You take the
small pleasures when
they come,
like vanishing gnats.
The black cat rolls on
the freshly vacuumed
carpet,
reaching every spot
and fiber, to satisfy
the deep need for relief.
My good friend died this
morning.
Cirrohis--his lover became a killer.
Motherfucker, I'm sick of
death.
Neon orange sadness.
Three beautiful orphans behind.
The cubbards need to
be organized,
and every rotten thing in
the fridge needs tossed away.
This gray day
needs me back in bed,
covers over my head,
and a sunrise that
deletes everything.
-
Author:
Thomas W Case (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: October 26th, 2025 14:08
- Comment from author about the poem: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aQqzu0P6uKw Here is a link to my YouTube channel, where I read poetry from my recently published books, Seedy Town Blues, It's Just a Hop, Skip, and a Jump to the Madhouse, and Sleep Always Calls. They are available on Amazon.
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 36
- Users favorite of this poem: RSM0812, Tristan Robert Lange
Offline)
Comments4
This reminds me of the fact that you have to take each day like new. The beginning of something worth true felicity.
So true. Thanks./
I have been there before and feel it. Nicely done Thomas
Thank you.
Most welcome Thomas
Enjoyed the poetic description of displacement activity.
I appreciate it.
Thomas, this cuts straight through…no dressing, no disguise. Grief laid bare beside the ordinary. It hurts, but it’s true. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
Thank you.
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