billfriday.com

fictionary… 8 megapixel artist… bloody awful poet.

Archive for the category “Bloody Awful Poetry”

I Dreamed

dream

I took a nap. 

I dreamed. 

Something good happened. 

I woke up. 

I wasn’t there.

 

© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday

Green Grass

Green Grass png

Silence,

the green grass upon which

every dream of summer rests,

to wither,

lost for seasons,

burnt,

then cold,

unremembered,

until awakening in the

nightmares of another spring.

 

© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday

Ghost Town

ghost town PNG

Today I moved into a ghost town, where the past and the future live in perpetual now.  Leaving behind all my worldly possessions, except my bed, where all my senses are aware, in dreams. 

In this ghost town, there is everything you need.  There is silence and solace, ignorance and inquiry.  And time, because in a ghost town, time is as plentiful as weeds in eternal sunshine.

There is no fear in my ghost town.  The neighbors, because they are good ghosts, welcome you.  But slowly, as they know that you, like themselves, came here with the echoes of the noises of your old life in your head, and that is scary enough for now.

So today, I live in a ghost town, where life and death aren’t the law, only acceptance.  This is the place I always belonged, where hope and love keep the peace, and the ghosts of the past shake hands every day, because they have made peace with each other.

And they wait to shake hands with you.  Wait, until you are one of them.    

 

© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday

Coffee and Mid-Afternoon Panic

coffee and midafternoon panic

I think I’ve seen the world as it will be, but that might have been a mistake. 

The voices, real and imagined, pretty much all said do it. 

But I can count on the fingers of one amputated hand how many times the voices, real and imagined, have been right. 

I lived a lifetime of failure within structure, and now that’s gone, replaced by an endless freedom to fail. 

Quiet times are the worst, when the voices, all of them imagined but one, my own, come. 

Louder times, spent in the company of people or amusements, I think of as distractions. 

And both come with a feeling, a gnawing, like the scraping of a stone tool against my bones.

And in the wake of all this, come the times when I tell myself I will create worlds, unimagined. 

When I limit my distractions to coffee and mid-afternoon panic, and I shut off the world, all of it, the voices included. 

And I tell myself, only I, that everything will be as I’ve seen it.

 

© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday

Wishes to Ashes

wishes to ashes PNG

History becomes remembrance when you leave the past behind. 

Even the bad that could never be turned into good, becomes its best version of sepia and gold nostalgia, while that which was truly good and green, and can never be recaptured, becomes a dagger in your faint-beating, grey-fringed heart.

Playful turns to wistful. 

Wishes to ashes. 

Until, long forgotten by next-of, next-of kin, in the collective mind of the cosmos, it is held as it was on the day of its formation, new in all minds, as it once was in one. 

Fresh as infancy, and with the hope of forever, eternal.

 

© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday

Good Intentions

shrug text png

Life is a fucked up bitch,

playing give-and-take

with your good intentions. 

The problem with this is,

you were never one to take

Life at face value. 

The problem with this is,

you loved Life. 

You spent each day

dying for more from this Life,

and the moment you set in your secret heart

the plans for how you and Life

would spend your remaining years together,

you learned that

all your good intentions meant nothing. 

In Life’s eyes,

your dreams weren’t real.  

In Life’s eyes,

your dreams were yours alone. 

You aren’t special,

and you never were. 

Life saw you as a dalliance. 

And as you let this Life go,

and look the next,

all there is left to do is

curse the days of your youth,

and with one last dream,

and good intentions,  

dream you had been raised

not to care.

 

© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday

On This Day

Americanflags

My dad gets a flag

on this day,

even if I’m not there

to plant it.

 

© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday

Baby Face Chinaski

baby fade chinaski

I don’t have time for your shit,

you post-pubescent misanthrope. 

Once upon a time,

when your ironic alter-ego roamed the streets,

and haunted the bars of dirty L.A.

like a piss-stained ghost,

you were yet a regret in your

bitch of a mother’s misbegotten womb. 

Although I don’t think I blame her

for how you turned out,

given how you beg for the teat

in every Facebook post of yours

I have ever read. 

Maybe I’ll listen to you

when you can grow a mustache

thicker than a row of pubes. 

Until then,

I will simply shake my head,

and comment less and less,

because the only two things you are listening to

in these last days of your misspent youth

are your own mewling laments of growing up too fast,

and the hollow sympathies of girls your own age,

who would sooner court the clap

than give you what you think will make it all better

for just one night,

before the sun rises in your sunken child-eyes,

and you post online once more.         

 

© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday

To Walk Down a Dead-End Street

dead end

As an introvert with comically low

self-esteem,

I have made some truly awful

choices in my life.

But writing isn’t one of them. 

It’s true that a life of

settling for less along the path of least resistance

has given me

a point of view most successful creative folk never see,

and I can write from that view

as easily as breathe. 

But there is still

something missing,

and I don’t mean something missing from my

smalltime life. 

I mean something missing from my

genetic code

that enables others to whisper a resolute “fuck it”,

and move onto the

places where few go,

and fewer survive. 

I have always been,

for less than better,

and often far worse than that,

one who only moves forward with

a wall at his back,

and this time is no different. 

But it is

forward I must go,

because the only right direction to walk

down a dead-end street

is out.

 

© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday

Teach Me

teach me png

Teach me to laugh,

and you’ll teach me to cry. 

Teach me to think,

and you’ll teach me to die. 

Hold it against me,

and you’ll teach me to lie. 

Forgive me for all,

and I’ll only ask why.

 

© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday

Post Navigation

%d bloggers like this: