Poem 19: UTOPIA

We are the brain cells,
Of a nine-year-old boy,
His imagination with deep wells and spells.
There is no reality, in this reality,
It’s full of faceless eyes.
Synthetic lips, cursed with sanity,
Insanity, sanity people so concerned for morality,
Yet their hypocrisy, hurts my chest
A dead utopia, dust and a quest.
Full of lawless streets but I am free,
Lawless streets with nobody,
Lawless streets and a smiling cat,
Singing from a tree, just like LSD.
This is the dead utopia,
All you people fear,
Because our existence only exists,
As long as this boy is asleep and unaware.

Poem 10: DAY & NIGHT

Sipping my tea, knock on the door. A visitor.
Golden long wavy hair, dancing with the breeze,
The dark sky fading, sunrise. Warm beauty. Sinister.
Her smile earnest, a little keen. I’m at ease.

Together we sipped our tea. Sweet and milky. Peaceful Harmony.
Silence broke as the world woke from its sleep,
Her eyes cut through the morning ray. “I devour darkness. Eternally.”
“He is my love, my sweetheart. But cannot live when I’m near.” Weep.

She is my source of life, no need for fear,
For when she’s around. Time had fled.
I took a glimpse to her seat. Gone. I shed a tear.
She was my sun, my day. Widespread.

The world was asleep, a trespasser in my presence,
cloak woven with shadows; I knew then. Darkness.
I trembled in my seat. Breathe, smile, patience.
His love was day, the sun, the light. He could not be heartless.

His black deep eyes stared into my soul,
He spoke, “I do not ask for much child,”
Voice deep and cold, “I am what you cannot control.”
“I am fear, the unknown, dangers of hope.” Cunningly smiled.

He was my desires in physical form. Maybe upside down.
Although, I was no longer afraid,
I was allowed to dream, to desire, with him around.
He was my moon, my night, my fantasies in a darker shade.

Melissa Johnson.

Poem 9: SPRING

Trees older than time, whisper, a broken twig,
A tiny bird, followed by butterflies, wishing for spring.
The earth’s smell we breathe in, tangled legs in devil’s fig,
Blossoming petals, luminous leaves. A lost sea king.

Confined between the four walls we call home,
So, we are told. As we press pause on life,
For a glimpse of hope we pray, for the world, for Rome.
I wonder, will this give us flowers and harmony, or simply more strife?

Yet it puts me at ease,
The knowledge that nature does not discriminate, or care,
Time pursues. Thus, the days we must seize,
April, blue skies, wet grass, warmth of the sun in the air.

The prisoners of the epidemic need to breathe,
Open a window, watch the world thrive,
Without human life. Birds singing down beneath,
With humanity and spring, the human race shall survive.

Melissa Johnson

Poem 7: MYSTICAL CREATURE

This one is about you, mystical creature,
Created by the core of nature’s own hands, blood that’s silver.
Beauty is her weapon, power, deadly at its best
Destructive in the best way possible, never turns down a spell request.

The creature surrounds herself with crystals,
For she is the daughter, the witch of the enchanted forests,
Many men have tried to take her down, pointing their pistols,
Miserably failed and she held her head high, continuing her performance.

Her hair was birthed on this very day from the ashes,
Eyes from the tides of the oceans, her voice ever so in tune,
Skin like the winter, cold yet sweet,
A mystical creature, born on the edge of the crescent moon.

Happy birthday to you Alice,
For you are my special golden chalice.

Melissa Johnson.