Open Doors

If He can, so can I

[itscmadforeal]

Goodbye: A Momento

Why is it that I'm always tired

In one way or another?

I think it's because I miss the days

When was always wired - that is

By drugs that used to love me like a brother.

Inside my mind burns a slowly dwindling fire

That seems as though no amount of poison can put out.

Maybe I should spend more time thinking about

The amount of times I was tired

Of being sick and tired

And how often I slept outside, no blanket, in the cold, on the ground

Rather than continually reminiscing to myself like a liar.

Truthfully,

Drugs were never really a friend to me.

In the end, they too always made me exhausted,

And I'm tired.

Like I said, right?

So maybe it's time to let this fire smolder out.

Well, okay then Meth, Heroin, crack, weed, alcohol and whatever,

I'm becoming okay with being without,

So I guess that's it then. Exit stage left, I'm not sorry but you're all fired.

[itscmadforeal]

Speak To Be Heard

Why do I only speak to be heard? What's so important that I can't listen to your words? Do I think I'm more important than what you feel? Do I think I'm better than your appeal? Is it that I'm scared that I won't get to be heard or that you'll say something to me that hurts? I don't know. I've always been this way and often it's hard for anyone who even remotely likes me to stay - I just run them all away. Where do I decide it's time to stop? Will it be aqt the expense of you? Probably... but I hope not. This time maybe I'll quiet my mouth, because all to often what I have to say is perfectly rotten. I want to learn how to speak back like butter that's been put in the microwave to soften. Maybe this time it'll pan out. I wish I could say this without a doubt. Sometimes I'm like drinking a beer that's too stout and I'm wildly difficult to figure out. I'm going to take a new route. Isn't that what following Jesus is all about? I guess in time we'll find out. Okay... I'm out.

[itscmadforeal]

Re-begin

Left totally blind, everything I fear is predominately in my mind. Will have time to rewind? Is my life really even mine? No. It's Yours. I gave it to you long before now, so why is it that even when I ask, I can't shut my damn mouth? Everything that comes out of it just usually ends up going south. But, this isn't what my life's supposed to be about. I'm supposed to be living for You. Don't you see I'm trying to? Every time I pray I just feel like a fool, because later on I'll just do something to someone that makes me want to dunk my head and drown myself in an icy cold pool - I want to live for You. Can't You see me? Can't You hear me crying out? Can you feel me? Sometimes I don't feel like you do, so it fills me with doubt thinking whether who I've been told I am will help me re-route. So far it hasn't, and I feel like a has-been. But yet I'm all in. I'm diving in because Your promises say You cover my sin, and I know You're there because I can feel You within. So I'm asking you again, can we start over and then re-begin?

[poems-of-madness]

“And when we fight, it feels like we are strangers or are we best friends that know each other too well; Incapable of hiding our flaws from each other? Sometimes in my head we dance Other times we have not spoken in years living separate lives Parallel to each other but never crossing one another. When we dance in my head We are the couple that never fights We are the couple having A polite political discussion at the breakfast table, But in reality you never wake up early enough to eat breakfast. And it breaks my heart Something so mundane can become a love tragedy it becomes my pièce de résistance for the groundwork of this poem And you call me dramatic and I found you underwhelming But in reality We are the undisciplined couple that eats cereal at lunch and rudely discuss how much we love each other at the dinner table Cause we always stay up late enough to forgive each other and start over.”

— Fusses and Fantasia by Royla Asghar 

[goneahead]

Winter camp, meals and laughter shared with other nomads. We all collect highways, pressing them, frozen in time, into the pages of our stories. I-10 smudges our words and our hands, I-65 folds neatly, and I-70, well, I-70 always, always refuses to lay flat. Sometimes, we tape in rest stops and back roads, or paper clip a repair shop or campground until we can barely close the tale. Then spring tiptoes over, a rain soaked hand plucking at my sleeve. Its time to go, time to collect another highway-

~~~~~ @writerscreed prompt: frozen in time

[purgatorypoetry]

a tiny blue sewing thread, so blue as to almost be black and so small as to almost be imperceptible - but only almost, peeking through my pursed lips as a mocking tongue that says I know something you don't --

but there's no satisfaction in secrets, least of all mine, I grab that thread between thumb and forefinger and pull until it until I find it braided into twine, inch to foot to mile it emerges, twine to rope to twisted steel cabling I wrap the binding round my bleeding hands and I heave

oh, she's a big one, thrashing on the end of the line and protesting being brought from the murky brine I gag and I choke as she wriggles her way up my closing throat and I cough her out upon the deck, a beast, a leviathan with a hook in her lip and an anchor through her neck

a poem! I declare -

but it's only words, tethered together in clumsy twitching like so many bluegills on a stringer, like so many carp and what my grandma would call trashfish if she were still around (I didn't even know she wrote until she passed)

but the words, the words they're just words all ugly and disordered and slimy with whatever ugliness still coats them from the inside-me they're writhing in the creeping sun they simply read

fuck you, I'm never going home

[daerren]

[xblu]

"Someone willing to burn the world for the one person they care about; that's a man I understand."

— Raymond Reddington (The Blacklist S1EP7)

[pennywishpoems]

if i even belong in heaven

Isolation churns ‘round the pit of my

Stomach. A whole nation learns how

Illness kills and runs rampant. There

Is no chance in hell I’ll see you again.

And God knows I’ve got to repent if

I want to find heaven.

*

I’m sorry I couldn’t live up to all that

You expected. There can’t be a worse

Feeling than that of the rejected.

*

Seven years ago I heard Alan Watts

Talk about death. “What was it like

Before you were born?” is what he

Asks. You can’t answer that, and I

Know that’s the point. People come

And pass; I’ll be a lost boy.

*

I’m sorry for the weight of my existential

Dread. I’m sifting through the memories-

The ones I can’t forget.

*

Pen

[marineashnalikyan]

Tell me this isn’t true 💁🏼‍♀️

[megleepoetry]