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the worst thing about #starmer isn't that he is useless at running the country - it is that he is such a fucking authoritarian zionist control freak.
locking up a judge for reminding ppl that they have freedom of opinion is just fucking wrong. -
the worst thing about #starmer isn't that he is useless at running the country - it is that he is such a fucking authoritarian zionist control freak.
locking up a judge for reminding ppl that they have freedom of opinion is just fucking wrong. -
New poem published by Altered Reality Magazine. This time it is more science fiction than horror. You can learn about that poem in the link attached. Happy reading!
#poetry #poems #literaryhorror #horror #writing #amwriting #amreading #reading #sciencefiction #speculativepoetry #scifi
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Read my Poem “A Junkyard Father” Published on Altered Reality Magazine
Hello again! I recently had a trifecta of luck at Altered Reality with some poems, and this is my second one that was picked up for publication by them.
This week the poem is a little different than my previous one. No haunted forest or paradoxical monsters.
Instead, I choose to focus on an image that has haunted me ever since I watched it. The toy scene in Bladerunner (director’s cut of course) in Sebastian’s attic has stuck with me ever since I watched it back in 2004. I often wonder what would those cybernetic creations do if Sebastian never returned.
Who would take care of them?
In “A Junkyard Father” I follow this same idea and principle. A scientist has created sentient toys in some robotic future, and he is confronted with the concept of mortality. When he dies and leaves this world, they’ll be nobody to take care of them. The toys will outlive him, and still require maintenance. He’ll die when they could potentially live for centuries.
How will they cope? Who will be there?
You can read “A Junkyard Father” right here.
As always, you should check out the whole of Altered Reality. They publish great stuff from a variety of voices.
Thank you for reading my work, and have a nice Wednesday!
#author #blogging #books #fantasy #fiction #horror #horrorPoetry #literaryHorror #monsters #patrickWMarsh #poem #Poetry #scienceFiction #theGreenlandDiaries #writing -
Read my Poem “A Junkyard Father” Published on Altered Reality Magazine
Hello again! I recently had a trifecta of luck at Altered Reality with some poems, and this is my second one that was picked up for publication by them.
This week the poem is a little different than my previous one. No haunted forest or paradoxical monsters.
Instead, I choose to focus on an image that has haunted me ever since I watched it. The toy scene in Bladerunner (director’s cut of course) in Sebastian’s attic has stuck with me ever since I watched it back in 2004. I often wonder what would those cybernetic creations do if Sebastian never returned.
Who would take care of them?
In “A Junkyard Father” I follow this same idea and principle. A scientist has created sentient toys in some robotic future, and he is confronted with the concept of mortality. When he dies and leaves this world, they’ll be nobody to take care of them. The toys will outlive him, and still require maintenance. He’ll die when they could potentially live for centuries.
How will they cope? Who will be there?
You can read “A Junkyard Father” right here.
As always, you should check out the whole of Altered Reality. They publish great stuff from a variety of voices.
Thank you for reading my work, and have a nice Wednesday!
#author #blogging #books #fantasy #fiction #horror #horrorPoetry #literaryHorror #monsters #patrickWMarsh #poem #Poetry #scienceFiction #theGreenlandDiaries #writing -
Read my Poem “A Junkyard Father” Published on Altered Reality Magazine
Hello again! I recently had a trifecta of luck at Altered Reality with some poems, and this is my second one that was picked up for publication by them.
This week the poem is a little different than my previous one. No haunted forest or paradoxical monsters.
Instead, I choose to focus on an image that has haunted me ever since I watched it. The toy scene in Bladerunner (director’s cut of course) in Sebastian’s attic has stuck with me ever since I watched it back in 2004. I often wonder what would those cybernetic creations do if Sebastian never returned.
Who would take care of them?
In “A Junkyard Father” I follow this same idea and principle. A scientist has created sentient toys in some robotic future, and he is confronted with the concept of mortality. When he dies and leaves this world, they’ll be nobody to take care of them. The toys will outlive him, and still require maintenance. He’ll die when they could potentially live for centuries.
