You’re back for hidden answers here
Stop listening to those unclear seers
Stinking thinking can only steer fears
Poets write for themselves not your tears
There’s no encryption written in here
Talking to you within is the seers
The encryption lies within your fears
Poets aren’t your harbor stop your tears
© 2015 Michael Yost 08/27
Posted in Poetry
Tagged Anxiety, Encryption, Fear, hidden answers, Listening, Michael Yost, Poetry, Seers, Steer, Stinking thinking, tears, Terror, Unclear, Writing
Hurling through space we see the blue marble
Their scans disrupts our weapon’s array
Our radio gear now nothing but garble
Forced to bow down only to obey
It didn’t matter that we were human
A.I. integrating our future
Ten year trip tests NASA acumen
Waiting dissolving the sutures
© 2015 Michael Yost 08/25
From the pit of my bowels I boil
Every breathe I take fuels the flame
Working hard to find my path through moil
With so many out there playing games
Your generosity only maims
Causing permanent pain with lame legs
Only some insiders took the blame
No matter what they plead or beg
The weird world waits for their last sentence
© 2015 Michael Yost 08/23
Busted seams of tattered dreams deeds hidden from the sun.
Driven by the dawning twilight, only to be spun.
Twitter Tweakers face aglow, nursing a warm beer.
Sweaty fingered Razor tweeting, “McKenzie needs a lift here.”
Last lick bindle prick, reflection surrounds the spoon.
Shifting stance, shoulder glance, hiding from the moon.
Rubbing thread bare Ruby Rigid swollen with desire.
Live for today, never stay, time will soon expire
© 2010 Michael Yost 10/30
Traces of faces staring while on my calloused knees
Praying to release me from their dark ceremonies.
The Brothers slamming doors driving it back into my ears.
Overwhelming my head causing these streams of tears
Crawling up the wall slipping on the children’s tears soaked moss…
Finally falling feeling failure and another loss.
I gave away my possession’s as I was being pulled back
Keeping moldy bread that I found and water in a sack.
The ten foot doors were closed and locked.
My efforts were answered with a rock to knock.
A brown hooded robe came with dark sunken eyes.
My mind remembering all the pain, hate and lies
I was a baby left with the Brothers years before.
My nightmare’s were started behind their locked doors.
Walking through the door wishing the keystone would drop.
Remembering at eight working the fields tending the crops.
© 2015 Michael Yost 01/10