I am a sidewalk
one upon whom your
feet dragged heavy and
wet and tired
and I wonder where you
are going
and where you're coming
from
I look up constantly and
am tired of soles and legs and
panties and dropped coins
and litter
and indifference
Too many people, too few dogs
and cats and some rats at night
But you are
different. You wear no shoes and
your little feet are cold and
so delicate
and in your wake you are painting
me with a trail of blood
you are not in the mood to
receive compliments, I know. But
I'll say it anyway. You are beautiful
I hope he never catches you
I wish there was
something I could do
about it
Bogdan Dragos supervises casinos for a gambling company, working twelve-hour shifts locked in a dark office full of TV monitors. There he mostly daydreams and writes poems and stories. He also manages a poetry blog Daydreaming as a…
"When you no longer
see the shadow of what
kept you strong
it's time to let go."
Those would be the last words
he wrote
at the back of the notebook
he filled with thoughts
and rants
and poems
‘Thoughts That Come From
The Heart’
was the title
and the work will remain
for long after he'd
pass away
At least that was the plan
But alas,
as he gave his final breath the
cigarette rolled from his fingers
to the desk and all the way
down on the shaggy carpet
It was a matter of minutes
until the
whole room became
a snapshot from the inferno
It's almost like the gods
want to send
a message. They want to
say that poets
rarely
if ever
have happy endings
I'm starting to
believe that
more and
more as
the days pass
There was indeed silence now Oh, and it's been but days since the screams cracked the windows and the thrown bottles stripped the walls of their paint and the curses made the gods cringe and cover their ears The house of madness no longer lived up to its name For she was finally gone and he was left with the echoes "C'mon, dare me to down it!" were her words as she opened the last bottle And his were, "Bitch, you're mad!" "Dare me, motherfucker! Dare me to down this here bottle. You don't think I can, do you? Ah, you slime-gutted piece of shit." "I'm telling you to knock it the fuck out already! I'll bury yer fuckin' eyes in, see if I won't." But she was already pouring down her throat. She had this talent that allowed her to drink without swallowing. Pouring down her throat was like…
It became more and more
obvious
There was a storm inside her
growing ever stronger
and she sought
to terminate it
before it was too late
It's arguably more difficult to
terminate such storms
when you're fifteen
and still living with your parents
so she decided not to
share her struggle
with them
and reached inside her
for the eye of the storm
with a steel wire she'd kept in
a bottle of hand sanitizer for a day
and a night
Yes, the first raindrops painted the
white of the bathtub
they were crimson
and salty
like her tears
there was a new guy in the park
among the homeless
He arrived just after the mayor had
eradicated all
the tents and improvised huts
and it was easy to spot him
He was the one who
always had a book in his hand, always
reading
"Check out the new guy," they
said. "An intellectual. Heh, hey buddy,
what you reading that for? Not like
you gonna get a degree that'll take
your ass outta here anytime soon. Haaahahah!"
He was reading his own poems
from a time when
he was young and his dreams were
still alive
Today nothing was alive
but misery itself
Well,
after you write enough
and try to publish for long enough
you just notice it
There is no such thing as
good
or
bad
poetry.
There's just poetry to which people
can relate
and poetry to which
people can't relate.
And that makes all the difference
in the world.
Daydreaming as a profession 