Sometimes I Find a Blank | Poetry Interlude

sometimes I find
Photo by Brandable Box on Unsplash

Sometimes I find a _______.

Sometimes
I shut my eyes.
I ask myself how I feel.
I am my best therapist.
Am I my best therapist?

Sometimes
I ask myself
What am I hiding
(hiding or hiding from?)
in the basement of my mind.
My conscience calls
But alas, no answer.

Sometimes
I’m disheartened
To search myself
And discover nothing.
I come home
empty handed.

Sometimes
I find a monster
like that from a
Stephen King novel
and I regret
I ever searched
in the first place.

What do you find
When you search
Sometimes?

Or do you move
from place to place
with the same, old box
Always sealed?

A Lonely Pinwheel. Chapter 2020. Honestly Self-Aware. © TheFragranceWriter.com, 2020, except where noted otherwise. All rights reserved.

The Waves are Rocking Me | Short Poem No. 117

The waves are rocking me
Photo by Tim Marshall from Unsplash

The waves are rocking me inside their crib.

I’m melancholy. Hazy. Unfocused.

I don’t know me – What I do – What I did.

. . .Don’t even recollect when I penned this.

My conscience says, “Pull yourself together.”

“This isn’t the plan for a man to be.”

“No, he should stand tall and face the weather.”

“Raise the sails, stand helm, and conquer the sea.”

But I’m indifferent and apathetic.

I’m stale and calm – Dull and unmoving.

But I’m okay with being pathetic.

I dissolved my resolve in self-soothing.

Where currents flow, they take me where I go.

And when I’m gone, no one will even know.

Speak

Chapter 2020. Honestly Self-Aware.

© Jonathan Pines and WritingWithStrangers, 2020, except where noted otherwise. All rights reserved.

Lying. . . Stuck in my Grave | Short Poem No. 109

lying. . . stuck in my grace
Photo by Jakub Sofranko on Unsplash

So. . . Here I am. . . Lying. . . Stuck in my grave.
But who I fell with appears to have left.
I guess strong ambitions can’t always save.
They leave you forsaken, reeking of death.

Ironic, it’s the eve of Halloween
And it’s the hour I realize I’m dead.
A pumpkin spice latte, so unforeseen,
would be the last supper before my bed.

I have dark humor to jeer at myself.
But. . . it stings. . . to be abandoned by love.
It’s one thing to lose your health. . . or your wealth.
But you left me. . . no reason. . . no motive. . .

But I remember, once what I have read.
That Jesus can bring back to life the dead.

I Heard You Scream and Yell

© Jonathan Pines and WritingWithStrangers, 2019, except where noted otherwise. All rights reserved.