Poetry Blogs (closure)
Mike Bartram on The Sinking of The RMS Titanic (109 years ago today) (3 hours ago)
Toxicity in human form
Your rage issues are crazy
No ambition, degenerate bitch
Inconsiderate, ridiculously lazy
I’m sure you can’t stand the fact
I’m describing you with such candor
We lasted for 3 months what can I say
I must have lowered my standards
Up my ass, go through my things
Nosy and super possessive
A wolf in sheep’s clothing, angry, jealous
A fraud, fake and obsessive
Monday 23rd November 2020 5:48 pm
You my moon light,
Lit my world ablaze.
Spoke truth into my soul.
Pushed me to realise my dreams.
To conquer, my lifes goals.
You my sweet,
The reason to my days.
The purpose to my smiles,
The shelter from hailing rain.
My human form, of many desires.
Where are you now?
You my medusa,
Froze me stone cold.
Unable to move,
Until I had to let you go.
Closure, I never had.
Closure, I t...
Sunday 15th November 2020 1:36 pm
They were the deciding factor
Of a good or bad day
Of whether I was okay
If we were okay
They could change my mood
Stop me in my tracks
Jumble my mind
Blind me from the truth
I was their addict
By the end
I was weak
Stripped of all identity
And they appeared
In my dreams...
Saturday 29th September 2018 10:52 pm
It slithers around me
Putting on a show
As if I'm in control
But little do I know
It's charming me
I give myself over
Allowing the fangs
To pierce my flesh
At the feat
Begins the retreat
Into the grass
From my vision
I thought this
This was the test
Tuesday 26th June 2018 12:36 pm
On The Slag Heap
Quenching the eternal flame,
the furnaces won’t burn again,
the northern dragons will lay still -
the Government has had its fill.
At its heart a molten core
that will implode and beat no more.
The mill will close, the light will die
and in the dark the ghosts will cry.
The workers will go home to bed
not knowing if their family’s fed...
Monday 28th September 2015 8:26 pm
I come on Thursday, sit on wooden chair
where poets congregate in strange half light,
sharing their thoughts with those who gather there -
the words are spoken, soaring, shining bright,
warming us as we leave to face the night.
The bear pit darkens, but forever hosts
the rhyming, raging, ranting, Tudor ghosts.
Thursday 20th November 2014 7:19 pm