Tag: blotchedpoems

Deadly Sin #3

Pride, as defined by the poets dictionary.

Definition: Taxidermy of the soul, taking what is dead and setting it up as a trophy to be admired above all other living things.

Other definitions include: To paint a thick coat of most beautiful paint over what is clearly rotten wood, then boasting about your masterpiece.

Preferring night lights to star light, simply because they do what you tell them to.

To be so puffed up with air, you actually believe you’re strong until somebody comes along and pops you.

To take every offense so personally as though all ill intent was always aimed at you.

To have an inability to gaze into any surface not a mirror.

Antonyms include: Humility, empathy, caring for others, generosity.

Pride only seeks to convince itself it dwells above that which is common, deserving more while earning less. Such a heart can never know a higher power, such a heart can never admit need.

Ice Cream

Ice Cream ain’t got nothing

On the sweetness and smoothness

Of her skin on my fingers.

Vinegar ain’t got nothing

On the sting in her venom

Lying in wait, beneath a tongue

Usually so sweet.

Sheets of egyptian cotton

Ain’t got nothing,

On the comfort she brings me.

Any other woman

Ain’t got nothing,

On the love I have for her.

Burned too many times

In a flame of her own blood

Heart now singed at edges

But tender at the center.

Medium rare ain’t got nothing

On her perfection gained by fire.

– Vagabond Prophet

Deadly Sin #2


Wrath, as defined by the poets dictionary.

Definition: What happens when mortals confuse themselves as Gods and allow themselves rage undiluted by servitude to a sovereign.

Other definitions include: Red pumping so violently that it lashes out with unkind words and unkind hands.

Tempestuous resolve to cause suffering and destruction.

Antonyms include: Kindness, Peace, Justice, righteous indignation.

Wrath only seeks to tip the scales and in that plunging down land with heavy fists on whatever it may.

– Vagabond Prophet

I have wept for losses kept, begrudgingly unlatched from this breast more appropriately called “slumber”. I’m no tractor I’m no horse I don’t have enough torque to pull this baggage. Leave them behind like expired spices, no longer seasoning or giving flavour, only turning more to dust with each passing year.

Vagabond Prophet

– Another sprint, hope somebody enjoys it.

Vast Arrays

Thank you for tagging me to this prompt challenge. @mildreflections

Prompt: Write using ONLY the first letter of your (real or blog) name for the FIRST word in EACH stanza!

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Vulnerable and pliable

Vascularly accessible

Volatile and prone to error.

Victual for my lover

Veritable sacrifice for greater causes,

Vicious and gentle in equal measure.

Villain and Hero, fighting civil war.

Very uncivil, I’ll have you know.

Victorious over many things

Vanquished by many others,

Vagarious and foolish.

Vast arrays of descriptors

Vague and exacting both,

Vacant yet still there, telling of my heart.

– Vagabond Prophet

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I am tagging @josy57  @here-lie-my-thoughts

If you accept the prompt challenge, use #impromptuesdays as tagline

4.5 Hours

4.5 hours sleep

Is not enough to support

Corporate expectations.

I’ll just hope that

I get all my stumbling out

Into this journal.

Oh that my sleeplessness

Transformed to black ink

Would take forms

Unthought of in wakefulness.

So I’ll bleed ink

Until the prolonged blink

Where they begin to

Carve my headstone

With keen edged tools

And heavy blows.

They’ll lower to the grave

Luckily shaped like bed

Then and then only will I rest.

– Vagabond Prophet

Remnant

Oh son with limber ligaments,

Elastic mind and sinew,

Let what remains of your youth

Stretch much further than mine has,

Let your vigour for adventure

Weather many winters.

Let your glittering eyes

Shine through every storm.

Spend your days in innocence

Picking flowers for your mother

And learn nothing of

The treachery of lechery.

Clothe yourself in all things joyful

And arm yourself with skills uncommon

Building bridges to others

Not walls to keep them out.

The flame that burns so brightly

If reduced to embers can survive,

Being blown into action days later

By desperate measures

From desperate lungs.

My lungs.

I’ll be your bellows

To forge within you

Strength I only heard of in age.

You’ll be better than me,

An anchor, a muster point

A lighthouse.

For those surviving the blight

Of those spectres in the night

And for all of them you’ll point

To the rising son.

– Vagabond Prophet

Thanks @josy57 for the prompt “what remains of your youth”

Deprived

Not enough hours in the day

So I carve into the night

With shrewd ambition

And blades waved blindly,

Forgetting its importance.

So many words in my brain

Rushing to get out

I see a splash and can’t tell

If it’s a jumping fish

Or just my foot at the other end

Of the bath.

Things in my mind stumble out

With little to no coaxing

Found strolling in cursive.

I’ve got battlecries pouring out fingers

And when the muse courses through

I’m it’s slave.

Take my sleep,

Let me eat not but toast

Allow me no reprieve

From the onslaught.

I can’t go back to drought

Not again.

Protect me from the rivers streams

Becoming desert floors,

I can’t bare to see the current

Turn to dust.

– Vagabond Prophet