How will they cope? Who will be there?
You can read “A Junkyard Father” right here.
As always, you should check out the whole of Altered Reality. They publish great stuff from a variety of voices.
Thank you for reading my work, and have a nice Wednesday!
#author #blogging #books #fantasy #fiction #horror #horrorPoetry #literaryHorror #monsters #patrickWMarsh #poem #Poetry #scienceFiction #theGreenlandDiaries #writing -
Read my Poem “A Junkyard Father” Published on Altered Reality Magazine
Hello again! I recently had a trifecta of luck at Altered Reality with some poems, and this is my second one that was picked up for publication by them.
This week the poem is a little different than my previous one. No haunted forest or paradoxical monsters.
Instead, I choose to focus on an image that has haunted me ever since I watched it. The toy scene in Bladerunner (director’s cut of course) in Sebastian’s attic has stuck with me ever since I watched it back in 2004. I often wonder what would those cybernetic creations do if Sebastian never returned.
Who would take care of them?
In “A Junkyard Father” I follow this same idea and principle. A scientist has created sentient toys in some robotic future, and he is confronted with the concept of mortality. When he dies and leaves this world, they’ll be nobody to take care of them. The toys will outlive him, and still require maintenance. He’ll die when they could potentially live for centuries.
How will they cope? Who will be there?
You can read “A Junkyard Father” right here.
As always, you should check out the whole of Altered Reality. They publish great stuff from a variety of voices.
Thank you for reading my work, and have a nice Wednesday!
#author #blogging #books #fantasy #fiction #horror #horrorPoetry #literaryHorror #monsters #patrickWMarsh #poem #Poetry #scienceFiction #theGreenlandDiaries #writing -
Read my Poem “A Junkyard Father” Published on Altered Reality Magazine
Hello again! I recently had a trifecta of luck at Altered Reality with some poems, and this is my second one that was picked up for publication by them.
This week the poem is a little different than my previous one. No haunted forest or paradoxical monsters.
Instead, I choose to focus on an image that has haunted me ever since I watched it. The toy scene in Bladerunner (director’s cut of course) in Sebastian’s attic has stuck with me ever since I watched it back in 2004. I often wonder what would those cybernetic creations do if Sebastian never returned.
Who would take care of them?
In “A Junkyard Father” I follow this same idea and principle. A scientist has created sentient toys in some robotic future, and he is confronted with the concept of mortality. When he dies and leaves this world, they’ll be nobody to take care of them. The toys will outlive him, and still require maintenance. He’ll die when they could potentially live for centuries.
How will they cope? Who will be there?
You can read “A Junkyard Father” right here.
As always, you should check out the whole of Altered Reality. They publish great stuff from a variety of voices.
Thank you for reading my work, and have a nice Wednesday!
#author #blogging #books #fantasy #fiction #horror #horrorPoetry #literaryHorror #monsters #patrickWMarsh #poem #Poetry #scienceFiction #theGreenlandDiaries #writing -
I love when the illusions enter the story in full force. Creating this creepy plot device was tons of fun. Enjoy. The story only gets better, along with the monsters.
#writing #reading #fiction #books #horror #apocalyptic #journal #monsters #novels
https://patrickwmarshauthor.wordpress.com/2026/05/11/the-greenland-diaries-day-57/
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Watch Amy Adams, Javier Bardem and Patrick Wilson in the new trailer for the Cape Fear TV show https://www.liveforfilm.com/2026/05/11/watch-amy-adams-javier-bardem-and-patrick-wilson-in-the-new-trailer-for-the-cape-fear-tv-show/
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I know everyone is reeling from these latest entries, but it does get better. This is a dark story, but the happiness and hope is in our ability to change. Even with the Guardian.
#writing #reading #fiction #books #novels #horror #fantasy #darkfantasy #steampunk
https://patrickwmarshauthor.wordpress.com/2026/05/08/beware-the-ills-part-42/
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I had my poem "Windchimes" published by Altered Reality. You can find out more details about it below, including where to read. it Have an awesome day!
