Too Late

Shadows dance on spackled walls, soaking up the light.
Papers scattered, strewn about the somber floors.
Silence grows, basking in the night.

Dark stains pool on a rotting desk.
Maggots tear at old flesh, tasting death.
The scent of urine lingers, long forgotten.

The man in the corner, sits alone.
A flash of light, a glint in his hand.
The needle calls, begging for a vein.

His sigh echoes, reverberating off wooden eaves.
Restless thoughts leak into the air.
Looking up in elation, he notices he is not alone.

-Peter Brindley

The end of the World Begins in March

Last night I prayed to God, in my bed.
Something I do, perhaps not often enough.
Something I read, so filled me with dread.
March 9, 2016: they say the world will begin to end.

The arrival of Planet X, Nebiru, wormwood.
Bringing, in its wake, rapid climate change.
Ocean tides will rise, flooding coastal states.
Poles will shift, 10 degrees, changing Earth’s orbit for good.

Earthquakes, Tsunamis, Martial law, Mass panic,
The Government, 1%, all safe in their bunkers.
Bunkers which have already been erected.
Death of billions, unaware, a worldly Titanic.

I questioned myself: Am I ready to die?
Thought of the works of Sartre, Camus, Schopenhauer.
To them these thoughts would be trivial, absurd even.
Yet I still wonder, what kind of man am I?

So much of my life still worth living.
So much purpose, my dreams, unfulfilled.
So many wrongs I have committed.
So many things to be forgiven.

Yet Sartre would say, a whisper in my ear,
Do not hold yourself to morals, these constructs of men.
Camus would tell me that death is the only constant,
Schopenhauer says deaths already here.

So the fear passes, worried thoughts subside.
I know if need be, I am ready to die.

-Peter Brindley

God Save My Anxious Soul

A raging fire, quickly spreads through the underbrush of my mind.
Heat and smoke are building, flooding the hive-like corridors.
Hornets are buzzing, soft cries droning, growing louder, as each second passes.
Instincts rage, screaming to run, escape this pain.
I long for something, anything to sedate me, before it’s too late.
Slick thoughts break free of an unconscious cage.
Whispers so quietly, one cannot hope to hear them.
A cornfield maze before me, filled with hissing snakes,
Poison drips off pointed fangs, poison fills the room.
They are all around me.
I am suffocating.
A pillow in the night, guided by the hand of my enemy,
An enemy I know quite well, or proclaim to at least.
An enemy known as me.
I am out of control, my actions are not quite my own,
Yet is it not the actions that make the man,
Define me as an addict.
Addicted to an assortment of vices.
Fire in my lungs to sedate fire in my mind.
A distraction perhaps, yet exactly a distraction, I crave.
Release I must find, else these thoughts take hold.
Dangerous thoughts lead me down a dangerous road.
I seek no cure, just something to hold me over,
Something to find me safe.
We are all in danger.

-Peter Brindley

A drunken night

This poem i wrote in my journal, on September 5. This is completely unedited.

A Drunken Night

The bed creaks, our souls speak.

Your mouth on mine, our bodies collide.

Your soft cries, echo through my mind.

The heat of your touch, the heat of the moment.

Inhibition lost, drank it all away,

Replaced with lust.

And as we satisfy, that primal urge,

Do you even wonder, where we go from here?

My mind is blind, filled with images of you.

The taste of your skin,

The heat of your body,

The feeling of your lips,

Sin so sweet.

Bliss.

My mind now blank,

My thoughts of you,

Between thick sheets,

I leave my soul, my very essence,

Now a part of you.

Winter Lake-A temperature poem

Winter Lake

A drag from a cigarette, fire in your chest.

Smoke enters your lungs, smoke in the wind.

The water will freeze, ice in your veins.

Snow packs, beneath your feet.

To your left stands the girl you loved.

Hair flowing, cheeks red, blood in her eyes.

To your right stands the girl you will love.

Head in the clouds, stars in her eyes.

Your soul screams, your mind breaks.

A storm rages.

Your hands shake.

Reach out, you are drowning.

Warmth.

A hand.

A call.

Comfort, a blanket for the cold.

Her eyes pierce the fog.

They beckon, they whisper.

They call.

And you answer.

Your lips on my lips.

Your hand in my hand.

Our bodies collide

Our souls search the heavens, bound as one.

But our bodies still stand,

Cold, rigid, as the snow falls,

Beside that frozen lake

As winter calls.

The Clock: A sound poem

Had to write a sound poem for my class. This is one i actually came up with, well at least the framework, quite some time ago. The basic idea stemmed whilst I was laying in a hotel bed, texting someone I really care about. Basically i was quite invested in the conversation, so while i was staring at my phone, waiting for a response, i began to write this poem. I did some editing to smooth it out a bit and here’s the finished poem.

The Clock

Here I am, laying in bed.

Staring at the clock.

It’s only reply, tick-tock.

Awaiting your reply,

Here I shall write.

The clock goes on, tick-tock.

So I write thinking of you,

And all your beauty.

Tick-tock, I swear me it mocks.

Blue eyes, crash through my mind,

And flood my soul.

The ticking drowns away.

Smile, brighter than the night sky.

Face of an angel.

You keep the ticking at bay.

Your thoughts mean most of all,

To me a drug.

Tick-tock, it’s incessant.

An addiction I can’t fight.

Try even? I can’t.

The clock remains its, tick-tock.

Now I too am drowning!

Your words don’t come.

Tick-Tock, it grows louder.

Perhaps, you are now sleeping.

Shall I say goodnight?

Tick-tock, it rings through my mind.

How I long for your words,

To sedate me.

Tick-tock! It’s now screaming.

A moment of elation:

A vibration.

Thank you, for the ticking fled.

The high creeps through my mind,

I am now free.

I smile, at your response.

I try my hand at something,

Oh so clever.

Then I find myself waiting.

Waiting for my next hit.

My high waning.

Tick-tock whispers the clock.

Textural Poem

I was asked to write, for class, a textural poem. Here is what i came up with.

Sandy beaches

How could one describe the feeling,

Of sand beneath your feet?

Soft as a field of grass,

The sod farm where we once lay.

Nearly as malleable as clay,

I was like putty in your hands.

As salty as the sea,

Southern winds blew your hair.

A massage, in-between your toes,

Bright pink nails, your favorite color.

Sand in my mouth, gritty,

Our first kiss on the dunes.

Wet now, from the ocean tides.

Tears, glistening, in your green eyes.

Cold at night, your shoulder.

Moon so bright, your eyes dim.

How could I describe the feeling,

Of the love that we lost?

-Peter Brindley