#610
i’ve heard them talk about the white light,
the serenity and peace,
and there’s times of envy, and doubt,
and shameful why me’s,
i think of the comfort,
the solace, and ease,
then i remember the colours of kindness
of your eyes looking back at me,
i think of the feelings
the surges, and peaks,
i’m just so lucky,
for the you i’m experiencing.
#611
The battering
of rest stops,
check ins, traffic jams,
nervous drivers,
zealous trucks,
missed exits,
delays,
the slow
the fast
the oblivious,
cramped legs
and burning eyes,
a gauntlet of
bad coffee
bad food
all worth it,
to catch you smiling.
#612
There’s no real words to describe the sinking defeat
to see you at the bottom of another pill bottle
in the middle of a day, a deflation, more than anger,
a lose, a ceiling, a bracing,
at least some days you tell me,
rather than waiting for me to smell it on your breath,
the cocktails, the glossy eyes, the pupils, twists, and shakes,
you’re focused, and sloppy, and i’m defeated and tired,
the bad of the bottle brings out the worst of me,
unsavoury, short, frustrated, far from who i’ve worked to become,
your sip is my slip, which feels unfair, feels unjust, yet, never the less,
out comes the blame, then comes the guilt, then comes the worry,
and the reels, the fictions films of trouble to come,
and the spiraling starts, the fretting begins, and i’m ashamed,
and worried, and i want to run, not to be away from you,
but to breathe, to breathe easy, to be apart, a travesty,
to focus on myself so unappealing than our time together,
but then that monster arrives, untamed and slurring,
and my only option is to cower back to the covers,
to wait the storm, sail through the night
until you’ve slept it off, and day is a new,
and there’s a chance you might stay sober.
#613
There’s something about the staircase
leading to fifty-seventh,
when the light cascades
on the filthy, chipped tiles,
and smells of the street filter down,
when you step into the light
and ascend to the city,
framed by the giant towers
while the park peeks from the North,
that lifts my spirits,
comforts and calms my nerves,
its consistent, this moment,
nourishes my soul no matter
the weight i carry.
#614
The scariest thing of flying
from when i was a boy,
to now as a man,
has swung in meaning,
yet remained the same
in statement.
i’m afraid i’ll never return.
In youth it was a phobia
of plummeting,
aged, it’s the seductive call
of the wind, of adventure,
the spice that sits on
tropical breezes, the heat
that kisses the succulent fruits,
the heat that sits on the afternoon
and wraps you above a suffocating heat.
Say what if this plane shows me
how to escape old dreary?
Shows me paths of the heart,
oh in many ways i wouldn’t mind,
with a life so short, and answers so few
how could another spell hurt?
Save for an upset, turbulence,
and turned tables.
Some doors are best unopened,
as some paths are written predetermined,
whose to say where this plane
may take me away?
Thanks for joining! Find poems through out the week on my instagram @monsieurwrite
Don’t forget to check out the poems being recited on The Write Stuff podcast!
Take care, call your family, tell them you love them.
wazoo!
-Mr. Write