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Perspective (a poem)

I used to be the person

to see the glass as

half-full.

But I don’t remember

what it was like to be her

anymore.

I never really became

the person to see the glass as

half-empty

either.

Instead, I just see

half a glass of water

with the potential to remain statically

half-filled,

the potential to be drained dry,

the potential for the fragile exterior

to be shattered,

the potential to be filled to the brim,

or the potentional to be abudantly

overflowing.

With the glass in my hand,

I’ll decide

what comes next.

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Invisible (a poem)

(inspired by Agoraphobic by Corpse)

Cover all the mirrors

and hide from the horde

because I can still see myself reflected in their eyes,

and I just can’t bear it. 

I don’t understand this skin I’m in

or the veins pulsing beneath.

So I surround myself with haunts

because I see through the ghosts

and they can’t see me.

Maybe it’s because I am one of them,

part of the family?

Families scream at each other,

and these phantoms wail.

But there’s an ache the accompanies the role

of Invisible Man.

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Unfettered (a poem)

What is life unappreciated?

Do not hand me a box

and tell me to fold my joy up neatly

and place it inside.

Let me celebrate unfettered.

The human life, 

the human body

is too beautiful

not to shout from the rooftops.

Instead I will lift myself up

standing on no one’s shoulders but my own,

and in my rising

I would like to bring you with me.

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Post-Election Poem

Being good and being nice are not the same.

One enacts and pursues, the other performs.

Being a peacemaker and being a peacekeeper are not the same.

One stirs up and creates, the other lies still.

Who is it that you think you are?

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Whole (a poem)

WHOLE

You don’t have to return

to the hands that broke your bones

or to the words that manipulated your mind

to fear for your next breath

or to the people who dripped poison

to rot your heart.

You don’t have to make nice

or pay your respects

or explain yourself

or justify your existence 

or reconcile

to be whole.

If you love your body,

mind, and heart

the way they didn’t

then your soul is whole

in and of itself.

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Footprints (A poem)

My poem entitled, “Frame” appears in this anthology by Bards Against Hunger. Proceeds got to local food banks! This week I have another horror poem for you to enjoy. https://www.bardsagainsthunger.com/bards-against-hunger-nc-preorders1.html?fbclid=IwAR16MDOHNzaaMefihJEojbeYcMplVblW8-6pmJcnOMTF2lmEYP-6Ma0Q7Y8

Photo by Guduru Ajay bhargav on Pexels.com

FOOTPRINTS

Early this morning after a troubled sleep,

Through my blurry eyes

I thought I saw footprints coming down my driveway

And stopping at the porch.

I rubbed away the gunk,

Clearing up my vision,

And the footprints were gone.

Even earlier this morning 

I got out of bed

Giving up on trying to get anymore sleep,

And I opened the door

To the sunrise revealing footprints

Leading up my porch

And stopping at the front door.

When I stepped out to examine them

They faded away. 

Early this morning,

While it was still dark

And the birds were yet to awaken and sing,

I thought I heard footsteps 

Just outside of my room.

I sat bolt upright, 

Slid silently out of bed,

And got down on all fours to peek 

Under the crack of my door.

Footprints.

I yanked open the door,

And they had vanished.

Early this morning

In the wee hours,

After no sleep at all,

I heard slow creaking footsteps inside my room.

I slowly turned my head across my pillow

To see the moonlight illuminate

The footprints that stopped 

Directly beside my head.

These footprints were not disappearing.

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Hanging Painting (A poem)

I write a wide variety of poetry. I have written love poetry and haikus, but those are rare. Often I work out my painful experiences through poetry, or confusing and frustrating thoughts. Nature is a big inspiration for me. But then there are my favorites: I love fantasy, and I love horror. This poem is a horror-inspired piece.

Photo by tom balabaud on Pexels.com

HANGING PAINTING

Don’t look now,

But that painting is staring right at you.

I know what you’re thinking,

Isn’t that what paintings do,

Stare?

In one fixed direction, yes.

But that menacing glare has tracked 

Every footstep you’ve taken

Around this room.

That enraged face

With bared teeth 

And deeply etched brow

Has only intensified 

From the moment you’ve walked in.

No, don’t look!

That’s what he wants.

If you give him your attention

You’ll be giving him life,

And then who knows what he is capable of.

Wait, who locked the door?

I didn’t.

Did you?