Poems on the topic: pain

Poems on the topic “pain” on Poets.by.

SadDave Bonta

Slice and dice

summer like a cook my eyes are poor company but you my ache understood the blade dancing naked to know the nature of lives
AnxiousDave Bonta

Painstaking

where are my great pains to defend me against my will if the new ship is called Luck am I her on-shore rat
SadDave Bonta

Betterment

if I could put back in the box all my dark rain and play a poet of insipid ruins would I live only on the road and stop being hurt
RomanticDave Bonta

Only world

will a first kiss dull the discourse how is an only world so little tell me to build again and borrow some pain
SadDave Bonta

Crowd control

in days of sickness a great crowd comes to the wrong world from pain comes alone like some hoped-for good luck and I am silent as the moonlight entering my bed
SadDave Bonta

Martyrdom

digging like a father for his son I find my notes for the subcommittee on pain all the old accounts of a heart clear as windows in a church and the doors burned and the roof falling down
SadDave Bonta

Prisoner of conscience

a faction of one in my cell believes in doubt like a castle with no king to wanton away his time in volumes of pain
SadDave Bonta

Night bird

another hope sinking into my night bag every call is strange that we hear in the dark another body in pain over another body throats that never were people cry higher birch and oak burn and fly at last
AngryDave Bonta

Maquiladoras

bled to make shoes to make clothes which they did with good will and great pain who could not say Let us see what we can do to mend all as a fur of experience rose over us like amber
SadDave Bonta

Omission

no news is plague news shutting up infected people and nobody imagining their pain no news is like meeting an angel more than air more than some poor child and dying daily of sadness at my heart having nothing
SadDave Bonta

Autopoetics

I suffer auspiciously as a rose from unfinished pain having made myself captain I know who he is but you see a man dead of ordinary melancholy
SadDave Bonta

Sadomasochist’s lament

pleasure is a spent country having laws but no art like pain which the poor have perfected and now refuse out of hand

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