Bitch with me
By Patricia Harris
The urge to just complain,
Not that you want to
Really anything change,
Just venting steam to release
And start again.
This is in the nature of the game,
Instead of fixing the problem
Whine and complain,
To feel better again.
My Faults
By Patricia Harris
In my head
my faults are mountain sized,
built from the moments I have
so often tried…
and seen the inability
to make it work…
so the blame was in me?
because where else could it be?
instead of seeing the struggle
I have endured and the learning curve
that me was set before,
I assumed that I was flawed.
Overcome the world laid at my feet,
every issue did I defeat, just not in perfect grace,
so I listed my own flaws in litany
because I saw the struggle as my disgrace.
Bone Tired
By Patricia Harris
When does sleep
Finally catch up
With the tired
A lifetime long?
It’s not that I am complaining,
For life is full, and I am aware,
But more than three hours
Would help feel like
I have been mauled by a bear.
Humanity
By Patricia Harris
Define for me
That which makes us human?
The bits that keep us from
Being defined as animals
Or monster…
Remind me,
On my dark days,
That all that is within me
Is still humanity…
Even if I wonder if I ever
Was human at all?
The End
By Patricia Harris
Is once the word is spoken
at the end of it’s life,
nothing further for it to know?
or is the verse just beginning
and the speech the start
of all it will know?
Either way I feel like
the word spoken in verse
will catch something more than
interest and ignite a new thirst.
In the middle of madness
Lay the verse,
Written down to try to explain
Something dark and perfect.
That the world can be seen
With eyes shaded by dark things,
Or overgrown with flowers
That bloom in nightshade.
All of this is just an expression
Of poetry and the truth from
What a heart can bleed.
Until dawn
By Patricia Harris
Staying awake for no reason
Until dawn approaches
Produces the same dreams
As if you were to crawl into
Bed as soon as the night falls.
Telling the self that life
Must fit in the schedule
Given by social settings
Only creates a guilt
Unnecessarily.
Words detached from the heart
Spelled into the pen,
Creating from the energy given
The poetry given to the world..
Perhaps I could do something more
With the energy than shaping it
Into the verse so fair,
But the perverse nature of my heart
Says that I must make the poetry.
Dead Inside
By Serena Mossgraves
The problem with life
Is expectations are so high
So much drama and the cost of pride.
It leaves everyone feeling
Like they might just be
Dead inside.
It drills holes in the soul
For emotion to crawl into
To hide.
In the world of verse
The possibilities are so very diverse.
Writing in a ruleset to meet the form,
Or taking the license to be
Whatever you want to be…
Poetry allows for all of these.
Probably the thing that scares away
Those who claim to hate
All that poetry has to say
Have just not found the poem
To affect them properly yet
In the right way.
* I do realize that I am posting it slightly early. I just got it written and decided that I didn’t want to take the chance of forgetting to post it.
Pattimouse 