Saturday, January 15, 2022

Pulsing Floor

I hope you're doing well this new year, and welcome back. It's been a minute since I've posted a poem. I wrote this poem while listening to the song "Whirl" from Soft Kill. If you would like to support me and my writing, become a patron of my Patreon. You can also buy my poetry book, "Living Day by Day: A Collection of Poems" as that also helps support me.


Standing there in the middle of the dancefloor

Paralyzed

Not knowing how to move.

Close your eyes, feel the beat, 

Thumping through your feet

Right to your core.

There you go 

Making your way through the song,

Dancing, getting lost along the way.

You didn't feel like you fit on the floor,

It's okay

Stay away from the door.

Give yourself a chance,

Let the song lead the way.

Getting lost to the beat, 

On the dancefloor.

The beat pulsing through your feet

Here you're in the moment,

Feeling it in your core.

Getting lost along the way,


Unable to run away.

Paralyzed

Here's the chorus, sing along

Even if your words are lost.

It's alright, no one can hear you,

Sing loudly

Getting lost to the words.

Pulsing through your core

Go along, 

You can sing the song all the way.

From the song, the dancefloor holds onto you.

The door's too far away, 

Don't slow down.

Can't you feel the floor pulsating?

Your heart's in tune.

Down to the soul,

Away from the door,

Getting lost along the way.

Don't let yourself escape.

Stay, 

You're not paralyzed.

Patreon Request 20: New Year Bell

For January, there will be two posts instead of one since it'll also be my birthday soon. If you would like to support me and my writing, become a patron of my Patreon. You can also buy my poetry book, "Living Day by Day: A Collection of Poems" as a birthday gift to me!

    In the old part of the overgrown graveyard, a wailing bell rings. The autumn wind howls along with the blaring sound. A dull thud, thud, thud, is heard from where the ringing bell is. The restless body of Jemima May is desperate to get out. She "died" at 15 in 1912. At the death of the previous year Jemima May, reminds everyone she's still alive. But the public turns a blind eye.

"It's just the wind."

"A storm is coming in."

The screams from the overgrown graveyard drowns these words out. The wailing grave bell welcomes the New Year again. END.