Contributor Posts

And there he was, plain as day,
with a 6 pack, in his hand,
asking a question, a smile on his face.
"Hello Mrs. Smith. Can Bobby come out to play?"

I awoke in the morning
my brow covered with sweat.
My nose has been runny
and my stomachs upset.
I hope what I caught
will pass quickly today
for whatever it is
I do not like.
My hair is disheveled.
Is this even a word?
For at any moment,
it is now absurd.
Back to bed now
as it's after 4
and I need to sleep.
Sleep, sleep, once more.

Of all of the what's
and all of the how's,
why is it now, I'm up
before all of the cows?

I do not like the word extraction,
when you are talking to me
as you plan to remove my tooth,
which is much older than thee.

I am trying,
I really am,
to write more words,
as I know I can,
but a problem is here
and it is troubling me,
for all I here in my head
are words; a song by Jim Croce.
I hear, "If could put time in a bottle".
Now, please understand, those maybe exact
or merely close to the actual song
I hear. "If I could put love
in a bottle, the only thing left in this World for me
is to make every day, a beautiful one
and I would do all of that, for thee".
Perhaps, by writing his words or
the words I hear, will provide relief,
to this different type of mental block.
I hope so, for I am disappointed
when I can't write prose for you.

This life is amazing.
This life is a blast,
for these inked word,
absolutely will not last.
Gone on the morrow.
No more to be seen.
Written by hand,
not a machine.

When the body rejects
the food put in your mouth,
does this have any meaning,
as your life's trending South?

My balance is gone,
there goes my chance,
to go on stage,
to sing and dance.
My skill sets gone,
left in the car,
no longer can I be
a singing, dancing star.

The problem with writing at 3:30 A.M.
smacks of a inane writing,
crazy thought,
rambling prose,
writing words,
why?
Who knows?
I don't
and will read again,
my personal assault
on form.
When words spill forth
with thought unrestrained.
Here I sit.
The words are mine.
I am to blame

Words from a song,
ring in my head.
"Can't live,
living here without you,
can't live anymore,
can't live"
I need a word smyth
to help, rid these thoughts.
Remove from this page,
for "I can't begin to tell you
how my heart breaks."

There was an old insect.
I think it was a Flea.
He had escaped from the Circus
and he needed to flee.
He will find a way, to leave town,
perhaps on the underbelly
of a small dogs, fluffy down.
He hoped it would be a good ride
and that his new residence,
did not to scratch an itch.
I hate to be struck by a paw,
scratching for me
even if I am just a Flea.

Out in the field,
I can only grow rocks.
A worthless crop,
but it's what I have
and all I can raise.
A child of the depression,
who will never be brave.
No longer the pillar,
no longer to crave.
No longer the person,
who's Soul you can save.