Buckling at the knees
Trying to stand against the turbulent wind
That etches these lines on my face
It’s not age, it’s disgrace
Fallen at every hurdle
I’m not Sisyphus
Never could be
My lips are burdened with the weight of frowning
I’m not an island
Though I tried to be
With all these thoughts
Taking flight like the birds
Around me
Gannets gouge my eyes
And Satan just flies on by
With the little yellow glint in front of their eyes
As they laugh and I cry
They are grace
But what am I?
Frankenstein
An arms race inside my mind
Trying to be of the world
When I’m blind
Author: Matt Johnson
Birds soar
Birds soar against the wind
Retelling myths
Once believed
Ghosts
A cacophony of laughter fades
Along with the photographs on the page
Turning through time
long flown by
A ghost of a glimmer in her eyes.
Posts every Tuesday
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Apologies
Unfortunately I have no new poetry to post today.
We’re so tiny in reality
The world doesn’t care for you or I
Deep in this monster
We’re just little drone bees
Coming home legless
No longer qualified
Poetry inspired by nature:
Honey bees like a treat sometimes, sap from lime trees. This sap ferments and they get drunk. And if they make it back to the hive, the ‘guard bees’ will take their legs off for punishment.
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New posts every Tuesday.
My insanity
I breathe in the toxicity
But never the antidote
Because I’m immune
And I’ve got words writhing
Like flies caught in a web
Tongue tied
Into silence
while these monsters
run rampant in my head
New posts every Tuesday.
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Thanks.
Illusions
Precious illusions
are the essence
of every good religion
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New posts every Tuesday.
