Don’t Care

I don’t have dreams anymore; it all slipped away.  I don’t think about tomorrow; just another endless day.

I don’t look forward to the future, the way I once did. Mirth and solace faded, a kind of lonesome dread.

I just don’t care. It’s not despair. No, there’s just nothing there.

The love I used to feel, has dried up like a leaf. Faith they say is all you need to bring you some relief, but my heart beats in an empty tomb, bereft of all belief.

I just don’t care. It’s not despair. No, there’s just nothing there.

I look up at the sky; all I see is gray. Melancholy smog masks a teal sunny day, unclouded thoughts begin to tear, tatter and fray.

Shrouds of gloom wrap me up in arms of dim dejection. Cloaking me and all my hopes from serrated rejection.

I just don’t care. It’s not despair. No, there’s just nothing there.

A hollow empty core, like a hungry tummy, sore…

But it’s not despair; a world in disrepair. There’s just nothing; a shelf left bare. I just don’t care… anymore.

© 2018 Peter Noah Thomas

This poem is about a friend. Before I met A.J. I didn’t read many poems. That soon changed after I discovered his inspirational, fun and thought provoking poetry. Soon, I was reading and enjoying many poets, most of them found through recommendations from him. Now I can’t imagine a day without at least one poem to fill my thoughts and inspire my day. I never thought I’d be reading poems, much less trying to write some, but here we are.

Weaver of Words

Scribbling on a yellow pad,
Thoughts are forming both glad and sad.
He weaves words of a happy life,
He weaves words that speak of strife.

Ideas flowing like misty dreams,
Feelings forming like silent screams.
He weaves words of faraway places,
He weaves words of desperate embraces.

Giggles bubble from deep inside,
Savored moments then pushed aside.
He weaves words that delight the soul,
He weaves words that take their toll.

When ears are closed, and we’re too proud,
When life is tough and growing loud.
He weaves the words we need to hear,
He weaves the words to disable fear.

The holiday spirit shining bright,
Santa, snowmen and reindeer delight.
He weaves the words of cheerful giving,
He weaves the words of joyful living.

The night is long, you’re lonely and scared,
Your mind a jumble, emotions bared.
He weaves the words that soothe your soul,
He weaves the words that might console.

He is the weaver of words of beauty and glory,
He weaves the words of each life story.
He fulfills the promise of unfeigned accession,
Of the human spirit and heartfelt expression.

© 2015 Peter Noah Thomas

When the World Ended

when the world ended,
i fell to the floor,
tears rolling down,
the future tore.

heart in my throat,
my jaw felt weak,
you held me tight,
you kissed my cheek.

when the world ended,
your hand on mine,
softly caress,
fingers entwined.

no whispered words,
you let me be,
your quiet strength,
meant the world to me.

And on that day, when the world ended,
you held my hand,
you stayed with me,
you made me see,
my world could be…
mended…
again…
someday.

© 2015 Peter Noah Thomas

I Stand

I stand atop the world, arms out at my sides,
a world stretched out below me, and yet the world hides.
The din of shouting voices, and disharmony fade,
yielding to creation; eminence of nature they abrade.

My eyes are closed and yet, I can see it all,
the meadow lush and sweet, would catch me if I fall.
I hear the rumbling water, it crashes then it wanes,
like the blood that gives me life, rushing through my veins.

I feel a mellow breeze, dance across my face,
it tickles in my ears, like feathery lace.
The trees whisper secrets, the ones I need to hear,
manifesting on my cheek, as a solitary tear.

The sun is rising now, I feel warmth upon my skin,
I open up my eyes, to take the beauty in.
The majesty and wonder, unshackles and it frees,
It draws away my breath, I drop down on my knees.

© 2016 Peter Noah Thomas

Pracillian Pernicious Sits

Pracillian Pernicious sits on a bench, contemplating her lot in life. Wherever she went, she made people regret, her gaze would cut like a knife. But why, she pondered, can they not agree with the things I love the most? I’m quite special you see, you needn’t flee, “Oh! I don’t like to boast!”


While most little girls loved dolls and curls and days full of sunshine and wonder. “Oh my,” she feigned, then looked quite disdained, “Oh! I love lightning and thunder!”


Now just down the road lived rich Mr. Goad who had ruined many a man. He took pleasure from pillage, each man in the village, “Oh! I’m his biggest fan!” The story goes, no one really knows, how he came to be locked in his vault. “The air was too thin,” she said with a grin, “Oh! It wasn’t my fault!”


Mr. Green was a banker, a real wanker, foreclosing… his pride and joy. To evict was a pleasure, to add to his treasure, so many dreams to destroy. His yacht was a beauty, paid for with his booty. Oh boy what a wonderful trip. When they lowered the anchor, it fell on the banker, “Oh! He went down with his ship!”


