Call it lack of sleep
or call it low blood sugar;
Call it irritable bowels
or call it laundry day;
Call it what you will
but please call it something,
to give a name that will cover
the funk that was today.
Author: Jared Abraham
I’m a little tight,
poetryand I like it,
as the sensation spreads
from the head,
through the neck,
relaxing the shoulders,
and the breathing releases
and the heart rebounds
so that i’m not tight at all,
and I like it.
The Elevator
poetryThe doors have closed,
but down I don’t go,
instead content
to hear the buzzing
of unknown origin,
to lean on the wall
of cool, cool metal,
to enclose myself
in a metal box,
where there is no noise
and there is no strife;
there is no movement in the box,
but somehow I end
on another floor.
my coffee runneth over
poetryyet unclench, I shall not!
refusing to render
the satisfaction of release,
despite the pain!
despite the heat!
despite the puss filled blisters,
fit to burst,
I shall not unclasp!
I shall not remit!
I shall hold the cup!
for within is the only salvation
of this beautifully sunny spring morning.
a moment of clarity
poetryin the pushing, pull,
thoughtsfearsapprehensions fade;
straining clears the mind
if i could get rich today
poetryi’d send this all away;
i’d walk right out the door
and never look for more.
i’d grow my hair long,
my beard would be fit for song,
and all anyone would see
would be the slightest resemblance of me.
i’d turn into a bum,
and shut myself in from the sun,
only coming out at night,
to protect my eyes from the light.
and no one would give me a thought,
i’d let me reputation rot,
glad to have finally disappeared,
glad to have finally repaired.
running off the edge
poetrybut the edge keeps moving,
keeping pace with my every step,
refusing to submit to my ardent desire:
to throw myself off,
to fall off the edge,
to see the end of it all
as it begins again
and again,
each and every day.
the art dealer
poetrysat there, lonely
in the flow of the crowd,
watching the passers-by
and all of the drug-store connoisseurs,
waiting for the real buyer
that he knew would never come.
but still he waits.
and is there even now,
watching.
waiting.
silently judging the drug-store connoisseurs.
if i were a killer
poetryi’d never let you know.
i’d look you in the eye
and laugh at all your jokes,
while disarming all your fears.
i’d stand up straight.
i’d dress just right,
and always tuck in my shirt,
while never forgeting my belt.
i’d hold a respectable job.
i’d talk about it all the time,
and rub elbows with the elite,
while winning over your mom.
i’d be everything you wanted.
i’d be everything you needed,
and when you least expected,
i’d gladly slit your throat.
the garden
poetryregularly spaced
and free of weeds;
full of potential,
full of hope;
but potential has been squandered,
and hope has been crushed;
so what will it be this time?
what will you be this time?
and what will i?
and he grew
poetryand grew
until he was unrecognizable,
and even more so to himself,
doing things never before conceived
just six months before,
becoming something new
with every passing day,
unsure of what he would be;
surprisingly unconcerned.
Battlestar
poetryrunning into friends,
or something like that,
who have not been seen
for at least two years,
and yet there is a connection;
and yet there is a collection;
of shared feelingshopesdreamsloves
that is not easily lost,
even by the passing of time;
even by the passing.
Cup O’Noodle
poetrywith a stolen spoon,
not cleaned from last time,
noodle-iscious attack!
SO ANGRY
poetrybreathe in.
breathe out.
but it’s still the same.
repeat:
in…….
out……
now shut the eyes
and plug the headphones,
while dialing up some mates.
and maybe things will be better
by the song’s end…
like a bad grape
poetryyou are slightly deformed
and while I consider eating you,
the thought of your strange projection,
bursting in my mouth,
is slightly sickening;
and though I know that in a dark room
i would never notice,
in the light, i just can’t do it.
so i will zip you up,
and lock you away from the outer air;
then i will forget you;
and in a few weeks, purely by accident,
perhaps i will find you,
and perhaps I will marvel,
and perhaps my curiosity will lead me
to take a long overdue bite.
“what will it take”?
poetrylooking up,
that’s all there was;
and as the question hung,
what answer could there be?
and that’s when we turned,
and walked away.
never looking back.
never holding on.
never regretting.
SHAKE IT OFF
poetryi’ve got to shake this feeling
but it won’t be shaken,
sneaking up again,
catching me at unawares,
just when I look away
THERE IT IS
laughing,
grinning,
feeding;
NOW IT’S HERE
IT’S ON MY BACK
clawing my shoulders,
scrabbling to hold on,
slowly burrowing;
forcing its head
into my head;
forcing my head
out of its head;
until soon,
all that I was
will be gone
and all that I will be
is parasitic.
A Cheetoh for Chester
poetryGood naturedly Chester looked up
with a look of self-assured superiority,
incongruent, to say the least,
with the slightest of oranging.
day-time TV
poetrywatching train wrecks,
in two minute segments,
each piling up
behind the one before,
progressively blocking from mind
any hope that my train will arrive
safe, secure, and on time.
Playing Fetch
poetryConstantly bounding
back and forth and back,
doggy style i live and breathe.
the sieve and the sand 
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