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.

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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.

 

poetry

Lost at Sea

By Amy Thomson 
I think my mind is lost at sea,
and slowly floats away from me.

I write it letters everyday,
and slip the bottles in the bay.

My head is hollow, filled with air,
the passing time begins to wear.

I do not know what I did wrong,
to make it choose the Siren’s song.

I cannot cope without my mind,
since madness is not treated kind.

Perhaps I’ll join Ms. Woolf and Plath,
I cannot take depression’s wrath.

I wish that I could turn back time,
I’d give my little, lonely dime.

To go back when my mind was here,
and moments weren’t filled with fear.

I’d promise not to get too sad
to keep my mind from going mad.

I want to join it in the sea
so I can start to feel like me.