#poetry #poems #literaryhorror #horror #writing #amwriting #amreading #reading #horrorpoetry #monsters
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Read my Poem “Windchimes” Published on Altered Reality Magazine
Hello! Recently I was lucky enough to have my poem “Windchimes” published by Altered Reality last week.
This was one of the first horror poems I had written after a long absence from poetry. I started writing poetry again back in the beginning of 2024. The women I was dating at the time was a poet, and she often would send poems for me to read. At the time I was still thinking I could only do one thing as a writer, like self-publish fiction. That isn’t true. You can be varied. You get to practice your craft on multiple highways.
Anyways, she was curious about my poetry, or if I could even still write it. So, as it happens that sometimes men are simply motivated by women, I decided to try my hand at it, and poetry clicked again after about a decade of absence.
“Windchimes” is about a group of monsters in a haunted forest who hang windchimes in the trees to warn people travelling through that they are there, and that the woods is dangerous. It is about how evil attempts to warn you about its intentions, so you avoid it. Or at least you would try It focuses on how frustrated the evil entities are with this paradox. I love this poem, and I’m happy to see it has a home.
You can read it right here.
Also, Altered Reality is an excellent publication. Please take some time to explore its various voices. You can find it right here.
Thanks for reading!
#alteredReality #author #blogging #books #fantasy #fiction #horror #horrorPoetry #literaryHorror #literaryMagazine #monsters #patrickWMarsh #poem #poems #Poetry #publications #writing -
Happy Monday! Again, new entries every week from my apocalyptic horror series the Greenland Diaries. Enjoy the monsters. They're everything to the story in so many ways.
#writing #reading #fiction #books #horror #apocalyptic #journal #monsters #novels
https://patrickwmarshauthor.wordpress.com/2026/05/04/the-greenland-diaries-day-56/
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Actor Patrick Muldoon's Demise Linked to Heart Attack
Actor Patrick Muldoon, known for 'Days of Our Lives', died on April 19, 2026, from a heart attack. He was 57.
#PatrickMuldoon, #HeartAttack, #DaysOfOurLives, #MelrosePlace, #ActorDeath
https://newsletter.tf/patrick-muldoon-death-heart-attack-april-19/
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The Warehouse Window
For my sunlight,
its glass cut through a concrete wall
the edges crumbled and rocky,
like an unfinished birthday cake.
No place for symmetry or neatness
when testing and receiving
networking equipment with a candelabra of cords.
The whir of fans, hard drives,
circuit boards, modules, and power supplies
are their own orchestra.I’m their repeating crowd for this ensemble
I have memorized all their
performances, crescendos, movements,
choruses, and solos.
The yoked fluorescent lights,
stallion forklift, or gluttonous cardboard compactor
endlessly feasting in the corner
by the loading dock where
an occasional wasp wanders inside this mirage
to die in a papery sleep.That sunshine above’s the same
as in my son’s elementary school window
sloping through the courtyard where ferns
and flowerpots hide a dry duck nest.
The kids named her Simone.
She has three eggs
an opaque olive, pearl, and coral.
They’re blurbs of shell and membrane.
They wanted to name them too,
but those dreams weren’t real yet.
You have to know they’ll live.I knew my classroom wall
beside our courtyard door
where we pasted, crinkled, and scribbled
dinosaurs, sloths, and squids
against paper sorceries of
marine life, prehistoric countrysides,
and endless amazon jungles.
We had our own momma duck too,
her name long empty amongst almost everything
I remembered, wondered,
and dreamedin fourth grade.
#author #books #creativeWriting #emotionalWriting #literature #originalWriting #patrickWMarsh #poem #poemOfTheDay #poems #poet #poetsOnWordpress #spokenWord #writing
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The Warehouse Window
For my sunlight,
its glass cut through a concrete wall
the edges crumbled and rocky,
like an unfinished birthday cake.
No place for symmetry or neatness
when testing and receiving
networking equipment with a candelabra of cords.
The whir of fans, hard drives,
circuit boards, modules, and power supplies
are their own orchestra.I’m their repeating crowd for this ensemble
I have memorized all their
performances, crescendos, movements,
choruses, and solos.
