Driftwood, floating on percolating tides. Saltwater soaks fossil branches. Sand embraces nooks and crannies. Driftwood, meandering, awaiting a tactile, tacit end. Longing for a final, lasting beach head. The All or the Nothing is my first book of poetry, and … Continue reading Driftwood (Beached, part 3). A poem.
Your bold sweetness leaves the bitter taste of regret, a sensate lamentation, dissonant on my tongue. This saccharine tinge leaves me cold and wanting; a vine that dies from frost that sears the roots black and returns them back to … Continue reading Saccharine. A poem.
Climb. Against the winds that claim this bitter peak, that scrape and slurry and mince no words but enforce dominion and push and pull and drag you down until you can climb no more. Climb. My first book of poetry, The All or the Nothing, is available … Continue reading Climb. A poem.
Why do I always linger longer in this place? Why do I capitulate to my black dog space? I throw the stick for him and he brings it back for me to beat myself again, so he can jump and … Continue reading Linger Longer. A poem.
Strangely surprised: it would seem I believed that I’d be so much wiser from here on, indeed. It just took one glance and I’m back on the teat, pride reined in per chance, all humility. Strangely surprised that there’s no … Continue reading Strangely Surprised. A poem.
Here I am, brought to heel by poor choices and destiny, to learn a well-earned lesson of respect and humility. Here behind this concrete veil, my hope is born anew. All thin facade and curtain call, a life sentence, all … Continue reading Concrete. A poem.
Deserted. Desert winds wax and wane around my anxious senses, tinged with the scent of the exotic, the lingering perfume of your passing. I track through the remnants of my wandering wastrel heart, amongst tumbleweeds of loss and regret, wondering … Continue reading Deserted. A poem.
My walls. Are. Black As oil and just as wet. Wet. … Continue reading My Black Walls. A poem.
Every once in a while, I find myself in a mental space I’d rather not be in. And it doesn’t seem to take much to get me there. It’s a sure sign of poor mental health when a clothes washing … Continue reading Meltdowns happen.
Here I am, surrounded, my enemies on all sides. A pincer movement designed to take my pride. Am I not deserving of my pain? Am I not due comeuppance? I have unintentionally misled, miscommunicated my intent. I have been vain … Continue reading Surrounded. A poem.
Salt-filled streams in cotton valleys, stuttered remnants of hazy fantasia. Every shed raindrop that stains this silky, cloud-like tundra, is just another overture to redeem my lonesome, enervated soul; another blatant and monotonous attempt at constructing a beatitude of nearsighted … Continue reading Beatitude. A poem.
Why is it every TV show I watch reminds me of what I want, the desirous and palatable fuel that I need from you? Every heartfelt admission of love unrequited that looms heavy and untold in my vision, every sideways … Continue reading Unrequited TV Love. A poem.
I often ideate about endless sleep, when the lights are dim, and my thoughts are deep. I sought it once, but I screwed it up (if I wait forty years, I’ll get what I want). My new long term goal: … Continue reading New Goal. A poem.
The outer skin chafes like the cajoling blister on my consoling heart. Only those who look deep can perceive the anxious, pitiful, exhausted souls that have walked so many miles in this inclement weather. My first book of poetry, The … Continue reading Blister. A poem.
I’m just a hollow tree on less than hallowed ground. My sap is drained and pain, profound. Within this forest, where my … Continue reading Hollow Tree. A poem.
Laidback DM: SteveStillStanding.com 