Poems about thing

Fear is a funny thing
Curled up in my gut
Like it lives there
Like a knife
It traces its claws along my spin
Reaching up, up, up
Brushing past my lungs
To lock its long talons
Around my frantic, fluttering heart

Fear is a funny thing
Sneaking up on me
Without being provoked
Like a trap
Snaking its way between my ribs
Pulling tighter, tighter, tighter
Till i'm gasping for breath
On my knees in the dust
Eyes clouded by panic and darkness

Fear is a funny thing
Purposeless and naive
Throwing useless tantrums
Like a child
Beating against my shoulder blades
I feel it pulsing, pulsing, pulsing
Rhythmic and relentless
Picking my seams apart and
Unraveling me from the inside

H. f. m.

There's something about her dreamy eyes
That makes you want to be a dreamer
There's something about her soothing tongue
That makes you want to be a preacher
There's something about her lovely smile
That makes you want to be a painter
There's something about her great physique
That makes you want to be a sculptor
There's something about her intellect
That makes you want to be a professor
There's something about her being
That makes you want to be
There's something about her
That makes you want to be her lover

I want to hold your hand as badly as ever. But I'm sad and aching and my fingers won't forget how yours felt between them and my hand won't forget how tightly you held it and my brain won't forget your smile, it's kind of like you burned it on the inside of my eyelids. I can taste your voice in the back of my throat and your gaze is like butterflies on my skin. I wish you'd hug me again. I miss smelling you on my skin all day.

Baptize me on the font of faults
I am locked already
Into the vaults.

Criticise me
Blind me in my eyes
Delilah sees and
Knows the reasons why,
This handsome samson
Has to die.

Truss me up and
Bus me out
I'll leave the epitaph to you.

A poem cant capture it
A movie can't capture it
A life can't capture it
The universe cant capture it
That's why its watching itself
Its waiting to see it
Thats why i was made
To move through the mud
Until we know what it is

There's times that seem
To fit and make it all more real.

Like the snapping of the
Plastic seal on that
Cheap bottle of
Vodka.
Just as she slams the door
For that final time.

Frusciante on the radio
And you with a needle in
Your hand.

The seagull who passed and
Dropped his waste
Upon your sunset.

There's images that swirl
Inside your head and
Leave behind deep grooves
Within your memories

Impressions like her
Sculpted face in candle light.
That strung out you in the mirror
That even you didn't recognize.

There's that love you
Thought was dead
And those addictions
You swore you
Left behind.

There's times and ways
That seem to fit.

And it's what lengthens
This life that are like the
Pages of a calender.
One on top of the next
To be written over.

All to be lived
One page at a
Time

Coughing like a cold start
Wheezing like a bag
Spitting through the back door
Have another fag
Doing the dying thing

Filling up an ash-tray
Feeding a fat face
Drinking cans of lager
Getting in a state
Doing the dying thing

Reading shitty papers
Tits and bingo cards
Have another lager
Another pound of lard
Doing the dying thing

Sitting watching game shows
Rattling paper bags
Looking bored and farting
How the sofa sags
Doing the dying thing

Working for a bastard
For very little pay
Yes boss and no boss
For eight hours a day
Doing the dying thing

Safely empty headed
Dull of thought and eye
Ignorant and vacant
There are many ways to die
Doing the dying thing

By Phil Roberts

189

It's such a little thing to weep—
So short a thing to sigh—
And yet—by Trades—the size of these
We men and women die!