FROM THE MIND OF A WORDSMITH
isesintricatewovenwords:

EVERY WOMAN
Halley’s Comet (a poem)

thissometimepoet:

Halley’s Comet



It dropped in on us to have a look
to see what we’ve become.
It shot our planet a cold stare
as if to say, You think you know
longevity and persistance?
It is a wiser ice cube
in a larger glass of Time.
It remembers when we still
rode horses to work.
It remembers when books
were written by hand.
It heard “The Twist” far off
in space but knowing fads
come and go never gave it
a try.

Marketing (a poem)

thissometimepoet:

Marketing



Snack crackers
propagate
the aisles
leaving the world
satisfied
but unable
to whistle.

Dear Marlin (Finding Amanda)

poeticalnonsense:

My job is to write the ghosts
Behind my mask-
And try not to become one.

So many die in pursuit of
Life, the brave and worthy-
Mistakes are made, the young unwary. But I won’t let them unmake me.
These ghosts speak the most sense
Let them tell you their earnest message.

Open your ears when the dead
Tell tales, don’t just wait to speak.

Three Tries for a Billion Dollars (a poem)

thissometimepoet:

Three Tries for a Billion Dollars



Countries
measure success
by the number
of missiles
thrown

the kill zone
becomes
an arcade
with the stuffing
blown out
of every prize.

There are a few moments in your life when you are truly and completely happy, and you remember to give thanks. Even as it happens you are nostalgic for the moment, you are tucking it away in your scrapbook.
David Benioff (via observando)
christianknight:

My Only Hope / Psalm 39:7

christianknight:

My Only Hope / Psalm 39:7

From The Asylum (a poem)

thissometimepoet:

From The Asylum



My words come to you
from the asylum
where they sleep
for days at a time
because they say
love is crazy
so then I must be too
but I am fully committed
to scaling
the backbone of your world
just to find the source
from which
all my desires flow
surely someplace
where rocks have cracked
in the scant days
of warmth you have known
but wide enough
to allow me ingress
wide enough to allow me
to drink my share
and fill you as well.

The purpose of literature is to turn blood into ink.
T.S. Eliot (via cassoday)