Friday Nite Poetry: Twisting Around Myself

For a self-described optimist I can wax morose sometimes. I try to be a positive person, and I think it works out, most of the time. There are times, however, those nasty little gremlins in my head take control. What works best to silence them? Well, letting them shout themselves raw through poetry seems to work pretty well…

Thruway Blues

The seems in the road
are like a massage
from an epileptic porcupine
digging deep into my glutes
setting off the alarm
for long forgotten aches

The dirty grey vein
stretched across the frontier
melts away
mile after
boring mile
as home
whatever that is
crawls closer

It has been a strange day
and all my emotions
have caked
and congealed
into an unrecognizable mass

and gray
like the long road west
my thoughts drift
without drama
from dull irritation
to mild happiness
through a slow sorrow

I pace the floors
of memories
and hopes
as the van inches
steadily toward
our destination
a finish line that is a relief
and which I dread

Bloody Shackles

The old injury
twists in my gut
so I bend over and take it
clutching my heart
swallowing my rage
taking what petty joy I can
from my hate

It is so cold outside
and me without a nice
fiberglass cocoon

I never asked for much
and I never saw it coming
you thrusting that knife in my belly
and twisting
wiping my blood on my hands
and telling me the wound
was my own doing

You let go that blade
so long ago
but could not help
but tweak it now and then
reminding me I should have taken it out
in the last thirty or so years

Do you take some kind
of impish delight
blaming me
for not being able to run
with that knife in my belly

Do you feel any guilt
for the journeys I could not take
with the steel stuck in me

Or do you need to tweak that blade
before I decide to walk away


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