Quicksilver Poetry

First the inspiration back story..

So… On tumblr I managed to by virtue of sheer exhaustion do something that has me so embarrassed. I had a talented poet enter into my asks wanting to recieve a poetry prompt. Now… I am on a midnight schedule. My boyfriend works midnight to 9am, roughly. So, I usually am in bed between 2ish pm and 11pm. Well, I am also an insomniac…. Yesterday was a no sleep day. The poet thanked me for posting it… And I in my exhaustion… I did not double check the response before sending it out. Autocorrect got me. I sent Your welcome instead of the You’re welcome that I thought I was sending. So I think that I will attempt the prompt myself as recompense.

The prompt was : memories buried.
©2019 Patricia Harris

Six feet down,
In fresh turned earth…
Lays love once so dear.
He chose another heart,
Betraying mine.

So his memory,
I buried.
To prevent my pain,
In hopes that it would
Never rise again.

As the wheel of time turned,
Away that heartache burned.
So here I am with shovel in hand,
At the graveside I stand.
Hoping to revive
All of the memories
Buried inside.

Quicksilver poetry

Who will write the obituary

For the lost soul,

The one that hid from the world

Any truth of identity?

Too many times when

Hands stretched forth,

They were smacked away

Feelings pulled astray.

Lies, they called,

Sure that the truth denied.

So who writes the obituary,

When no one saw the truth

In what was said?

Quicksilver poetry

©2019 Patricia Harris

Sleep elu,

Sitting in my bed

Still shaken from

The monsters that live

Inside my head.

Revisiting memories

Is far away from

The way that I need

To help me sleep.

Shaky in the dark,

I dare not turn on

The bright overhead light.

For though the fear

Blankets my skin,

I do not want

To awaken the ones

Who are still sleeping.

Quicksilver poetry

In school I was asked to write,

In a journal wrapped with wire.

What is it that when you leave

Others to think of you

Do you aspire?

Now I was perhaps all of sixteen

And hardened by pain.

Atracked by my own mind,

Driven half insane.

The teacher was one

Who held my notion,

Inspiration flowed from her,

And put the pen to motion.

I think that I wrote that kind

Is the greatest thing anyone

Could possibly ever think of me.

Since that day,

Nearly thirty years

Have all but flown away.

Every now and then,

My mind is drawn back.

I find myself understanding

Something that then I lacked.

Though kind is a virtue,

One so many do lack,

If I am honest,

More matter of fact,

Then I would answer it different.

I think instead when I leave a room,

I would rather that people

Instead thought me true.

Quicksilver poetry

©2019 Patricia Harris

Someone said that war is Hell…

And for them it may be true,

For me, I think that I see

Hell so much differently.

Hell is being locked within,

Hearing your memories

Stuck on repeat again and again.

Hell is trying to reach out

For sanity, for comfort,

And realizing that those

That you love do not care

About your hurt.

Hell is mostly repetition,

The same pain and the same joys

With no end in sight.

Nothing to grow from,

No new light.

The devil ruling hell

Is a true beast,

He is your own mind

Stuck again in rewind.

Quicksilver poetry

Something new I am thinking about. Sometimes I want to jam. Just free verse because I have too much on my mind. It will likely be rambling and not the cleanest verse. But… It will be a good look into who I am behind the edited and clean verse I usually post. This will also not necessarily be the way that the poetry ends in the books. This section will not be scheduled. It will be a whim. And I make no promise of quality….