Untitled

Untitled so far. This is my newest, and I'll probably make some changes.

The small azalea and blueberry bushes grew
In small pots on the porch when they were tiny and new.
They were junkies, too.
Addicted to long drinks of rain and sips of dew
(on the rocks).

They jonesed for the sunlight.
They quivered beneath the moonlight.
They had some blow when the wind was right.
Grass could be found everywhere in sight.

They were cut off cold when the winter came.
No sunshine, no dew, no drops of rain.
The blow turned bitter and caused them pain.
Nothing sustaining shot up through their veins.
(So they slept).

They awakened when they heard the robin’s song!
They survived the darkness, and their branches are long.
I wish you had of been as strong.

You couldn’t find a way to bud or start your life anew.
Stuck in the void, you decided you were through,
While the little plants fought their addictions and grew.
So we planted them, but we scattered you.
(And I wept).

©tnicholas2010

Mental Masturbation

Here's the title poem from my (hopefully soon-to-be published) book "Mental Masturbation: Poetry that has no point. It just feels good." Yeah...I don't give a crap about psychological nudity.

Mental Masturbation

If I try to concentrate on serious drudgery,
My mind goes off on a solo spree.
Thoughts come that bring joy to only me.
My mind masturbates in poetry.

I try to focus on hardcore work,
But my mind begins to jerk
Away to where creativity flows free,
My mind masturbates in poetry.

If I try to converge on important matters,
My mind beats off like the wings of moth.
Wild horses need out of the barn.
Breasts shouldn’t be captive to a corset.
It’s too hard to read dry material,
That doesn’t keep my gray matter wet.
It shoots off every chance it gets.

When worries are crushing my mental libido,
The spirit reminds me which way to go.
I can play alone, and nobody will know!
Poems get me off,
And help me stay where life is soft.
Imagery tends to relax.
Rhythm and Rhyme’s union produces the climax.

Words spluge forth and cover the page.
The ink defiles the virgin white.
There’s no course plotted out for this flight,
And there’s no destination.
There’s no point. It just feels good,
This…mental masturbation.