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Owned by Phil
A place to share poetry, workshop with constructive feedback, browse poetic forms and practice with formal structures and new avenues of expression.
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10 contributions to WRITERS
25d •
Finances
Eclectic acrobats swinging from desire to necessity like a child’s indecision, This or that trinket, this or that water, food, shelter, or blanket, Dollars of various denominations trickling out of pocket like the broken spigot, fumbling down the proverbial drain, or just onto the lawn off the pavement, There is always some other arrangement, some obligatory bill like a warning or advisory of a storm forever looming just out of mind’s sight. Trash becomes treasure, becomes more than unused toys, play becomes time with others to satisfy the undeniable hunger of materialism reestablishing what matters, money relinquishing it’s powers reluctantly like the bully no one is afraid of, like the object it was never meant to be, just another version of a life one is never meant to see.
27d •
Transgressions
Anger is a river I cannot cross, A fractured mosaic, with fragments of glass strewn atop the bottom of its bed, tiptoeing into it’s imperceptible depth my every breath focusing on the next step, light as a feather, one foot, then the other; Screaming violently silent inside, internally steaming, boiling over the stream and seeping through skin in tones, demanding tunes my voice struggles to stay ahead of, a pairing of notes from a mandolin with the stoicism of a mannequin to preserve what humanity remains unblemished, to preserve the small semblances of peace; Piece by piece I am picking and sifting through the shatter, shifting tinier and tinier shards with sharper edges and watching air oxidize what is within before forcing itself out between small scratches, bleeding into the river and skewing its color like a palette to paint with.
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Jul 7 •
Blue
Im feeling blue like brass tunes, weighed down underneath heavy jazz, but I can’t hear the music or understand the muse, just background sound to another outsider here for some amusement; Parking myself to watch the bodies bounce like crickets, the people are cutting up and down the floor with classic moves and intentional switches from ten toes of one foot to their own flow and back again, their movements like life, unscripted. Here the heat escapes and climbs like friction or a static shock, hot like streets underneath summer sunbeams, I’m sweating without participating, perspiring beneath a melancholy looming uncontrollably over me, fighting to avoid feeling defeated or downtrodden, run down and beat up by a life I can’t seem to figure out the moves to; Im circling the spot, obsessing over this mental block, I can’t seem to build with and spiraling with thoughts and questions like: If life’s a game are you playing to win or playing for your enjoyment? If you’re playing for enjoyment how does one afford it? And if you’re playing to win then what is it that reports it and what measurements record it? All around me humanity walks through waves of personal and external struggle, wading against the wake and into an unknown that renders my own dancing feet with an unbearable stagnancy, So here I sit stationary, just a spectator praying tomorrow treats me fairly.
2 likes • 27d
@Sage Knaus thank you so much! Your words are encouraging to stay the course. I love that you could personally relate to this as well. Makes it all the more meaningful
2 likes • Jul 5
My death was instantaneous, quick like a blinking light or the simple act of blinking itself. When the light came to me, so did I to you. Clear as day, you stood in your oversized, handed down clothes, your cowboys situated within the ripples and folds of your pajamas are indiscernible. Despite the previous light that delivered me here, it is nighttime and the only light in your room is emitted from a small desktop lamp on a nightstand in the corner. I notice it’s chipped before I notice you’re staring at me. After a few moments of silence it dawns on me you’re waiting for me to speak. Bewildered and confused I am unsure if I should dare to talk. I am inexplicably afraid of you, worried I may have startled you and worried of your perception of me as I stand awkwardly and quiet from where I arrived. I am incredibly perturbed, uncertain as to where and what I am. Attempting to swallow my fear and taking a few steps forward, I caught my reflection and realized I am not longer in the figure which I departed my reality in. Your eyes are on me, no disbelief, just curiosity paired with a palpable energy exuding from your tiny frame. “Hu….hi” I finally managed to muster. My voice sounding oddly unfamiliar. Your eyes widen before you walked towards me, taking my hand you, “I’ve been waiting for you,” you said simply as you guided me onto the cityscape rug adorning your floor. After gesturing for me to sit down, you grabbed an all black car and a sleek red sports toy car from a full bin beside you, inspecting the integrity of its mechanisms, you handed me the sportier car and commenced a demonstration of how to navigate the city beneath us. I watched you and wondered if this was eternity, if this was the afterlife or heaven. I hadn’t expected to be here, I hadn’t expected to be anywhere except the dance recital I rushed passionately to until my life expired and I came back into consciousness here. I am working up my desire for understanding, working on finding my voice, but before I spoke, somebody knocked at the door.
Jul 3 •
Today
I am emphatically dramatic, a problematic statistic you upset, a dreary cloud overhead promising rain. But there’s a system to maintain, routines to establish and black mascara runs down beauty’s face, streaks down cheeks, staining the places she let them remain. I am selfishly brooding over others’ theatrics, if life is a game, then this is a hat trick; a score to run up like notches on a belt. If life deals the hand I fold on the felt, I fold before the flop, I fold before the inevitable river I can’t get across or atop. I am a traveler lost, stopping by a hundred acres or more Christoper Robin wouldn’t cross, frozen like the speaker of Frost poetics, sympathetic and pathetic, stuck in place waiting on motivation or momentum to triumph over this spectrum of fear and imagination, over temptations and vacations, against vocations and occupations, waiting to triumph over opinions of outsiders and interlopers. I am working on ignoring the comments of spectators who’s spark died long before mine was lit, long before my own tenacity and grit could get the chance to move foreword and advance, long before life’s demanding dance, the dance I am forever learning the steps to.
2 likes • Jul 5
@Christa Karim thanks I want to try and record it on my social with the intention of using it as a spoken word. I really appreciate your note on expanding certain points to allow the point to hit heavier and allow the idea or image to resonate with an audience.
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@phil-scire-2715
A community to workshop, share, and express one’s deepest thoughts on life, love, food, nature, or whatever your fancy is…
Active 2d ago
Joined Jun 8, 2026