Poem 22

After so long,

Same feelings persist,

Same fears,

Explainable obsessions.

PTSD persists.

And there’s no excuses,

No justification anymore.

It’s me.

Just me.

Doubt (hour 23)

So now I am down to doubt
Doubt that I might not finish
Doubt that I may fall asleep
Doubt that I may not meet
Doubt that has no teeth
Doubt without a beat
Doubt that cannot fleece
Doubt that cannot win
Doubt that has to give up
Doubt I won’t give in
Doubt about a Doubt
Doubt I will not contain you
Doubt you will be a Doubt.

Poem23/24 “A dOuBtEr”

A doubter needs:





And faith

That can feel when it comes nearly end

Don’t give up, just take a rest

You can reach your goal, if you don’t doubt


Self Doubt

My Journey inward
Afraid -loss
Cries -Words
Built highly
In regards
To a solid
Looking for the truth within
The word
Sink deeper
Feel it
And digging
For more truth
To my creative
On who sees?
The honesty

The Doubting Hobbyist – Prompt 23

Waits nary a second before telling you
She’s not sure/ready/certain/running on time/arriving on time/arriving at all.

To observe her is to learn the whole wardrobe of confused expressions she’ll wear
Just by asking her what she’s writing.

Don’t let her know she’s putting the wrong items in her bucket list –
Doubt is her pastime.

Doubt and Fear

“…we should be unafraid to doubt,”

— C. S. Lewis

“What if…?” The famous thinker’s friend;
For great ideas of every kind,
Begin, “What if…?” and in the end,
Creative gemstones may be mined.

Beware of doubt, the siren song!
It’s poison to artistic souls
Don’t ever ask, “What if I’m wrong?”
Trust in your heart, your self, your goals.

An inconsistency? Why, no,
Imagine freely, pretty thoughts!
Ask anything you please, but don’t
Dare ever question what you’re taught.

Prompt: Write about doubt.
Form: Cross-rhymed quatrains, in iambic tetrameter


Post-Prime (23)

The plastic rat tacked to the wall
The crystals hanging from the door hinge.
The people stepping outside in lawful smoking compliance.
The jaded bartenders ignoring your drink request.

The aftermath of a great show.
Musicians past their prime but still magical.
Low ceilings and laughter and Halloween lights.
Done by 9:30, Metamucil time.

Playing now with four guitars
When one
Rick Nielson
Was previously sufficient.

Big fish in a small pond still
Believing themselves
To be Rock

Hour 23: Feed

The animal inside awakes

Your body quakes

Mouth grows needy

Fingers greedy


You become a beastly beauty

Deadly cutie

Movements feral

Strip apparel


Ravenously you devour

Full of power


Until sated

The Worst Love Poem Ever Written

I used to associate fucking for love



Ripping my clothes off with your teeth

Couldn’t wait to get me under you

So you could get inside of me

Kind of fucking

There was no passion

Just fucking

But oh, did I love you

The way you pulled my hair

Slapped me around

Held me down

Forcing yourself to penetrate my core

You made me yours that morning

Against my will

You made me yours

I writhed around on the floor

not with passion

or pleasure

but in pain

begging not for more

but begging you to stop

And eventually

You did

You wiped your dick off with my panties

Then threw them on my face

“Thanks for that, love you too”

you said with a chuckle


You got dressed

and left

With the same quickness you used to devour me

I was there, laying on the floor

So very much in love

with you