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

Accidentally Poetic

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


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.


Stephen W. Buchanan


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 Sonnethttps://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.





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

Painful Confusion



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 from someone who cherished commitment

Broken Young, Healed Old

the cries of a young boy go unheeded
his innocence questioning why love hurts
why is he to blame

his reddened body
and damaged psyche
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

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

Reblogs – Candice Louisa Daquin

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. 🙂 

One such devoured moment

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 


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 


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 


Lemon rind lover

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