Caustic
by Patricia Harris
The words that drip from your tongue
burn deeply into the soul,
Caustic like the acid,
Perhaps I am lost in a fog
of the brain melted by what you had to say...
I stand here broken,
wondering if I have made
many the wrong choice,
Walking through the acid rain...
for someone who will never see
the damage inflicted.
For the one who will always
cause me pain.
One Candle
by Serena Mossgraves
is it too much
to light a single candle,
to illuminate the world
one small light at a time?
One Candle to fight the darkness,
one Candle to push the dreary away.
I am not trying to rid the world
of all the darkness,
That is too much for me to try,
I just want to push some light
into the world so that I might see.
One Candle is enough for me.
Lost Time
by Patricia Harris
I have spent so much time
giving away parts of me
with no concerns of
what I was tearing from myself...
Thinking that it was
what was expected
from me...
In reality all I was doing
was pouring time
into others,
openly ignoring
the holes I was creating
inside of me.
Lost In The Void
by Patricia Harris
perhaps the world would be better
if we were to get lost in the void,
not really holding ourselves to the plan
that society says we should.
instead I think we could wander
freely in the openness of the possibility,
letting ourselves learn how to exist
in the world just being happy.
What am I supposed to do
by Patricia Harris
my dream was so clear
in the younger days,
I understood that I
was able to do anything.
Age has stolen
clarity and the ideas
that I often clung
deeply to…
leaving me without
any clue what I am
supposed to do.
Deep from Within
by Patricia Harris
Faith can be a fragile thing
Pouring from the broken
Soul to be a living being.
It comes from deep within
To fill up cracks that
Break the heart and
Somehow the world
Will exact.
Time to pause,
As all good poetry is
but a practice of
Metered thought
and the rhythm of
how practical verse can be.
So, with genteel caution
thrown to the wind…
write bad poetry…
then pause to write
good poetry once again.
Full of pomp,
circumstance,
and prayers,
It is time to turn
the ink from tears
to the poetry
it was meant to be.
Pick up the pen,
put it to the page…
and let the verse
expose the differing
emotions that hold you
as a slave.
Is it a sin
to give gratitude
for the win?
Being able to convert
all of life's little hurts
into form and verse…
For me that is enough
to be grateful for,
that poetry exists.
Give me the pen
My brain is alight,
It is time for me
to write poetry tonight.
Perhaps I should pause
for the verse speaks
volumes and more,
but I think it solves
the internal war.
Pattimouse 