Inside the dream we see,
Hidden plasma
Popping purple neon
and dramatic recourse.
Inside the dream we see,
White truth
Painted clouds
and a moon made of cool sand.
Inside the dream we see,
graciousness.
Gregory Gathman, USA
Inside the dream we see,
Hidden plasma
Popping purple neon
and dramatic recourse.
Inside the dream we see,
White truth
Painted clouds
and a moon made of cool sand.
Inside the dream we see,
graciousness.
Gregory Gathman, USA
We went to the Ancient Planet
to survive on kernels of certainty—
only to beam into the Inward Satellite
that rings like a swell
bell.
Gregory Gathman, USA
I want to write but
all I write is
Garbage.
And who wants to read that?
That’d be like
digging in the trash
to find
rotten leftovers
and expecting anyone to
eat it.
It’s not a 5-star meal.
The words start as
thoughts in my head
and end up like
garbage on the page.
Stinking of second-rate talent.
Smelling like weak attempt.
Oozing desperation.
I cling to the notion that
I should be doing
this.
Grasping at my titles:
“poet”
“writer”
“artist”
Hoping I can be creative in
any way.
Hoping I can still make this
work.
So, tell me,
Who wants to read my
Garbage poem?
It may be my best yet.
Julia Bodwell, USA