PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

In the land:

They got a hold on us

as we fight to find our way.

In the mornings:

We remain frozen

in ourselves.

It ain't right,

to be still,

surely.



It's my man who is cold.

He remains a catalyst

in this civilization

as he gooses around his women

arm in tow.

This doorway: a motion

of hours

dead and alive in wine.



In order to survive

a pasture of lights

will never draw me out.



                 Dial me something frequent.

                 Coming just to find her diction(ary).



This land is like a violent man

whose code is broke

and strayed

from progression in gravity

The fact remains:



Each time that we've quested

you rule out these lips

that have driven you mad



us human

if we are to be had.