The yoked fluorescent lights,
stallion forklift, or gluttonous cardboard compactor
endlessly feasting in the corner
by the loading dock where
an occasional wasp wanders inside this mirage
to die in a papery sleep.That sunshine above’s the same
as in my son’s elementary school window
sloping through the courtyard where ferns
and flowerpots hide a dry duck nest.
The kids named her Simone.
She has three eggs
an opaque olive, pearl, and coral.
They’re blurbs of shell and membrane.
They wanted to name them too,
but those dreams weren’t real yet.
You have to know they’ll live.I knew my classroom wall
beside our courtyard door
where we pasted, crinkled, and scribbled
dinosaurs, sloths, and squids
against paper sorceries of
marine life, prehistoric countrysides,
and endless amazon jungles.
We had our own momma duck too,
her name long empty amongst almost everything
I remembered, wondered,
and dreamedin fourth grade.
#author #books #creativeWriting #emotionalWriting #literature #originalWriting #patrickWMarsh #poem #poemOfTheDay #poems #poet #poetsOnWordpress #spokenWord #writing
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The Warehouse Window
For my sunlight,
its glass cut through a concrete wall
the edges crumbled and rocky,
like an unfinished birthday cake.
No place for symmetry or neatness
when testing and receiving
networking equipment with a candelabra of cords.
The whir of fans, hard drives,
circuit boards, modules, and power supplies
are their own orchestra.I’m their repeating crowd for this ensemble
I have memorized all their
performances, crescendos, movements,
choruses, and solos.
The yoked fluorescent lights,
stallion forklift, or gluttonous cardboard compactor
endlessly feasting in the corner
by the loading dock where
an occasional wasp wanders inside this mirage
to die in a papery sleep.That sunshine above’s the same
as in my son’s elementary school window
sloping through the courtyard where ferns
and flowerpots hide a dry duck nest.
The kids named her Simone.
She has three eggs
an opaque olive, pearl, and coral.
They’re blurbs of shell and membrane.
They wanted to name them too,
but those dreams weren’t real yet.
You have to know they’ll live.I knew my classroom wall
beside our courtyard door
where we pasted, crinkled, and scribbled
dinosaurs, sloths, and squids
against paper sorceries of
marine life, prehistoric countrysides,
and endless amazon jungles.
We had our own momma duck too,
her name long empty amongst almost everything
I remembered, wondered,
and dreamedin fourth grade.
#author #books #creativeWriting #emotionalWriting #literature #originalWriting #patrickWMarsh #poem #poemOfTheDay #poems #poet #poetsOnWordpress #spokenWord #writing
-
The Warehouse Window
For my sunlight,
its glass cut through a concrete wall
the edges crumbled and rocky,
like an unfinished birthday cake.
No place for symmetry or neatness
when testing and receiving
networking equipment with a candelabra of cords.
The whir of fans, hard drives,
circuit boards, modules, and power supplies
are their own orchestra.I’m their repeating crowd for this ensemble
I have memorized all their
performances, crescendos, movements,
choruses, and solos.
The yoked fluorescent lights,
stallion forklift, or gluttonous cardboard compactor
endlessly feasting in the corner
by the loading dock where
an occasional wasp wanders inside this mirage
to die in a papery sleep.That sunshine above’s the same
as in my son’s elementary school window
sloping through the courtyard where ferns
and flowerpots hide a dry duck nest.
The kids named her Simone.
She has three eggs
an opaque olive, pearl, and coral.
They’re blurbs of shell and membrane.
They wanted to name them too,
but those dreams weren’t real yet.
You have to know they’ll live.I knew my classroom wall
beside our courtyard door
where we pasted, crinkled, and scribbled
dinosaurs, sloths, and squids
against paper sorceries of
marine life, prehistoric countrysides,
and endless amazon jungles.
We had our own momma duck too,
her name long empty amongst almost everything
I remembered, wondered,
and dreamedin fourth grade.
