Poem-A-Day: Day 595

The Sub Missive

I’ve swung from here to there
and the only constant is some spying notion,
some mail-order indoctrination
gathering portfolio thoughts
in this weird world.

So I willingly let it.
I let the rolling stone gather moss,
I let it get randy and full of false bravado,
so when the time comes
the crippling crash will be inevitable.

The history is as long
as it appears to be short,
but mostly because the missive is submissive,
whether there’s help or not
or a ring to solve the problem.

Poem-A-Day: Day 594

Whatever

I don’t know if I can do it.
But after trying for the past
the idea of time travel
seems like a necessity.

The rather is the more
than what could have been,
especially in the expected here
but not more than now.

Poem-A-Day: Day 593

Old Fashioned

The bitter scoring
Left between pen and paper
Is a line of ink.

Poem-A-Day: Day 592

Dreaming Somewhere Else

counterpunch
and there’s nothing left
but the scattered remains
and a few smatterings of wood
and cheap thrills;
the thirst of other things
and the regret of nothing more.

it’s addition
and the forgotten subtraction
of things not as unfortunate
as the other wasted dreams
that people soon forget about
in the waning moments
of inspiration.

but it’s gone,
whatever inspiration was had
and the leftover filth
is an overwhelming masterpiece
left to build on it’s own devices
and replicate into infinity,
or what’s left.

Poem-A-Day: Day 591

In This World

The uncommon
has all but left a bitter taste
and understanding
has become unconscionable
in this world.

I’d give it up
if there were some gift bag,
some consolation
that would provide brevity
or feverish joy.

But it’s all garbage,
and I’ve known it forever.
I know nothing
and it’s an acceptable loss
in this world.

Poem-A-Day: Day 590

Sonnet #78 (Growing Pains)

Inglorious
this judgment night
notorious
for waning blight,
and something more cast from
the furthest reaches to
grasp at villainous numb;
pains akin to tattoo
moments that are permanent inked,
entwined within the skin and so
are left to rot and age unblinked
from the precious scraps  to forgo.
And nothing but the knowledge left to think
while death commands the folly left in drink.

Poem-A-Day: Day 589

Commonality

I’ve never noticed numerous spelling mistakes,
but that’s humanly possible I suppose.

However, I suppose I don’t as often.
Though I never did as much to begin with.

The revelation is lacking revolution
or some other catharsis that I’ve awaited.

The smell is deafening to my senses,
and I’ve never given much thought to it.

I guess that’s life as they see it these days,
a mess of drifting simply over backwards.