a rage controlled
held in check
eventually purges
streams of hot debris
all in the name of destruction
aimed in every direction
once the ugly ejaculate is released
the violent discharge then slows
and eventually stops
the previous agitation calms
and the cooling off has begun
the nature of the beast retreats again
on the streets
a molested teen
knocked up by dad real young
then kicked out while gay
will be caught loitering now
on the seedy side of town
sweet smellin’ weed
it takes me off mark
my weightlessness calms me down
in peace I float high
smoke permeating all pores
drifting away from life’s crust
polluted
cough inducing life
it chokes my throat hot and raw
exhaust and anger
fury hangs in the air thick
rage blows up, innocence pays
~~~
AP’s confession – the words just started pouring out one day. Totally shy in real life but enjoys bold poetry about life. This is Accidentally Poetic’s first feature on The Short of It.
Submissions are now closed but if you’d like to be featured on The Short of It in the future,
click here for the submissions guidelines.
#TheShortofIt
Atmospheric
The weather changed
and storms roared in
and lightning ranged
o’er thund’rous din
But then you smiled
and for a while
sunshine was mine
Begin Anew
With twist and turn
and swoop and sway
from stem to stern
I moved today
As I unpack
I know I’ll crack
to see just me
Flower and Flame
Solitude stands
in the shadow
watching the sands
in the moon’s glow
very aware
hope rides the air
and change arranged
Who is to Blame
Fighting demands
that verge on wild
sticky the hands
that hold the child
comforting cries
with little lies
and pleas for peace
Nature’s Presence
Nature has seen
what man has done
the times between
each rising sun
Yet fan or no
a tomorrow
will be set free
Connections Lost
I’ve lost my mind
and lost my way
so please be kind
and stay away
whilst I reset
and I forget
the past I’d cast
Wanting Other
She lies in bed
dreaming of love
wanting it said
she’d had enough
But it’s not true
She’s just had you
The same old game
Crowding the Plate
The door was slammed
My face was red
But I’d be damned
those lies be spread
I made the call
to play hardball
and switched the pitch
~~~
Stephen W. Buchanan shares his poetry at “lf You Haven’t Got A Sonnet” https://muttado.com His work was first featured in 2020 – April 17 & November 27. Stephen’s work was also selected for The Sound of Brilliance.
Submissions are now closed but if you’d like to be featured on The Short of It in the future,
click here for the submissions guidelines.
#TheShortofIt
Redux
The unaddressed haunts the vitality of the future.
A boiling, hot mess of resentment seething right below the surface.
Repetitively protecting the external while the red-hot hatred burns.
The barely suppressed rage remains coiled inside.
Implosion imminent.
Eventually, it will kill you.
Originally posted on I Write Her 7/19/18
our expectations
wrapped up in the guise of hope
and propped up to resemble serenity
almost guarantees
a recipe for disaster
they’ll make us unravel
when longings become ire
strive instead for acceptance of reality
Redux
shocking upheaval delivered unexpectedly
the heartache pounded harshly inward
internal distress burnt a tortuous red
a deep cut surrounded by a million small tears
the stress widened all the wounds
anguish and heartbreak followed
the future, unending and suffering agony
sorrow and grief dictated the next steps for survival
this daedal misery mimicked a slow death
love left in an upset heap
an untidy disarray of hurt
this…
this from someone who cherished commitment
Redux
I
scream your
name with rage.
Mordacious words
escape my mouth. The high-decibel sound
waves of my hostile screams slam into the
walls. I’m seething,
breathing hard,
wrathful.
Hot!
the cries of a young boy go unheeded
his innocence questioning why love hurts
why is he to blame
always
his reddened body
and damaged psyche
aches
at the prospect of another beating
his mother
another pawn
sidelines her nurture
for her own peace
the child twice unlucky
lives out a horror-filled childhood
but with determined endurance
his strength gets him thru his familial hell
at the tender age of sixteen
grasping sweet freedom
in the ball of his fist
he holds back the final strike
quieting his monster
embarrassing the beast’s over-blown stature
it shook the cowardly aggressor
finally
there was peace
a respite from the violence
a start of healing
yet the dysfunction lingered
the home, always a yelling place
a source of constant dissatisfaction
coupled with emotional abuse
the father found other ways to injure
it was only a few more years
then the young man’s escape became possible
finally living on his terms
had begun in earnest
he peeled off the pain
saved himself and forged a future
promising himself to live a better life
he tried
one marriage in and down
the second one brewing for a storm
the dysfunction of the past not quite gone
just carried forward
he’d survived
but had not shed the poison within
still imprinted deep
was the darkness of the monster
not expunged, as thought
only resurfaced in time
the complete healing
required reflection and resolution
steadfast and enduring love saved him
pushing him to face his demons
and asking forgiveness of those he’d broken
just as he had been
One old and one a more recent post, but both are written superbly by my dear friend Candice Louisa Daquin! Enjoy how she weaves her magic by creating breathtaking imagery in these pieces filled with voluminous emotions and passion. Such talent keeps me flustered with pride. 🙂
I am not overt
even when good green absinthe is poured over
a sugar cube
the silver tongs holding
sweetness just.
