The Poetry Marathon

Hour Twenty Four

Sleep- that sweet abyss

Something that I fondly miss

But there is much to do and much to see

Besides, my mind is a traitor to me

So many thoughts dance through my head

As I lie awake upon my bed

Reliving the events of every day

Regrets and troubles won’t go away

Things I’ve said, things not done

Chances missed, races not run

In my brain a war is waged

Deep within me, a beast uncaged

So sweet sleep escapes me still

I think that it forever will

Until that day my name is called

When I may rest, once and for all

The End

Desperation is made of quick breath,

and wilted wishes.

There is no thing sadder than

expiration from emptiness,

except dying while alive.

 

Hour Twenty Three

I am broken and imperfect

I wonder if I’ll ever be good enough

I hear ravens speak

I see dragons dance

I want to fly away

I am broken and imperfect

 

I pretend I am happy

I feel the weight of the world

I touch the edge of greatness

I worry that this is all there is

I cry for who I was meant to be

I am broken and imperfect

 

I understand that this too shall pass

I say, “Things will get better.”

I dream that one day they will

I try to hold on to that dream

I hope no one ever sees

I am broken and imperfect

Failures of Kindness

I drove away and left

you standing there, staring.

I, resolute, right,

and short on sight.

It is the silent

information we miss

that later makes us long

for that forgotten kiss.

poem 5/12: words that i’ve lost

laughter

sunshine

joy..

play

hug

snort & chuckle..

—

catch his eye;

smile – warm

—

hug/touch – just because.

—

love.

—

: words that i’ve lost.

Hour Twenty Two

The fairy tales got it wrong

They end at the beginning

Real love isn’t the chase

It’s what happens after the race

It’s hard work to love someone

And that work never ends

Midnight comes after every ball

And you have to learn to love their flaws

Dusk

A mourning dove trills

above my window sill.

Memorial to a well-worn day

as it weeps and slips away.

Hour Twenty One

Poe

It means tortured, confused, genius

It is the number thirteen

It is like a midnight dreary

It is pondering over forgotten lore

It is the memory of the lost Lenore

That taught me grief and loss

When her story unfolded

His name was Poe

It means he believed in Nevermore…

poem 4/12: words are my friends

 

bleeding words:losing out from myself; my only friends.

Hour Twenty

I search for that piece

The one that was left behind

That one elusive piece of the puzzle

That will help make sense of it all

I look under couch and chair

In cushions and crevices

Was it left at the market?

Perhaps back at school?

Did I misplace it at my mother’s?

Now when did I last see it?

I’m sure it was long ago

Perhaps it was thrown out

Tossed away with other unneeded things

Yet still I search

No stone left unturned

That ever elusive piece

The one that will make me whole