I Thought You Were Dead | Short Poem No. 111

They wheeled you out and I thought you were dead;
Your hospital bed mirrored a casket.
I ducked down and dropped my lips to your head.

I thought you were dead
Photo by S L on Unsplash

This season, I lost two people I love.
Appeals go up, if I’m able to ask it,
not to take this third soul, too, up above.

I Write in my Grave

© Jonathan Pines and WritingWithStrangers, 2019, except where noted otherwise. All rights reserved.

I Write In My Grave | Short Poem No. 110

I write where I passed. . . I write in my grave.
I write in passing. . . there’s naught I can save.
Writing can sometimes rekindle my gall.
Can writing sometimes rekindle a crawl?

Would you ditch me here in this tomb to rot?
You observed me carefully mark my spot.
I sunk in sin, duped by a false lover.
What love grants you to die for another?

I write in my grave
Photo by Josh Miller on Unsplash


I grew in sin, became a false lover.
False love robbed you of me to another.
What’s reckless, what’s not. I deserve it all.
But cautious love will seize me when I fall.

I lie in my grave. . . I whisper your name. . .
Remind myself that love’s always the same.

Sometimes, My Only Friend

© Jonathan Pines and WritingWithStrangers, 2019, except where noted otherwise. All rights reserved.

Sometimes, My Only Friend | Poetry Remix 41

I hide in music. . . sometimes, my only friend.
Or poems, with my second friend, a pen.
They ease me to shut my eyes. . . drift away.

Your love for me is clear in lucid words.
But when you’re missed, there’s no words for the hurt.
Sometimes, solitary, I weep alone.

Please take away the way I feel, I pray. . .
Please take away this pain, every day. . .
Take away the way. . . take it all away. . .

sometimes, my only friend
Photo by Mak on Unsplash

I hide in the shadows, under your wings.
I hide when I muse too much about things.
But you’re always here, and that’s what consoles. . .

Will My Heart Bleed Through Pen?

© Jonathan Pines and WritingWithStrangers, 2019, except where noted otherwise. All rights reserved.

Will My Heart Bleed Through Pen? | Poetry Remix 38

Today, anew, will my heart bleed through pen?
I thought I omitted these notions from my head.
My heart’s ajar on sheets I mark. . .
Paper cuts. . . pierce through me like a dagger.

Memories prick under calloused skin.
In hardened souls, feelings still run thin.
You will own my heart spilt on this paper.
And in quiet, you’ll perceive my whisper.

will my heart bleed through my pen
Photo by Kevin Mueller on Unsplash

I feel it leave. . expressions from my heart.
This release recalls emotional hurt.
Should I stop? Leave my hardened heart behind?
Tomorrow will tell. . If I’ll write next time. . .

I Crave to Kiss You

© Jonathan Pines and WritingWithStrangers, 2019, except where noted otherwise. All rights reserved.

I Crave to Kiss You | Poetry Remix 35

Let’s commence right way – I crave to kiss you.
Let’s not conceal; let’s just get right to it.
Because I know you crave to kiss me, too.

Your perfume allures me from the hall.
Every tread of stairs – we get near to it.
Every tread of stairs – hearts begin to fall.

I Crave to Kiss You
Photo by The Creative Exchange on Unsplash

As I open the door, lip meets with lip.
You’re my world and everything in it.
Two bound, to galaxies, we slowly drift. . .

The First Time This Week

© Jonathan Pines and WritingWithStrangers, 2019, except where noted otherwise. All rights reserved. Posted on WordPress.com.

The First Time This Week | Poetry Remix 34

I stepped outside for the first time this week.
I guess I’m anxious that I’ll seem too weak.
Bracing for questions; asking how I am.
Truthfully I’m just dead beneath my skin.
But I’ll bow my head, say I’m better now.
It’s just a white lie that I’m living in.

I arrive to my work and drop a tear. . .
I utter your name but no. . . you’re not here. . .

The catch with daydreams is you can’t wake up.
Minutes pass like hours. . . refill my cup.

The first time this week
Photo by Joackim Weiler on Unsplash

I’m walking home. . . I drop another tear.
I whisper your name. . . but no. . . you’re not here.

I like to fall and gaze at the ceiling.
With all this pain, it’s fine to feel nothing.
I’m lost in woe, and the world keeps spinning.
So nothing can break the way I’m feeling.

I sit by myself and finish my tear.
You whisper my name, but no, I’m not here. . .

Lying. . . Stuck in my Grave

© Jonathan Pines and WritingWithStrangers, 2019, except where noted otherwise. All rights reserved.