Vision
October 2020
#138
What If
What if I told you that the internet isnt real?
That it's a tool to tell us what to buy and how to feel.
A way to make people conform, to control the masses
Like they make us send our kids to classes.
What if I told you that light was night and dark day?
And we are being forced to believe thats not the way.
We are told that sunrise is the morning
But what if its the moon that brings the dawn in?
What if I told you that reality isnt as it seems?
That medication is a way to supress your dreams.
A way to make you believe you're mad and dont belong
Scared by your creative freedom, so taught that you're wrong.
What if I told you, your feelings are Souls?
That you need to acept them to acheive your goals.
And that this reality you live is all in your head
Because inside you know, your alread dead.
Samantha Nolan
Hertfordshire poetry online
Perfection
I was told yesterday to write a poem on perfection
Perfection is for perfectionists, they don't want to make any mistakes
They hassle themselves with pressure to make the right decision
Days spent thinking about how to do it right
Time wasted on things that don't matter
Thinking about any mistakes they make, going over and over and over them
They don't want to look silly, mistakes making it bigger
Regretting any decisions they make, no guessing over it
They overwork, worried about letting others down
Then suffering from exhaustion, missing out on other opportunities
Self sabotage, critical on their defenceless self, no rest and up all night
Easy going is a betterment, the world that balances
John Joseph Sheehy
Extension
A poem can only carry a certified amount of stock, a limited empowerment
We have to search, going past the tip the poem
Important to study rows of crows feet in the ground frost
The Song, the music will take us as far as the bridge
We then have to cross that bridge, trusting it will carry us across
The bell is awakening, warning us to pay attention
The dead have the patience, no choice, no options
The poem, the poet's message only goes that far
It will take another poet another poem to extend it
John Joseph Sheehy
Spidering
Early in the morning night sweat
Soap showers shampoo spraying
Underneath the table fell off
Netting the buttered toast
On the walls, a spider
Goes up and down, trapezoidal
Not a sound, cracked split motion
The turf winger Web weaving
Waving, facing the turquoise guard
In the window rattle, a turned light
The hot tea quenches, wet throaty
Lower the spider from its strand
I turned off my attention
Shaving cream in the lather
Boxed in the hissed shadow
Limbs of many silent memories
Slinking, relinquished, blinked
The crown of genius paints
Latching onto the sculpture
Queen of web made coils
So close in the nearby distance
John Joseph Sheehy
At The Poet’s Seat Tower, Greenfield, Massachusetts, 2016
Ángel L. Martínez
The Bread is Rising Poetry Collective