Ye Who Are Drenched In Sin. Rise And Face Me. I Shall Guide You To The Paradise That Welcomes Everyone.

Distant, whispered ache.

An age between and high stakes.

Leap we didn't take.

wandering illusions

they all have your face, except

you look happy. that’s how i know

this is not real.

~K.T.

None

FRAGMENTS

Fragments, oh fragments

Small pieces of brokenness

Time chiseled off moments

in detached consciousness

Shattered hope and dreams

In solitary confinement

Fear, in suppressed screams

Enforced early retirement

Retained disappointed feats

Trigger the onset of delusion

Unto bowing lowly in defeat

Reduced to utter confusion

Blasted, stripped of dignity

Unretrieved pieces of unity

Fragments of human sanity

©Johnny J P Lee

(Novelist, Author & Poet)

A Gogyoshiren Poem (15)

Photos, Unsplash Images

"Bound"

A life of commas and semicolons The pauses and hesitations of the ellipsis The catastrophic ending of paragraphs The solitude of the blank spaces And the freedom of the thought never written

The Questions I Ask Before I Leave

Had I been brave?

Was I strong?

Unafraid to speak the truth?

What did I do with my time?

Did I fill the world with love?

© Johnny J P Lee

06 December 2024

A Gogyoshi Poem 5

Poems are just word structures, sometimes devoid of poetry. Poetry goes far beyond words. Images are words too... Poetry is how we use these images.

roles reversed, crumbling in dust enough to cave in the lungs of titans. don't force me to breathe anyway, it's pointless in the grand scheme of cigar marketing. all for standing outside and watching the rays of sun stretch their limbs and lie down for the evening but the true beauty comes when all the pawn shops facing east are religiously nocturnal.

a hopper of trains, we can be out of here, we can be slugs happily avoiding the minefield of saltshakers set up to watch us perish. a tale as old as grandfather's medals, tears stinging eyes, hometown roaches feasting on nuclear Thanksgiving; part the lips and caught the tongue trembling common knowledge. that the boxing gloves hooked on the wall have touched their fair share of tender cheeks and retiring will only cause the maroon to solidify.

nap away the wrongdoings of foreign-feeling nausea. spin the story like a top on the evening reporter's desk laden with load-bearing ash-pokes the size of his ideals surrendering to keyboard gestures of love and floundering reputation.

We need more cutesy horrors

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