Michael Angelo Poetry


Author: Michael Angelo

  • Disharmony

    Disharmony

    I don’t know what is colder,
    the winter shards of wind piercing through my window
    or the acute awareness of ingratitude within myself.
    Bizarre how life daily strips the things one loves,
    and yet the lesson is never learned.
    The old fisherman that breaks his line and loses his fish
    complains about the mango back home.
    The sweat of summertime is overwhelming,
    yet here I am, lamenting the cold.

  • Never Promises

    Never Promises

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  • Alcohol

    Alcohol

    I write to cope with the world,

    like how a drinker drinks to life.

    I wet my whistle on the fountain pen,

    diving deep into the bottle of my mind.

    I hide there surrounded by my own darkness,

    part of which is gunk picked up from time.

    Ever seen spat-out gum on a street?

    After a while it becomes a black blotch;

    afterwards it’s just part of the scene,

    along with homelessness

    and people consumed by broken dreams.

    Well, that’s all inside of me,

    blended with the misspellings

    and grammatical issues of my birth;

    I can’t handle it all without spilling

    my drink along the page.

  • Animal-God

    Animal-God

    Despite many years of trying,
    I am not
    any more or any less
    human.

    I am neither the transcendent
    nor the fallen,
    neither star nor worm.

    I am
    what I have always been:

    the lonely pen by the river
    and the page waiting to be filled.