Nostalgia is like a tattoo you got

when you’re drunk and wasted;

you won’t ever erase

the marks or scars

from your innocent skin.

Why do you think

I’m still incapable of

forgetting you?

Because your love is still

brewing in my veins

for eternity!

MidnightInk 8-1-2021

My heart hurts a bitter song

It feels hollow and empty

It craves what it cannot have

It misses it more than words can say

It needs its home so far away

It wants to go home

It needs to go home

Where it feels whole

Where it belongs

Salty and awash in butter, popcorn

goes from bucket to tongue in the glowing dark

of the theater. My mind focused on the film

as I try to sip Coke and discern inscrutable wisdom

at the same time—or perhaps just watch explosions.

I sit in homage to the filmmaker’s art.

It’s true, not all movies aim to be art—

There’s the summer flicks aiming at popcorn

sales; the movies with fewer words than explosions;

teen comedies reallymade for an excuse to be in the dark

with a date, because conventional wisdom

holds that drive-ins aren’t actually about the film.

I do have fond memories of those films.

We don’t always want capital “A” art.

Sometimes we want to fling away wisdom

and just sit down with some friends, drinks, popcorn,

and see James Bond dodge explosions,

or watch mutant sheep prey on farmers in the dark.

Ultimately, those innumerable hours spent in the dark

watching the good, the bad, and the ugly of films

did a lot more for me than kill time with explosions,

laughter, or explosion-inspired laughter. They taught me what art

can be, for all people. For Roger Ebert and the popcorn

chewers, for the gulpers-down of laughter and the devotees of wisdom.

And films can bring wisdom,

carrying us forward from the dark

to illumination in moments when the popcorn

rests, forgotten, in the bowl. All those films

that molded me, revealed to my nascent mind the nature, the art,

the exultation and sadness of humanity, entered my world as explosions.

Occasionally, violent. Often shaking. Explosions

opening passages as TNT and making wisdom

where before unconnected tracks butted mountains. The art

that Coppola and Kubrick brought to the dark

of the cinema, or that my first favorite film

brought to my VCR as I, unanticipating, munched popcorn.

It’s funny how popcorn and art

can complement each other, how films in the dark

can have so much wisdom—and really cool explosions.

Three weeks ago I froze

half the chicken from the club pack, and

two months ago our daughters

planted basil on our porch, and

two years ago the vines

formed grapes that dangled in the sun, and

decades ago today you

were born.

You will come home from work on this

rainy, jet-lagged Wednesday, and I

will have cooked that Thai dish and

poured glasses of Gewurztraminer.

You will sit at our table, and I will

give thanks for many things.

Let it be known

You never let me down

Let it be clear

You were always holding me up

Let it be understood

That you never faltered in your love

Let others see

You would move mountains for me

Let it be said

You showed me how to clear me thoughts

Let it be heard

Your guidance & advice was always spot on

Let it be felt

Your absence is felt & the void will be evermore

Let it be linked

The bond we shared was so strong, unbreakable in this world & beyond.

I can smell when your near, I can feel your concern,

My father I am ok, just grieving am I.

Remember you taught me well

I am my father’s daughter

I am as strong as an ox

Emotions will be felt

I let you know now

I will thrive & live for both.

Author: Ellysa Greenhalgh

This poem is a good representation of my poetry. I write very personal poems based on personal experience.

Anyone can relate to poems, any age range, this poem is more for the emotionally mature reader.

I believe I would be a good fit as people relate to my poems, & often feel a emotional response.

Every piece of writing should get a emotional response from the reader.

My pain is forever

A piece of me.

My history stored

In files to read.

There's all kinds of files

Some hard and some easy

I guess each one

Is a gift to me.

Each Experience a lesson

An aide from here

To there.

Demons play and tease and

Guide.

Angels teach and hold and

Guide.

Past lives and ghosts and dieties too.

Each one a being,

Just like you!

DNA made a body to hold,

Soul is something and Glue,

And then the two stick

And Three makes you!

Untitled current book of poetry and short stories, age 5-500, word count not applicable, mostly handwritten, but 60ish typed pages, Brigid Faye, People need my writing, A Guide to emotion, anyone and everyone, bio? I am an autistic adhd bipolar they with an IQ of 128. I went to the school of hard knocks, but I have 126.5 college credits. No platform. I like colored pens and notebooks and nature and learning interesting things. My hobbies are learning how to take care of myself, writing poems and songs, and studying Vibrational Astrology. Hodgenville, Kentucky. 23.

We Are Rats

“Our dried voices, when

We whisper together

Are quiet and meaningless

As wind in dry grass

or rats’ feet over broken glass

In our dry cellar”

T. S. ELIOT

Silence sounds,

it echoes

then rebounds.

They speak through their drunken sleep.

Not words,

but dreams.

Never avid,

ever rabid.

Caged.

Diseased.

Starving.

These ravenous rodents,

they’re ready for their next meal.

They crave something.

Depraved.

They won’t be saved without it.

They know it’s missing.

They know they need it.

And as time goes by,

they grow more blinded.

They have lost their minds.

***

Faces hanging mournfully.

Eyes that scarcely see.

Their bodies touching

not feeling.

Their mouths moving

never speaking.

Their cries never heard over the deafening silence.

The silence.

It resonates through our void

a silence whose intensity builds

and builds

and builds,

Multiplying infinitely,

never reaching crescendo.

There is no end to this madness.

So, it goes

on

and on

and on.

Our hearts grow cold,

our minds grow numb.

Dreary days trudge on

lumbering like soldiers returning from defeat.

They know nothing but their own insignificance.

These days walk

on

and on

and on

Their burden

building

and building

and building.

In this melancholic state

it’s easy to dissociate.

***

Is sanity fading or is has a myth become a reality?

Because as I speak, I see the incubus creep, and tonight he sleeps in my house.

He’s there.

I see Him.

I’m certain.

I feel him watching me from that dark corner.

He’s drunk on eager anticipation.

He’s waiting for me to lose my sight and to fall into his trap,

to slip into the unconscious realm

of existence, without resistance.

Then,

and only then,

will he wreak his havoc.

I will not be his victim,

I won’t concede.

But he whispers in my ear a little seed,

the spawn of a scheme –

It’s far too good to be true,

I assure you.

This is the work of God himself.

I’m certain.

Him and His grand scheme.

Now he offers me this escape

but it’s fake,

I can guarantee.

A deal I won’t ever take.

He asks I take his hand

to fly with Him

to paradise,

yet the price

is

far

far

far

too high.

He can take all that he wishes.

All but my mind.

I know my consciousness holds the key.

I can’t let him take it from me.

But for now,

So long as I lie awake,

ever conscious of that sly snake,

I am safe.

***

Round

and round

and round we go.

Pathetic rats

running rampant.

Trapped,

in our pathetic little cage.

humming... with just a handful of stars under my heart

*.

jak mały szept

rock me

in this garden

pile me high

marigolds glory

you hold my heart now

and

the key to this story