Most Commented Prose Poems (416)

I had just turned sixty, when it all began.
It descended like a rainfall and
progressed to out of hand
I started getting help

to keep up house and chores
Do ashes, dust and
Sometimes mopping Flores.
It was all so very nice
Until she said, once or twice
"I just love it when I
See you drinking Water"
And "Here let me help you
Put your clippies on."
Just like a two year old.
She thought I fit the mold.
She was only seeing numbers,
Not my state of mind
Or even flow of speech.

lying in my wooden skiff
I watched the clouds roll by
And listened to the water
Slaping portside.

My hand slipped in the water
Grasping ocean's weed
Thats when I thought of Ozzie
My boy when he was rhree
And the neckless that we made,
One for him an one for me

. the sun was very hot
It was around three
Time to awaken
I kept telling me

Back to the shore
To all those house chores
No more naps in boats
Not beneath the sun,
nOT beneath the moon
No teven at lunch time
ttime Just before noon!

I feel....me. dark. morose. angsty. it is my life. it is my world. i live in a world where i shall find someone who can tolerate my angst and issues and all that it entails and can wrap themselves around it sealing it within themselves and essentaily taking me into themselves to blend into a perfect union. That will not end in tears and angst and issues of the mind but in a perfect serendipitous union of two minds that do not question the turning of the earth but dance with it to become a singularity moving in tandem with mother and her beautyful spin.

I have sailed these waters for far too long. I am so close to wrapping myself with the chains that hold my ship to these turbulent tides. I am tired of sailing into port and when they hear the name of my mighty vessel, they turn their backs to me. Casting me back into the ocean's vastness. I am not welcome in this port either. I am weary of sailing. I am weary with hunger and thirst. I am weary. I grow close to death and wish for nothing less than the bay of the pigs.
I shall sail into calypso's harbor to be entranced into the form of the swine i hate so. To be loved for a mere moment before she turns on me and turns me into something vile and used for the meat eaten by man. Better to be consumed than to live sailing the world with no bed to call my own or a place to drop anchor. A woman to welcome me from my voyage through the waters of death, vastness that drives men to madness. Into the west, perhaps. Into the Gray Havens. Deep into the underworld where only Hades welcomes me. I am ready to give up. I'm tired of my deppressive state and darkness, the natural reaction, being unwelcome and uncompassioned. I'm tired of giving my soul to someone to judge and being judged unworthy. I'm tired of them looking at me as vile as if i'm found under a rock, white and wriggling. The look of disgust on their face. I wish they could feel the pain within me at their look, at how they respond to me. But it doesnt matter to them or almost anyone else. I am a monster to them. And so i wander the social sea looking for someone who will love me. As of now, only calypso with her brood of swine loves me. Kiss me and turn me into something consumable. To escape this Odyssey of eternal solitude. I grow weary. I am so done. Done. Done.

I walk a world of shadows disguised as light.
where men smile and act on whatever they desire.
Where dead men walk through graveyards of the mind.
Where those who are your blood, spill your own to save their own.
I am a phantom witnessing the roiling seas of human filth.
Those who say,
blessed art thou" spit words of excement.
And call it "righteousness".
We pile the heads of the damned onto walls of paper
To show all who stands against the mob
It is not okay to be a Tory.
The planks of the sailing ship are rotten
and bleeding.
we re called it "culture".
But the smell of "human" decay.
It sickens me.
Every day is another slice into the body of
Human "civilization".
When will we finally sink below the waves
to fill the stomachs of those already chained?
When will the world finally be reduced to cinders?
Maybe then, we can rebuild?
Or maybe, we will cease to be.

My hopes and dreams
For a bond with my own blood;
Are gone in a phantom mist.
Gone like a dream
Forgotten with every passing moment
Until you can hardly remember it at all.

Now, I have only pictures.
And memories.
A painful haunting.
An ever-continuous loop.
I think
I'd rather drink.

You dont know
The damage you've done.
And yet, the door stays open.
But, all i attract are flies.
And other vermin.
I am an only child
Now. No father.
No sister.
Only i have seeds
Which only i can sow
Into a field of dreams
Only I know.

