poetry

quiet spaces

By Amy Thomson

Souls bound,
found pieces of my own
thrown under friend’s car seats,
dropped in side-streets,
wrapped in bedsheets
askew.

Places
like spaces between words
in loyal paperbacks,
in sidewalk cracks,
baggage unpacked,
I’m new.

Spotted
blue dotted between leaves,
ancient thread in Earth’s sleeves
weaves me to you,
a deja vu
soul glue.

Restored
by the cord that fastens
wild Pines to Aspens,
magic happens
in hazel pools
of two.

 

 

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poetry

Treasure Chest

By Amy Thomson

Mind control,
head too full,
start to leak,
though I’m not weak.
Pour through lips,
first little sips,
then waves storm out,
rosebud pout,
dancing along your eardrums.
Peeling thumbs
kills the hums
drumming on my skull.
You pull me in,
your skin a sin,
your chest a treasure,
such pleasure I find
in your heartbeat.

poetry

Another Day at the Masquerade

By Amy Thomson

The closet of masks
sparkles with gleaming teeth,
beneath empty eyes,
hollow lies
lie lurking.
Always working
the perfect angle,
trust is mangled
and coated
with sugar bloated,
empty words
that fill your ears,
crawl into your brain,
center of disdain,
dissolve.
Conversation involves
crafting your smile,
spitting saccharin lullabies
from your gleaming teeth
catch your reflection,
caught the infection,
staring back at two, hollow eyes.

poetry

Field Tending

By Amy Thomson

 

Construction booms
shake the rooms,
rattling, rumbling, reverberating,
perforating the hour.
Deliberating the ultimate power:
Time,
how to slice it just right,
keeping future in sight.
Still learning from the past,
too late to cast
necessary wisdom,
intoxicating system
breeding bees
to make cheese
a tight squeeze
in the schedule,
a sexy tease,
a little hair pull.
Clumps of hair drown the drain
the wicked pain
of lost dreams,
blown away with kites,
a bittersweet sight,
aspartame bite.
Can barely find time to breathe
without choking on guilt.
The Empire we’ve built
starts to wilt.
Time caresses valleys around
Mother’s eyes
regrets disguised
as her children’s tears dried,
refused rides,
became brides,
she tried
her best.
The red giant will still
set in the West,
even after we’ve gone,
The East will bear dawn.

poetry

Burnout

By Amy Thomson

Naive gasoline
soaks childhood dreams,
yearning mother’s beams
as I’m tearing at the seams.
A bright burst of light
quickly settles in the night
as I start feel the fright
that my life will not take flight.
Now, I never feel alright,
and her smile starts to wean,
cover pain,
try in vain,
just to gain
a mother’s love.
Disappointed,
dreams disjointed,
once anointed,
now dethroned.
Pick up the phone,
hesitate,
heart debates,
can’t relate,
clear my plate.
Now she knows
I’m nothing great.
Drop my classes,
join the masses.
Burnt out star
reduced to char,
missed the bar,
now sub par.
Always was
just because
I was her dolly,
act of folly.
Sold acceptance
for identity,
lost serenity,
emotional amenity.
I crave that blanket,
despite suffocation,
incessant persuasion,
Amy erasure,
at least I could face her
eyes with pride,
should have tried,
pushed aside,
failed to abide.
Far from calm,
rejected psalm,
I dropped a bomb,
I’m sorry, mom.

poetry

“Molly, you bitch.”

By Amy Thomson

One hit,

drip drip.

Up nose,

down throat,

Burn.

Yearn.

Safety,

hasty.

Too fast,

outcast,

Too much,

my crutch:

Anna Marie,

I look to thee.

Stay with me.

Hear my plea.

“I’ll use my student ID.”

Glow sticks,

shitting bricks.

Fucking shit,

losing it.

Call Max,

attacks:

Panic,

manic.

Implode,

unfold.

Vertigo,

we couldn’t know.

Just breathe.

Adderall?

Trip, then fall.

Molly, you bitch.

Nerve glitch.

Which witch

would pitch

fucking with you

after going through

your wrath,

aftermath.

Mushroom cloud

enshroud.

Lesson learned,

This bridge has burned.