Quickie Poetry: Terminus/Terminal

Maybe that's the role I was meant to play

That's the job handed my way

To set the stage, to coach the lines

To take the anger and the whines

To give support

To take the blame

To be a resort 

For these complicated games.

To cry it out

To be the one whose strong

To bleed, to shout

To be told I'm wrong.

To believe, to love

To strive for an ideal

To keep a level head

To think, to feel.

Maybe in the end, 

we do what we know we must

And leave the future to the chance

it will crumble to dust.

Or maybe it is just another day

Another moment in time

To be patient, to be calm

To work, to unwind.

Maybe this will end

Or maybe this will grow

Maybe I was never enough

Maybe I will never know.

But at least, there is something

I know to be true

I left learnings, lessons,

to make you a better you.

Quickie Poetry: Mornings

by Erix

Sprawled.

Skin to skin.

Sweat and spit mixed

with sighs.

We move 

beneath 

the blanket, hiding

from the sun.

Lips yearning.

Tongues lashing.

We dance to the music

we hear

from our moans.

I taste your

mouth;

tequila.

and you taste

mine;

cigarettes.

The heat grows.

Morning stretches.

And more

than just the day

begins.

Quickie Poetry: A Momentary Drama

Sometimes it returns.  Flashes of images.  Questions nagging for answers.
Sometimes it rears its ugly head.  Flashes its fangs and bites deep.

You find yourself wondering what triggered it, given such a wonderful day.
Was it Murakami and his Wind-Up Bird Chronicles?
Was it a fleeting dream whose visions are now too faint to recall?
Was it the memory of a friend you never got to know?

Sometimes you shake away the thoughts.  You remind yourself that's over.  You shrug and just move on.
Sometimes, however, you don't.

Instead you think of how calculating the move was:
How the use of pain and loss was twisted to seduce and steal.
How the illusion of reconciliation and openness was merely a feint
to a deep backstabbing wound meant to never heal.

Sometimes it returns.  And it does with such a vengeance
you will only survive it by reminding yourself what is true.

The past is the past.  The present is far more real.
(And what is real is that things are absolutely fantastic.)
And while, unlike in Dorothy's tale, the Witch isn't dead yet,
you have to remind yourself:

You don't have to carry the house on your shoulders the whole time
waiting to throw it upon her.


(the world is already conspiring to do that for you.)