Justin's Poetry Corner

Sweet Familiar Tune

In my headphones,
these keys,
those strings,
this melody,
that voice.

Singing my life,
vibing to the beats,
it's Iggin my baby,
you play it for me
like a familiar tune.

So comfortable,
so soft,
so inviting,
so soothing,
so...perfect.

Keep the light on,
I'll be home soon enough.

Feather Dreams

Wings sprout
from flesh torn
of earthen boundaries
where blazing light
prevails,

through gilded
windows tinted
with azure and
jade flecks,

cloudless climes
and starry skies
rush past
with the ferocity
of abyssal delight,

eyes engulfed
with fluffy
wonder
and body ensconced
in a silken
concubine,

bought with
the feathers
of love.

© Justin Frieberg, All rights reserved

Landslide

Fluorescent lights flicker
from cream colored and cracked fixtures,
blinking my daylight to the
beat of a deranged drummer.
I've been in this hole for years,
aching to return to real
sunlight
instead of it's manufactured counterpart.

I count days by the number
of tremors and worms
who crawl sickly
through my muddy prison.

my living room is now a mire,
the potted plants have long since
expired to fertilizer,
the couch is caked in
the crumbling ruins
of the dropped ceiling,
windows browned
seems like a smoker
lived here for years
without cleaning.

I'm still sitting in my corner
afraid to move,
wondering where and when,
or even if
anyone will find me in
the emotional landslide
that covered me
so long ago.

© Justin Frieberg, All rights reserved

Greenbacks

From birth
to my
youth,
things came
to me
simply

From adolescence
to my latter
teenage
delirium,
life
came vigorously

In adulthood
things have
s l o w e d
to a
crawl

and my
genuflection
to the
almighty
hand
is at it's
apex

but through
the years
I've learned

a simple
piece
of pressed
cellulose
dyed to
a putrid
green

makes us
and
devours us

In the eyes
of society

Enamored Enigma

creation
of a
masterpiece,
nearly
impossible,

for me that is.

inane thoughts,
ideas
jumbled,
Recidivous
in mindset,
looking for my
path to
righteous
youth

it is my colander,
full of hopes,
though they
slip
through
easily enough,

but risible
and my mind
slips
drips
and fades
vilifying my
own writing.