STOLEN HANDS – Promote Yourself

Sunday Evening…
All ready I’ve
Suffered enough
Of this
Incurable
Hopeless rage.
I sit
To try and write it out
My feelings flowing
From blood
To words
On this unforgiving page.

See I once
Held hands
That i
Stole
While i plotted lives
With a cold hearted
Grace.
Now my hands
Lie
Only to my
Own skin
The punishment
I deserve
There is no longer
Solace in a
Beautiful face.

I betrayed
My own
Beating innocence
It is now
A cold dead tomb
In which i am burdened
By its weight
With dark skies
And overdue consequences
Time has finally caught on
The price of lies
I’ve discovered
Is beauty
Returning
As hate.

Gabriel Denver

August showers

August showers

Watering the flowers

No sun in sight

Staying in tonight,

People rushing

To miss the raindrops

Staying longer in the shops

Cold feet and hands

Where people stand

Waiting for the rain to ease,

Catching colds in the August breeze

August showers

So much power

Flooding to come

It’s raining again,

Let’s run

Gillian Sims

Cold water sea change

Unending and bland as the day I was born

And my mouth twice as dry,

With withered digits, buried legs,

And two good front eyes, flat.

But you can tell I love you by the words I say…

Why there is no where to go but up.

You can tell by my tone.

You can tell by the time I spend spend spend

With you.

My God, look at my hands…

Look down at my hands,

You know,

If I were a more sensitive man

I could run around, wild, and we could fix this

City,

By God, it could be a paradise.

My God, look at my hands

And how the blood pours out,

What is it that all this means to me?

What is that it needs from me?

But there I stand in the kitchen, knife in hand,

A silly Jew, slating the beef,

Draws out the blood,

Degenerates the essence

But I’ve said that before.

What good it does…what good it does.

Drawn,

Talk about drawn,

Thin,

Why I can barely feel my hands and feet, up to my elbows

Up to my knees,

Numb…

A phantom pain, maybe, but what good is a memory?

My God

My God,

Is this really me?

A thousand miles down,

Alone, at the bottom of the sea?

Is this really it,

What does your mother tell you?

Is this really all the bother?

A scrap of dried cloud/cloth

To smother out the rest?

A dried up utopia,

Just add water

Brine

Soak it overnight.

Is this really me?

A thousand miles down,

Alone, at the bottom of the sea?

Jesse S Mitchell