#author #books #creativeWriting #emotionalWriting #literature #originalWriting #patrickWMarsh #poem #poemOfTheDay #poems #poet #poetsOnWordpress #spokenWord #writing
-
The Warehouse Window
For my sunlight,
its glass cut through a concrete wall
the edges crumbled and rocky,
like an unfinished birthday cake.
No place for symmetry or neatness
when testing and receiving
networking equipment with a candelabra of cords.
The whir of fans, hard drives,
circuit boards, modules, and power supplies
are their own orchestra.I’m their repeating crowd for this ensemble
I have memorized all their
performances, crescendos, movements,
choruses, and solos.
The yoked fluorescent lights,
stallion forklift, or gluttonous cardboard compactor
endlessly feasting in the corner
by the loading dock where
an occasional wasp wanders inside this mirage
to die in a papery sleep.That sunshine above’s the same
as in my son’s elementary school window
sloping through the courtyard where ferns
and flowerpots hide a dry duck nest.
The kids named her Simone.
She has three eggs
an opaque olive, pearl, and coral.
They’re blurbs of shell and membrane.
They wanted to name them too,
but those dreams weren’t real yet.
You have to know they’ll live.I knew my classroom wall
beside our courtyard door
where we pasted, crinkled, and scribbled
dinosaurs, sloths, and squids
against paper sorceries of
marine life, prehistoric countrysides,
and endless amazon jungles.
We had our own momma duck too,
her name long empty amongst almost everything
I remembered, wondered,
and dreamedin fourth grade.
#author #books #creativeWriting #emotionalWriting #literature #originalWriting #patrickWMarsh #poem #poemOfTheDay #poems #poet #poetsOnWordpress #spokenWord #writing
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“You are the King, and I am your Star”
It was etched, carved, and bled there
by you and my uncle.
A lost language scribbled
upon your trauma Rosetta Stone.
Years after you’d moved off
the street, shack, slum
and into this real home,
devoid of rats, rags,
and abusive fathers.It was on a beam in the basement,
behind an old TV box,
with dead earwigs in its folds.
The house once had a garden
from your mother, my grandmother.
And those bugs, the clawed ink-drops
were living everywhere
their husks, fossil-songs
to her stalks of cherry tomatoes.The wood was creased, parted,
and curled, as if the vignette had just happened.
You were still the two little boys
marking it yours, with the sunlight
tracing through a ground-level window,
growing life in a non-chlorophyll pattern
from 94 million miles away
a natural spotlight on hope between past and future.We found it when I was moving out.
Another bout of depression, failed
relationship, and unpaid rent
for your childhood home
you bought when grandma died.
It was a piece of you; something you wanted
for memory, family, a forever symbol of safety.
A limb of hope after
so many emotional dismemberments.I could not hold onto it,
It was slippery, slimy, a dream that didn’t want
to be held, an eel lurking in the quagmire,
eternally wriggling away
beneath the subtlest grasp.
Your sanctuary was another rubble-sunk Atlantis,
so now, years after it was sold and lost
your first glimmer amongst the povertyI can at least remember what it said.
#blogging #books #creativeWriting #emotionalWriting #literature #originalWriting #patrickWMarsh #poem #poemOfTheDay #poems #poet #poetsOnWordpress #spokenWord #writing
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“You are the King, and I am your Star”
It was etched, carved, and bled there
by you and my uncle.
A lost language scribbled
upon your trauma Rosetta Stone.
Years after you’d moved off
the street, shack, slum
and into this real home,
devoid of rats, rags,
and abusive fathers.It was on a beam in the basement,
behind an old TV box,
with dead earwigs in its folds.
The house once had a garden
from your mother, my grandmother.
And those bugs, the clawed ink-drops
were living everywhere
their husks, fossil-songs
to her stalks of cherry tomatoes.The wood was creased, parted,
and curled, as if the vignette had just happened.
You were still the two little boys
marking it yours, with the sunlight
tracing through a ground-level window,
growing life in a non-chlorophyll pattern
from 94 million miles away
a natural spotlight on hope between past and future.We found it when I was moving out.
Another bout of depression, failed
relationship, and unpaid rent
for your childhood home
you bought when grandma died.