Hoping the ghost will come
and play ball with me
for me.
Must i immolate myself
within the seventh ring?
Your eyes are cast away
for you do not see
or remember
ghosts of your past,
skeletons hiding amongst the cloth.

A shameful secret?
Your own blood?
Shall i spill my own
in an attempt to purify
myself?
no.

I tattoo your name into
my flesh.
for blood is blood.
it does not evaporate
like the love in your heart.
it stays throughout eternity
like a red flag on the door.
of the last great bastille.

You have, in shame, closed the foor
To your own Kin
Will you also forget your children?
Will you cast them away
If they shame you?
Or will you learn that
Love unrequitted
Is returned eventually?
Or not.
To the sower
Goes the reward
be it from your purse
Or the public vault.
You will find
That those who spurn
Their vey blood
Will sow seeds of
Devil Weed.
That lashes you to
The sinking ship.
You'll eventually hit a rock.
Go down with your folly.
And wave the white flag.
Or don't.
And sail forever into the doldrums
Of eternal solitude
and Desolational misery.

I can feel the Darkness.
Wrapped about me
Like a shroud.
Sentient, insidious, hungry.
The corpses of cars,
And those too slow to keep up;
They litter this lonely stretch
Of midnight highway.
Pavestones for the wolves
Drooling at my back
Every step is another step
Into this world
Of post-apocalyptic oblivion.
After the bombs feel,
Hell
Became tangible.
Winter world in freezing night,
Maddening water wells drive men
To convulsing bleeding Death.
Armies ravage the planet,
And humanity is but a fading
Nightmare.
Hell is reality.
It just hasn't frozen over yet.
But, the world ceases to be one.
The wolves consume the weak.
The strong re-take what they can.
The benign make fire and root soup.
And wait to die.
Why;
Why do we carry
Bombs in our pockets
Like so many posies?
Ashes.
Ashes.
We all fell down.
Broke my crown.
World of wonder.
Wonderland;
No rabbit to guide my soul.
The red queen has taken my world,
And left it a wasteland,
For the worm,
For the damned.
For all that's left behind.
And less.

Frequently,
Death sticks its sticky fingers
Into my brain
And rummages through my drawers.

Always
The presence lingers
Deep in the part of the brain
That feels self-preservation.
The presence haunts me
Never to leave.

Where will I go?
To Perdition or Paradise?
To penalty of Purification?

Flames throughout my essence,
Ashes throughout my veins,
And screams throughout my soul.

Close to the gates of prison,
I think of Death.
Frequently.

Pumpkins and Magic
A prose by Devon King


The wishing well,
Still as winter's grip,
How my loathing burns
Like the potter's kiln.

Your surface mocks all,
Pure and not alike.
If i was to throw a farthing,
Would you bring me true reflection?

Or would you be like Prince John,
And steal away the little that i have?
Is a pumpkin just a pumpkin?
Slippers of glass that hold no weight?

Shall i wish for more than shoes of heated iron?
Shall i dance the dance od death and myth?
How shall i acquire a spinning wheel
When all have been burned?

Mice become horses, the dog to the door.
Watch as midnight becomes misery.
Locked in the tower,
The gold man will weave you powdered dreams.

Sell your soul for a farthing
To throw into the wishing well.
It's laughter is tinkling
Like the bells in the fickle wind.

How then shall I see the cinders?
The mighty sword makes me no King.
The lady of the lake is a murderous wretch.
She calls to me from the hidden dreams of the wicked.

The minstrels sing songs of sword and grail.
For what do you seek the cup?
I seek no chalice
But a coffin of purest glass.

A kiss I do not want but an eternal sleep.
.At the death of magic, I awaken to see a world of forgetfullness.
Men fly to other worlds and the heathen call it magic.
True magic is an enigma to the ignorant hoard.

Bury me in oak guarded by a dryad woman.
I shall find no pumpkin here.
I shall watch the earth forget itself
And return to the cradle of thought.

How has the world become a fickle foe?
The trees watch as pumpkins turn to rot,
Glass turns to sand
And pumpkins and magic become stories for the lost.