that’s what i do
    pouring my soul out
    or i get drawn in these words,
    in these thoughts,
    in my love

    Like

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