poetry

Express Train

By Amy Thomson

Obliterate me

to liberate me.

A comfort tomb

before I bloom.

I can’t wait,

won’t be late,

straight

to hell.

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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.

 

poetry

Off-Balance Balance

By Amy Thomson

Store-bought transmitters
steadfast
strong.
Dulled jitters
heart flitters
taste of bittersweet
saccharine.
Head heavy
pulled down
in submarine
sertraline.
Can’t cum,
heart’s numb
under Complacency’s
adequate thumb.
Quit school,
too cool
too okay
to stay
here,
not out of fear,
but why steer
when I can float?
A balanced ghost
of Amy Christine,
learned to coast,
prescription post.
Not survived,
kept alive.
Inertia derived,
destruction contrived.
Off-balance balance
replaced by tranquil skies
by placid lies.
Feet up,
laid back,
frets lack,
new knack:
No care,
cool stare,
going nowhere.
Life’s infinite treadmill
powered by last bursts
of light
a sight,
burning stardust,
ember distrust,
gasoline lust,
into Earth’s crust.

poetry

Mr. Sky

By Amy Thomson

Awake from his dreams,

Mr. Sky screams.

He’s never felt so alone.

Pouring buckets of tears

And electric sears,

Belting a thunderous moan.

“I miss her,” he cries,

“She’s left me” he sighs.

When will Mr. Sky learn?

She’s out for the day,

She’s gone far away,

He begs Miss Sun to return.