I am not overt
will not tell you of my sinning urge to
strip you dear of clothing and chew
the very mercy from you
beneath my aching layers
where frill and fancy and the soft cotton of
longing
lie on top of one another, spilling over
in quiet crescendo.
I’m not overt
as you bend toward sunlight, creating a halo of
light beneath your breasts and I see
the coffee cream and the glory of
all that I have ever desired
drawn in chafed clamor.
With reddened mouths, we
empty our aching into indigo rivers
for to release them
and become that thing of wanting
does not possess a language sufficient.
If it did, I fear I would
spend decades
describing what it feels like
to surrender to you, feel the rounding
of dark silver, begin to etch my spine
its crescent capture, a moon within my
shuddering limbs
as we cascade over the other
swimming like night swans
oblivious to the beckon of dawn.
I fear, should it be translated
my throaty cries will be colors without
meaning, a lake of pleasure, where finding you
I sink beneath, without need of air
your fingers playing me
like a waterlogged flute
for the merfolk who surely have
no rest in their abandon.
It is my greatest secret
that you own my heart and I
supplicate myself in yours, with the
rosy thirst of a child seeking measure
I find myself in the echo of you
your fingers deep in me, striking urgent note
sonorous and defeating sound
together we listen to the rabbit stitch beat
of our hearts, pressed in uttered motion
as you enter my blood and I
absorb a little more of you
as suppliant as a beggar for your
nectar.
I fear should you ever not exist
the part of me wedded to you in between
the trees and through time would
perish like starlight.
For only you bid this girl
alive like ancient wood-maker, setting finish
the sound of us, abseiling into the other, our
wordless joy, limbs bound, skin hot to touch
this thimble of love vibrating its frequency
out to lighthouses and beyond.
Lost from you, I would be no more than
a figment of what was, tortured by
recollection, denied the warm sustaining of
your cherished arms about me.
I am not overt
yet if I were, I should
spill like a warm wax, the seal of you
pressing permanently into my epidermis
a shape of longing and need
where mouths are elongated into song
throats flung back in instrument.
You inhabit me, as I reach for you
cresting waves, growing barefoot dance
a chant in time with quickening pulse
your eyes black in half moon shade
swish of violent love, simmering damp and lush
I release to the witching smell of your
skin surrounding us like points of
flame in absolute blackness
rising up, exhausting their burn
falling down to rise again ever
defiant and pleasured
by the anonymity of their
evoking spectacle
as if I were alive
only in that moment
when you struck me
bright with sulphur
the sabotage of my sanity
given willingly for one
such devoured
moment.
something so different stares me down
in the bones of my face, murdering calcium
I fear a change has come on me like death
shifting all I knew previously into stones weighing down
watching myself cut out of the pack with my own knife
a wrong-headed empathy for cruel people becomes the epitaph
we can stare at ourselves directly and see nothing of the future
rushing through life, peering round corners
how soon they show their true selves and the tar of their shriveled heart
the slip from love to indifference, a hesitation gasping to spill her ache
a handful of weeks pass and they advertise themselves to others like cheap meat
for the next fool who scooping down, picks up their deceit like a fallen child
in those instances, I wish for fangs and to be wild
it seems more honest to tear your fucking throat out
than help you understand why you are poison
Inspired by Reena’s Exploration Challenge #212 – It’s new… does it mean it’s welcome?
& Eugenia’s Weekly Prompt – Chapter
another year
another chapter
it’s new… does it mean it’s welcome
… only if it brings us something better
what does better even mean
seems insurmountable
the division, the animosity, the inhumanity
politics, people, our ever-deteriorating climate
it’s not new… but some positive change would be welcome
I Write Her 