Poetry is my outlet. I wrote this one today to mark 30 days. I invite other writers to add poems to the thread. Please respect copyright, and no sharing without attribution.
30 days without, and 30 days within.
Looks like I’ll have to wipe off this grin. Looks like 30 more, feels like 30 less.
Will she make it, is anybody’s guess.
My knuckles are white,
and the wine’s still red.
This counting has me out of my head.
My heart keeps beating,
but I don’t have a clue,
why in spite of its effort,
I still feel blue.
It’s time to count the flaws,
it’s time make amends.
It’s time to make my power,
it’s time to count my friends.
The gun has fired, so I’ll place my bets.
But what if this counting
is as good as it gets?
I’m a grumbling old Drifter
I guzzle cold liquor
Like my life it’s in pieces
A puzzle with no picture
I mumble alone,
Watch the struggle unfold
From a crumbling cardboard box
I call my humble abode
I’m trouble to none
people I avoid on purpose
Whenever I’m around
You seem to be annoyed or nervous
I’m coined as worthless
just lost and lonely
Rotting slowly maybe
you would understand me
If you got to know me
Society hates me
Your despising me greatly
You don’t know everything
I loved died with my brother
Any Ambitions I have lies with my folks and my babies
my insanity is a drunk driver
thats been driving me crazy
Alcoholics Anthem
That is a poem for my brother Michael he passed away from psoriasis of the liver in 2014 due to being an alcoholic. He was my . I’m glad I came across this post
Ty thats means a lot. But I have learned a lot from that break and I know my brother would be happy that I got something important out of it. Your a good women ty again.
Okay, I’m not a poet. I don’t even necessarily enjoy poetry. I appreciate it though. I’ve taken Literature classes studying it. So, I get it. One poem has stuck with me through the years. Here it is:
Richard Cory BY EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON
Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.
And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
“Good-morning,” and he glittered when he walked.
And he was rich—yes, richer than a king—
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.
So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.
So… I guess what I’m saying here is that everyone has skeletons in their closets. Or as some of you have said, a whole graveyard. We can’t judge, we can only love. And absolutely never compare yourself to someone else. You would never wish for their problems, nor they yours.
. I’m glad I came across this post
