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Archive for the category “Bloody Awful Poetry”

For as Long as I Remember

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I got burned

for getting

too close to fires,

but I won’t end up

one of those

sad-ass liars. 

 

I’ve been a sucker

for as long

as I remember,

I’ll be a motherfucker

before the

first of December. 

 

Because only

two things happen

when you’re unguarded. 

You’re either loved

or you’re

brokenhearted.

 

© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday

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Touch

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It’s not

a matter of

how little

or how much,

but only

of how well

we touch.

 

© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday

The Night

I forgot what it was like. 

The Night 

The road. 

The hours. 

Everything is loud again. 

Nothing is beautiful, 

like I had convinced myself it was, 

once. 

I already miss the days, 

and have vowed this will end soon. 

Either for something else, 

or somewhere. 

I will say goodbye, 

and for the first time, 

mean it. 


© 2017 William S. Friday 

Schmo: A Limerick in Two Parts

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There once was a girl

who did not know

the power her smile

had on this schmo 

She’d run swiftly away

from his table most days

making him think

he should go

 

But he’s a schmo, so he kept coming back for more.  And so…

 

There once was a girl

who discovered

the heart that her smile

had uncovered 

So she sat down to stay

at his table one day

learning each felt the same

’bout the other

 

© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday

31 Nightmares… day 30

Hey everyone!  This is NOT the usual post you see here from me, but an invitation to click yourself over to Card Castles in the Sky and read my brand new short-short tale, “A Ghost Story”.  It’s day 30 of “31 Nightmares”, Card Castles’ annual Halloween story month.  

No comments here, so go on over and read, comment, and make yourself at home!

See you there!

Rollercoaster

rollercoaster wide

Love is a rollercoaster. 

It wasn’t made to go in a

straight line,

and the turns are unexpected. 

Sometimes as you ride,

you can’t breathe,

and you feel like

your bones will break,

and at the worst moments,

you don’t even believe the lap bar

will keep you safe. 

But there is the hand of the one riding next to you. 

Squeezing your hand so tight

you think your fingers will pop,

yet you never want them to ever let go. 

Because it’s in that hand that

you feel the only safety there is. 

Not the safety of the lap bar,

but the safety of love. 

Flying, falling, twisting without warning. 

And with it,

the unbroken knowing that

as they are squeezing your hand,

you are squeezing theirs. 

Neither of you with any

plans for letting go.

 

© 2017 William S. Friday

The End of the World

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The end of the world came in silence,

except for the sound of tears hitting the hardwood floor

a couple of miles away. 

I knew it as I woke,

too late to stop it. 

I tried, but it wouldn’t let me. 

The world is stubborn that way. 

Doesn’t mean I’ve given up. 

Giving up isn’t in me anymore,

I just have to pretend I give up from time to time,

to satisfy the world;

which isn’t fucking easy,

because the world is smart.  

The world is too damn smart for its own good. 

So for now, the end of the world is here. 

I just won’t tell it how bullshit that idea really is.

 

© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday

Circus

circus

I would

run away from home

to join

your circus.

 

© 2017 William S. Friday

This World of Weights and Measures

the writing on the wall

Words, so easily spoken, are meaningless, dry leaves.  They fall, and then blow away.  They have no weight in them.  They are temporal, crumbling, and so easily forgotten.

So from here until forever more, I will limit my words to written form, and for only those who read them.  For the concrete world, in all its truth, is one of deeds, not words.

Hence, except in veiled reflection, and only for the amusement of strangers, I will spare this world of weights and measures my weightless words, in hope that my failed behavior alone will suffice.

 

© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday

Journal

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I journal now.

I have attempted this for going on decades now.  In various forms, under different descriptions, and for uncountable reasons why, I have tried to spend a little time with a notebook and a pen, and tell the invisible just how I was feeling.

And failed.

Every time.

Until now.

I don’t succeed every day.  Just like, with life, I don’t succeed every day.  But now, I try.  I am doing this on the advice of a friend.  Not a close friend, because the advice of close friends, for me, has a way of becoming a message that falls on deaf ears.  Deaf ears that don’t read lips all that well, so the well-meaning of others, just as often, falls.  So, where were we?  Oh yeah, forms, descriptions, and reasons. 

Forms: affirmations, observations, gratitude, grief, self-talk, listening, healing, prayer… just to name a few more than a few.     

Descriptions: meditative, stream of consciousness, automatic writing, biographical, dear fucking diary, poetry and prose.  If I left something out, I’m sorry.  If it meant more, I’m sure I’d still remember it.

Reasons: to get in touch with my feelings, to separate myself from my feelings, to find my true path, to stay off the wrong path, to find myself, to lose myself, to know myself, to find God, to know God, to have God know me.

Yeah, I used to journal to God.  But a long time ago I stopped wanting God to hear what I had to say.  So I stopped journaling to God.

I journal now.

When I used to journal, the many MANY times I tried to journal, I couldn’t write freely, always editing the thoughts in my mind before the words scratched themselves into the page.  I’ve always been a stickler for the way words feel as they lay on your tongue, as you silently read them to yourself, like a whisper with no breath to carry the sound.

C’mon, admit it with me, we ALL do that.  It’s the real reason why people move their lips when they read.  Some people just hide it better, or care much more, than others.  You don’t want to be thought of as simple minded, so you keep your lips pressed together when you read, but your tongue still moves between your teeth and the roof of your mouth, because we ALL love how words FEEL in our mouths.

Anyway, in those days, the words had to read perfect to feel perfect.  So I quit, because the prose ended up being prosaic, and prosaic is just another way of saying “droning self-importance”, and the whole point of journaling was to get past self-importance and discover something more than self, right?

But, bright side, I did become a bloody awful poet, so there’s that.

I journal now.

I don’t know what I will discover, this time.  Will it end up being just another one-man circle jerk of overly-edited thoughts?  So far, no.  I have an actual editor for that now.  One thing I know, so far, is that, where the words used to come out like sawdust, now they come out like blood.  No cuts required.  I even doodle now.  Also in blood.

The world is a different place than it was the last time I tried this, just as my place in it is different.  Recently, my walls came down with a crash, and instead of trying to rebuild walls, I think it’s better if I just write what I find in the rubble and move on.

And no, you will never read my journal.  No one will.  Except maybe God, and then, mostly over my shoulder.

Besides, some of it might be about you.

 

© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday

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