It was a piece of you; something you wanted
for memory, family, a forever symbol of safety.
A limb of hope after
so many emotional dismemberments.I could not hold onto it,
It was slippery, slimy, a dream that didn’t want
to be held, an eel lurking in the quagmire,
eternally wriggling away
beneath the subtlest grasp.
Your sanctuary was another rubble-sunk Atlantis,
so now, years after it was sold and lost
your first glimmer amongst the povertyI can at least remember what it said.
#blogging #books #creativeWriting #emotionalWriting #literature #originalWriting #patrickWMarsh #poem #poemOfTheDay #poems #poet #poetsOnWordpress #spokenWord #writing
-
“You are the King, and I am your Star”
It was etched, carved, and bled there
by you and my uncle.
A lost language scribbled
upon your trauma Rosetta Stone.
Years after you’d moved off
the street, shack, slum
and into this real home,
devoid of rats, rags,
and abusive fathers.It was on a beam in the basement,
behind an old TV box,
with dead earwigs in its folds.
The house once had a garden
from your mother, my grandmother.
And those bugs, the clawed ink-drops
were living everywhere
their husks, fossil-songs
to her stalks of cherry tomatoes.The wood was creased, parted,
and curled, as if the vignette had just happened.
You were still the two little boys
marking it yours, with the sunlight
tracing through a ground-level window,
growing life in a non-chlorophyll pattern
from 94 million miles away
a natural spotlight on hope between past and future.We found it when I was moving out.
Another bout of depression, failed
relationship, and unpaid rent
for your childhood home
you bought when grandma died.
It was a piece of you; something you wanted
for memory, family, a forever symbol of safety.
A limb of hope after
so many emotional dismemberments.I could not hold onto it,
It was slippery, slimy, a dream that didn’t want
to be held, an eel lurking in the quagmire,
eternally wriggling away
beneath the subtlest grasp.
Your sanctuary was another rubble-sunk Atlantis,
so now, years after it was sold and lost
your first glimmer amongst the povertyI can at least remember what it said.
#blogging #books #creativeWriting #emotionalWriting #literature #originalWriting #patrickWMarsh #poem #poemOfTheDay #poems #poet #poetsOnWordpress #spokenWord #writing
-
“You are the King, and I am your Star”
It was etched, carved, and bled there
by you and my uncle.
A lost language scribbled
upon your trauma Rosetta Stone.
Years after you’d moved off
the street, shack, slum
and into this real home,
devoid of rats, rags,
and abusive fathers.It was on a beam in the basement,
behind an old TV box,
with dead earwigs in its folds.
The house once had a garden
from your mother, my grandmother.
And those bugs, the clawed ink-drops
were living everywhere
their husks, fossil-songs
to her stalks of cherry tomatoes.The wood was creased, parted,
and curled, as if the vignette had just happened.
You were still the two little boys
marking it yours, with the sunlight
tracing through a ground-level window,
growing life in a non-chlorophyll pattern
from 94 million miles away
a natural spotlight on hope between past and future.We found it when I was moving out.
Another bout of depression, failed
relationship, and unpaid rent
for your childhood home
you bought when grandma died.
It was a piece of you; something you wanted
for memory, family, a forever symbol of safety.
A limb of hope after
so many emotional dismemberments.I could not hold onto it,
It was slippery, slimy, a dream that didn’t want
to be held, an eel lurking in the quagmire,
eternally wriggling away
beneath the subtlest grasp.
Your sanctuary was another rubble-sunk Atlantis,
so now, years after it was sold and lost
your first glimmer amongst the povertyI can at least remember what it said.
#blogging #books #creativeWriting #emotionalWriting #literature #originalWriting #patrickWMarsh #poem #poemOfTheDay #poems #poet #poetsOnWordpress #spokenWord #writing
-
“You are the King, and I am your Star”
It was etched, carved, and bled there
by you and my uncle.
A lost language scribbled
upon your trauma Rosetta Stone.
