Poet's Home Page  Poetry Search    321018 Poems Read
 Other Poets  PoetryPoem  Sign Up!  Login

  Search The Web

Read Poetry
o The Hoping

o Home, Ghuey, Sweet Home

o Some Children Have Nightmares (tentative title)

o Night Train

o Nameless

o wandering the rolling hills ...(written for his model)

o All The Changing....


o Lonesome Love

o two out of three people

o A Start Again...(I Green-Dreamed Again Last Night)

o The Little Bird Said

o cat speech

o Funny, Not Funny

o All You Have To Do Is Breathe....

o Different

o A Dog Should Have His Tail...

o Enough to Clear The Clouds Away 4/13/2019

o Checking Out

o Devious

o Hope Is Sometimes The Best Of All You've Got (definition poem)

o Last Night

o Someone Send Out A Search Party

o Crows...writing exercise in honor of April /National Poetry month

o Words

o Only The Choice To Be

o When People Go

o The Day You Left (Words From A Half-Remembered Dream)

o Wake Wake Wake

o It Is In The Rain

o Dream Goblins Of The Night

o Wake And Remember

[More Poetry] >>

  Sign Guestbook
  Read Guestbook
In Too Much

What's that, the sudden prickly push
in the night. The crawling of skin
can not even begin to describe...
What's that? The acrid bile
of dread. Why is it
I cannot shake away the all
too human stains of indecencies,
tilt my head sideways,
have it slip out my opposite ear?
I don't want I don't want today's news
caught in here.
Or the next day's, or the next.
Take shelter.
Show me the alleyway,
any way I can escape.
All that dread noise dead noise
thundering away red blood bled.
Too much society gets in my way.
Pools drowning in my head.
Society seems too polite a word.
Can't I fly, fly high above like a great bird
to the freedom of the clouds and to a more
ever-changing view?
Not the one stuck in the mud, not the one
so many imbue. So true...we're creatures of habit.
Don't like something, then stab it.
But I'd like to bury the hatchet and the habits too.
I'd like to run away from you and you and you.
Why do the thinkers and the tinkerers do the worst of crimes
while the instinctualists only simply do do do?
Most days I'd rather be an animal.
I'm in too much. After years of failed activism,
I would rather be out of touch, out of town,
a failed stitch unraveling the loom.
Hibernation sounds to me an all too pleasing possibility.
Shutting out the noise. A hobo living underground.

Copyright July 22 2012 All Rights Reserved by The Author
Melissa A Howells
Meloo from her Tilt-a-World

Vote for this poem

Please Comment On This Poem


 Email Address


Vote for this poem

 Privacy Statement       Terms of Use  © 2000-2019 ++++ Individual Authors of the Poetry. All rights reserved by authors