And lest we forget, Violet O'Dett, who survived 5 husbands to date. Though it’s been said, she poisoned them dead, now she has succumbed to their fate. Pracillian reached in her pocket and pulled out a locket and opened the tiny lid. Inside was a pill to poison and kill, “Oh! But I never did!”


Then the bats in the sky, started to fly and circled around her head. Fog high as her knees, wind rushing through trees, loud enough to wake up the dead. Full moon is aglow, lighting below, casting shadows all over the place. A powder complexion, white china perfection, a sweet smile swept over her face. Her eyes are ablaze, a black veil of haze, pinning you onto the ground. Are your scruples askew, is she coming for you? “Oh! I won’t make a sound!”


© 2014 Peter Noah Thomas


Pic from: http://goo.gl/Thn21m Check out this artists other great works.

Cheater

Vows broken with a kiss,
tongues touching, entwined
stings like piss.

Twisted tales of make believe,
Onion skin heart,
on your sleeve.

Aphotic soul like a clogged up drain,
acrid stench,
leaves a stain.

Tenebrous expression, hades gloom,
wandering eye,
pricks like rheum.

Dark cimmerian heart of depraved intent,
squirting deceit,
through a stygian stent.

Caliginous evasion,
scheming screw,
what the fuck did I ever see in you?

© 2017 Peter Noah Thomas

Morning in a Field of Gold

Light across the gilded field
Sunbeams through holes in a cloud
Silently across your face, rays yield
Shadows cast off their shroud

A dewy kiss warms morning thoughts
Of a lovers raw embrace
Desire twisted up in knots
Yearnings will unlace

Lay me down on a clover sea
And a honeysuckle bed
Gentle breezes wash over me
Flowing like water instead

Wet lips entwined with hunger
Gives way to beating hearts
Our fingertips do linger
Panting breaths depart

So lay with me on this bed of gold
Blowing kisses in my ear
A golden field for my love to hold
Darling, lets stay right here

© 2018 Peter Noah Thomas

Rumblings

Hat tugged down, rope pulled tight,
through brook and creek, clouded eyesight.
Trice of light, screams like a mourner,
the squall corrals, and gives no quarter.

Trees dance, leaves out, arching east,
grass flat like carpet, blades are creased.
Weeds twist off, then dance like devils,
Mistral gusts pelt hard, then levels.

Boots sink in, a muddy plash,
drizzled mist begins to thrash.
Wet leather wafts into the air,
rolling down his face, not rain, a tear.

Fall on the ground, fingers dig in,
the soil covers broken skin.
Pounding the ground like a drum,
his pain is less when his arms are numb.

Clouds open up and start to pour,
the breaking heart he can’t endure.
The droplets mix in with the pain,
his eyes look up, “I am the rain.”

© 2016 Peter Noah Thomas

The spring is playing with us: every blooming tree covered with a layer of snow… I am writing out the gloomy mood.

A stillborn sonnet
The sheets hold me
In their womb.
I don’t want to be born yet
Into this day,
This morning
Of guilt and regret.
The grievances
And tenderness
Of yesternight
All turned to headache,
Heartache, mental filth.
As hopes come to a halt
I wonder
Who was really at fault.

A pocketful of miracles
As winter turned to spring
And the trees started blooming,
There was a peculiar kick
In my abdomen.
Out of curiosity,
I took a scalpel
And - expecting butterflies -
Cut through the layers
Of my shell.
Look! You’ll recoil.
Countless bodies,
Swarming,
Worming their way
Through the labyrinth
Of intestines,
Chewing on soil.
I am rotting alive.
Love set its pure eggs in me
Like a giant fly,
Shiny in the shy sun.
The 14th century would be proud.
For I am a rotten woman.
Still disintegrating,
Willingly admitting
To my dirt and guilt.
The guilt of mankind
Or at least womankind,
Though there is none to be found,
I’ll confess to every sin attributed
And decay in plain sight
To please the crowd.
So kiss my lips
While they’re warm.
Take what’s left of this body,
I shan’t need it anymore.

Inside-out
I am a sponge
Swallowing your words
Filling my every pore with you
To complete fullness
And then some more
Until I’m nauseous
And choke on their beauty
As I vomit these lies
Upon the slightest touch.

One day at a time. (via Instagram) 

A little mid-week poem. It’s been a while. (via Instagram)

Just doing that thing where I think 10 steps ahead. (via Instagram)

I wrote “a little” but I meant “a lot” ✨ (via Instagram)

Just a friendly reminder that you can be angry about some things and happy about other things, too. They can coexist. Just don’t forget to make room for joy, too. (via Instagram)

Make it cozy. (via Instagram)