Years after you’d moved off
the street, shack, slum
and into this real home,
devoid of rats, rags,
and abusive fathers.It was on a beam in the basement,
behind an old TV box,
with dead earwigs in its folds.
The house once had a garden
from your mother, my grandmother.
And those bugs, the clawed ink-drops
were living everywhere
their husks, fossil-songs
to her stalks of cherry tomatoes.The wood was creased, parted,
and curled, as if the vignette had just happened.
You were still the two little boys
marking it yours, with the sunlight
tracing through a ground-level window,
growing life in a non-chlorophyll pattern
from 94 million miles away
a natural spotlight on hope between past and future.We found it when I was moving out.
Another bout of depression, failed
relationship, and unpaid rent
for your childhood home
you bought when grandma died.
It was a piece of you; something you wanted
for memory, family, a forever symbol of safety.
A limb of hope after
so many emotional dismemberments.I could not hold onto it,
It was slippery, slimy, a dream that didn’t want
to be held, an eel lurking in the quagmire,
eternally wriggling away
beneath the subtlest grasp.
Your sanctuary was another rubble-sunk Atlantis,
so now, years after it was sold and lost
your first glimmer amongst the povertyI can at least remember what it said.
#blogging #books #creativeWriting #emotionalWriting #literature #originalWriting #patrickWMarsh #poem #poemOfTheDay #poems #poet #poetsOnWordpress #spokenWord #writing
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I Can’t Change the Sunlight
First, it was the beams between dust,
highlighting particles dancing
in my parent’s basement
with chocolate carpet and an eyebrow window.
Where we, old friends and lovers,
would swap dreams and desires
until you tearfully realized I couldn’t do anything
but wrestle with my depression.Then, rays of it glittering in jeweled reflections
during our honeymoon
on an emerald lagoon, with tropic tips, and
bows of sand being plucked by Key Largo waves.
That sediment could never be a keep or castle,
it was too broken, fragmented,
and fragile to form any support.
Just like us.Next was the morning slanting through
the bay window over the couch of our old house.
A theater seat for our fights, screaming, throwing, thrashing,
and every detail of my unending depression.
You, my son, are on my lap, asleep, an infant.
I’m crying, and the tears sting your forehead.
I wipe them away, my trauma baptism,
I have an endless supply.This stardust anchor falling through time
and space, cracking the earth’s atmosphere,
honing our existence, growing our cells,
is a cosmic stake piercing my heart.
It will not end me. I’m always undead.
Worse, it reminds me honestly
that this daylight trigger
will always be thereas long as I am.
#ampoetry #author #blogging #books #creativeWriting #emotionalWriting #literature #originalWriting #patrickWMarsh #poem #poemOfTheDay #poems #poetry #poetsOnWordpress #spokenWord #writing
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I Can’t Change the Sunlight
First, it was the beams between dust,
highlighting particles dancing
in my parent’s basement
with chocolate carpet and an eyebrow window.
Where we, old friends and lovers,
would swap dreams and desires
until you tearfully realized I couldn’t do anything
but wrestle with my depression.Then, rays of it glittering in jeweled reflections
during our honeymoon
on an emerald lagoon, with tropic tips, and
bows of sand being plucked by Key Largo waves.
That sediment could never be a keep or castle,
it was too broken, fragmented,
and fragile to form any support.
Just like us.Next was the morning slanting through
the bay window over the couch of our old house.
A theater seat for our fights, screaming, throwing, thrashing,
and every detail of my unending depression.
You, my son, are on my lap, asleep, an infant.
I’m crying, and the tears sting your forehead.
I wipe them away, my trauma baptism,
I have an endless supply.This stardust anchor falling through time
and space, cracking the earth’s atmosphere,
honing our existence, growing our cells,
is a cosmic stake piercing my heart.
It will not end me. I’m always undead.
Worse, it reminds me honestly
that this daylight trigger
will always be thereas long as I am.
#ampoetry #author #blogging #books #creativeWriting #emotionalWriting #literature #originalWriting #patrickWMarsh #poem #poemOfTheDay #poems #poetry #poetsOnWordpress #spokenWord #writing
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I Can’t Change the Sunlight
First, it was the beams between dust,
highlighting particles dancing
in my parent’s basement
with chocolate carpet and an eyebrow window.
