The Heart’s Underground

Today’s challenge at d’Verse Poets is to write a poem about the underground.  Here is my humble offering.

Paying bills and feeding
the cats and the kid–
doing it all–work and school,
just like I’m supposed to do.
Losing myself in the process,
sinking into the heart’s underground.

Working through the day
respectable, clean-cut and clever,
climbing the corporate ladder
doing the grind of nine to five
and another on the weekend
just like I’m supposed to.

Five o’clock signals the change–
rush to the dark and safe
escape of a bar stool and beer,
numbing the pain and guilt
and the hurt of feeling guilt,
never truly doing what I’m supposed to.

Guilt, hate, and pain co-mingle,
dancing in the chambers of my heart
destroying relationships and self–
unable to pull away like I’m supposed to
and truly be there for the ones I love,
to face the pain to forgive myself.

Forgiveness of an imperfect human,
loving and caring that turns
to bitter tears of self-loathing.
Alcohol induced numbing–
How can I do what I’m supposed to
and nurture and love through the pain?

How can I make them spend time with me
when I can’t stand to be around myself?
Isolated, alone, trapped within those
four chambers, the underground of my heart.
Not knowing how to walk through the
concrete walls of addiction in order
to do what I’m supposed to do.

Listening

For this week’s Quadrille at d’Verse Poets, we are to include the word sound.  I’m also sharing for the photo prompt at Mindlovesmisery’s Menagerie, although it is an old photo of mine.

Late at night
lying in bed
alone–waiting–
wishing we were
together again.
I strain to hear
the slightest sound,
a hint of presence:
your light breath
reaching across
the vast void to
caress my cheek,
if only to say
you still love me.

Crow Beneath the Moon

I am combining challenges from Mindlovemiserys Menagerie where today’s Tale Weaver challenge is to write about the moon and Real Toads where Fireblossom Friday is back to challenge us to write about crows.  I choose to do the challenge in the form of a triolet.  I’m also sharing with the open mic for d’Verse Poets.

 

A murder of crows
beneath the silver moon;
from the tree tops arose
a murder of crows.

Their raucous cry grows
leaving me in a swoon–
a murder of crows
beneath the silver moon.