PTSD
Tears trapped in my eyes, From a past war Waged on my body. But my mind still carries Its wound— PTSD Is what they are calling it. I guess every feeling has a name. But I don’t know how A mere thought can be so
Category Archives: English Poetry
The Rabbit Hole
If things begin to spiralDown the rabbit hole,I would want you toLeave this poor sod alone.It’s a journeyTo the center of the earth.I can’t pull you down with me;You are not meant to burnLike us flammable.Not everyone shares a common fate;Some people are giftedWith graceful
Do I Say it Often?
Do feelings need be said,Or left alone in the abyss,Like a thousand thoughtsAbout you?I remember the first timeI looked at you—What I felt,What was spoken in the moment,And what was left unsaid. And how, every day since,I let you knowWhat I have always felt,To this
Bad Samaritans
Change that manTurn him into someone else—We didn’t like the first guy anyway.He smiled too wideLooked too happy.Wipe that grin from his face,Okay, let him keep half of it.We aren’t monsters—But let’s make him one. Bulge his eyes,Burn his ears,Slap his cheek so hardIt rings
Down is Only a Direction
When you have places to go,Miles to walk,And sometimes, more often than not,You stumble and fall.Find your wayOut of the hole,And somehow, you always,Get pulled down.Remember—Down is only a direction,And it’s okay to go there too,Just as you move left and rightOr row through lifeBack
Blessed are Crying Men
It’s okay sometimesTo show your tears,Know your tears,And the place they come from.It is what makes youWhat you are.How long do you planTo rest in a bottle?Let everything outSmash it to pieces— Fall to the groundMake a mess,Vent it all out.Your boat is caught in a
The Quiet after the Storm
A torrent of tormentWhen it passes through life,It leaves behind a rare calm,For you to gather the piecesAfter the storm.The drumming and howlingOf last nightHave died down,Along with your hopesFor the familiar sun.The wind has droppedIts gears of introspection,To count your deadAnd find the breathing.Go!
Our Meeting Point
Ticking clock,Loud breath,Heartbeats,Wet eyesStare at the door to open,Waiting for my saviourTo emergeAnd save me from –An empty room of solitude,And a heart ache.What’s a few more days,When you have waited a lifetime?Every hourGrieves your painful absence,And curses the time spent without you.These empty arms
The Old Man
An old man walks with his experienceAnd his adorable paunch, With an ailment in his pocket,A newspaper ‘neath his arm. Keen eyes for the steps ahead,Not so much for the drunken path, Chained to the table of time,Where he finds his daily bread, A life
Clothesline
A family of clothesHanging out in the sun,Taking in all the light,With it, the delightAnd the warmth of kinship.Unclipped for freedom,Jiving to the tunes of the wind,Rising and fallingWith the ocean waves. Failed to noticeA gust of wind,Blowing a shirt downWhere it lies with the