Where we, old friends and lovers,
would swap dreams and desires
until you tearfully realized I couldn’t do anything
but wrestle with my depression.Then, rays of it glittering in jeweled reflections
during our honeymoon
on an emerald lagoon, with tropic tips, and
bows of sand being plucked by Key Largo waves.
That sediment could never be a keep or castle,
it was too broken, fragmented,
and fragile to form any support.
Just like us.Next was the morning slanting through
the bay window over the couch of our old house.
A theater seat for our fights, screaming, throwing, thrashing,
and every detail of my unending depression.
You, my son, are on my lap, asleep, an infant.
I’m crying, and the tears sting your forehead.
I wipe them away, my trauma baptism,
I have an endless supply.This stardust anchor falling through time
and space, cracking the earth’s atmosphere,
honing our existence, growing our cells,
is a cosmic stake piercing my heart.
It will not end me. I’m always undead.
Worse, it reminds me honestly
that this daylight trigger
will always be thereas long as I am.
#ampoetry #author #blogging #books #creativeWriting #emotionalWriting #literature #originalWriting #patrickWMarsh #poem #poemOfTheDay #poems #poetry #poetsOnWordpress #spokenWord #writing
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I Can’t Change the Sunlight
First, it was the beams between dust,
highlighting particles dancing
in my parent’s basement
with chocolate carpet and an eyebrow window.
Where we, old friends and lovers,
would swap dreams and desires
until you tearfully realized I couldn’t do anything
but wrestle with my depression.Then, rays of it glittering in jeweled reflections
during our honeymoon
on an emerald lagoon, with tropic tips, and
bows of sand being plucked by Key Largo waves.
That sediment could never be a keep or castle,
it was too broken, fragmented,
and fragile to form any support.
Just like us.Next was the morning slanting through
the bay window over the couch of our old house.
A theater seat for our fights, screaming, throwing, thrashing,
and every detail of my unending depression.
You, my son, are on my lap, asleep, an infant.
I’m crying, and the tears sting your forehead.
I wipe them away, my trauma baptism,
I have an endless supply.This stardust anchor falling through time
and space, cracking the earth’s atmosphere,
honing our existence, growing our cells,
is a cosmic stake piercing my heart.
It will not end me. I’m always undead.
Worse, it reminds me honestly
that this daylight trigger
will always be thereas long as I am.
#ampoetry #author #blogging #books #creativeWriting #emotionalWriting #literature #originalWriting #patrickWMarsh #poem #poemOfTheDay #poems #poetry #poetsOnWordpress #spokenWord #writing
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I Can’t Change the Sunlight
First, it was the beams between dust,
highlighting particles dancing
in my parent’s basement
with chocolate carpet and an eyebrow window.
Where we, old friends and lovers,
would swap dreams and desires
until you tearfully realized I couldn’t do anything
but wrestle with my depression.Then, rays of it glittering in jeweled reflections
during our honeymoon
on an emerald lagoon, with tropic tips, and
bows of sand being plucked by Key Largo waves.
That sediment could never be a keep or castle,
it was too broken, fragmented,
and fragile to form any support.
Just like us.Next was the morning slanting through
the bay window over the couch of our old house.
A theater seat for our fights, screaming, throwing, thrashing,
and every detail of my unending depression.
You, my son, are on my lap, asleep, an infant.
I’m crying, and the tears sting your forehead.
I wipe them away, my trauma baptism,
I have an endless supply.This stardust anchor falling through time
and space, cracking the earth’s atmosphere,
honing our existence, growing our cells,
is a cosmic stake piercing my heart.
It will not end me. I’m always undead.
Worse, it reminds me honestly
that this daylight trigger
will always be thereas long as I am.
#ampoetry #author #blogging #books #creativeWriting #emotionalWriting #literature #originalWriting #patrickWMarsh #poem #poemOfTheDay #poems #poetry #poetsOnWordpress #spokenWord #writing