—Poetry and Photos by John Patrick Robbins,
Knotts Island, N. Carolina
HER LOVE IS LIKE WINTER
Cold and unforgiving and beautiful all the same.
Sometimes I feel her icy embrace caress my thoughts
As I feel a sting in the space that once held my so-called heart.
I believe she stuck the needle into the doll just a tad bit deeper.
Her passion for hatred seems to far surpass that of compassion.
Her heart is like a frozen lake, often walked on and fragile just the same.
Always listen before you step, for it always gives warning before it breaks.
Her love is like winter, beautiful in the sense it can never love in return.
Consider yourself lucky if only to survive it, let alone live to kiss and tell.
Cold and unforgiving and beautiful all the same.
Sometimes I feel her icy embrace caress my thoughts
As I feel a sting in the space that once held my so-called heart.
I believe she stuck the needle into the doll just a tad bit deeper.
Her passion for hatred seems to far surpass that of compassion.
Her heart is like a frozen lake, often walked on and fragile just the same.
Always listen before you step, for it always gives warning before it breaks.
Her love is like winter, beautiful in the sense it can never love in return.
Consider yourself lucky if only to survive it, let alone live to kiss and tell.
MASTER OF NO ONE’S COMMAND
Death does not scare me.
For death is peace and the burden of existence is simply just a waiting game.
My life has gone largely unfulfilled.
I consume everything I can only to fill an endless void.
I have no remorse, nor do I beg for forgiveness over my past choices.
For they were my own and suited my desires.
Many read something into the lines of others.
Guess, where they only have to ask to receive an answer.
Never place men upon thrones treating them as Gods.
For the view from any perch is lonely.
Power and influence are meaningless tools, when the vessel this title is placed upon is as hollow as an old dead tree inside.
Never envy the Gods, for they are alone in their pain.
And alone is all I shall ever truly be.
Death does not scare me.
For death is peace and the burden of existence is simply just a waiting game.
My life has gone largely unfulfilled.
I consume everything I can only to fill an endless void.
I have no remorse, nor do I beg for forgiveness over my past choices.
For they were my own and suited my desires.
Many read something into the lines of others.
Guess, where they only have to ask to receive an answer.
Never place men upon thrones treating them as Gods.
For the view from any perch is lonely.
Power and influence are meaningless tools, when the vessel this title is placed upon is as hollow as an old dead tree inside.
Never envy the Gods, for they are alone in their pain.
And alone is all I shall ever truly be.
IT’S ALL FUN UNTIL IT’S NOT
The blood flowed more often than not, every time I puked.
Sometimes I question why I put myself through this.
Then I awake in redneck paradise, trapped due to lack of finances and realize.
The other side probably doesn't get cable or CMT.
I may not be able to afford a handgun but I can certainly afford a refill.
Get it?
The blood flowed more often than not, every time I puked.
Sometimes I question why I put myself through this.
Then I awake in redneck paradise, trapped due to lack of finances and realize.
The other side probably doesn't get cable or CMT.
I may not be able to afford a handgun but I can certainly afford a refill.
Get it?
ROSE WATER
I will never be the safe bet to see tomorrow.
But I will never pass anything off.
That's not a hundred percent me.
The drinks aren't to escape, they are simply to maintain.
The drugs are just there and sometimes that beats nothing at all.
Self-destruction in art is a bit sick when you consider.
The onlookers all praise your demise.
You're the whore, an empty vessel, nothing more than a product of empty streets and bad choices.
Chase the end and, eventually, you too shall find it.
It's not cavalier, it's just how it is.
Fools worship where others simply remain silent.
A kiss of tragedy is beautiful as a pathetic truth stands hollow.
The mirror reflects, as so do I.
There is nothing more to see here.
Goodnight.
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
That’s the problem with drinking, I thought, as I poured myself a drink. If something bad happens you drink in an attempt to forget; if something good happens you drink in order to celebrate; and if nothing happens you drink to make something happen.
—Charles Bukowski
___________________
Welcome back to the Kitchen today, John Patrick Robbins—all the way from North Carolina—and thanks for the fine poems and pix! I'm so glad I found the Blogspot glitch so I could get his post up here today!
I will never be the safe bet to see tomorrow.
But I will never pass anything off.
That's not a hundred percent me.
The drinks aren't to escape, they are simply to maintain.
The drugs are just there and sometimes that beats nothing at all.
Self-destruction in art is a bit sick when you consider.
The onlookers all praise your demise.
You're the whore, an empty vessel, nothing more than a product of empty streets and bad choices.
Chase the end and, eventually, you too shall find it.
It's not cavalier, it's just how it is.
Fools worship where others simply remain silent.
A kiss of tragedy is beautiful as a pathetic truth stands hollow.
The mirror reflects, as so do I.
There is nothing more to see here.
Goodnight.
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
That’s the problem with drinking, I thought, as I poured myself a drink. If something bad happens you drink in an attempt to forget; if something good happens you drink in order to celebrate; and if nothing happens you drink to make something happen.
—Charles Bukowski
___________________
Welcome back to the Kitchen today, John Patrick Robbins—all the way from North Carolina—and thanks for the fine poems and pix! I'm so glad I found the Blogspot glitch so I could get his post up here today!
John was first featured in the Kitchen on June 5, 2019; see medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/search?q=john+patrick+robbins/ and scroll down.
—Medusa
—Medusa
John Patrick Robbins
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world, including
that which was previously-published.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
LittleSnake, Hung Over
