Thom Alexander Poetry

The tattoos of you,
Left in my life askew,
From sweet potatoes,
To my local Indian eats.
I can barely look at the ground,
Without seeing your bare feet’s.

Our friends remark how beautiful we were,
Assuming some great calamity or sorrow,
You say the beautiful things exist for themselves,
But I see our lack of purpose made it so.
You tried to cut us down at every turn,
But now want to sing of our great love,
Let me take a stab,
This fairytale you were so sure,
was doomed and false all along,
So as you foresee,
Comes self fulfilling prophecy,
And this whole time you thought it was me.

These tattoos of you,
Still gracing the walls,
History of my heartcave,
Cautionary tales of love too sweet,
Lacking sustaining meat,
Not wanting another human,
As much as a selfish retreat.

-thom Alexander

The hardest part about abandonment wounds is realizing you have to dress much of it yourself.

Live like it’s your last

Dream Vacuums

When chemistry sours with fear.
When love runs out of enough.
When trust is tried and found to not temper.
Without a determined start,
can there be a complete?

When the dreamiest dreams wither outside of the vacuum they were dreamt.
When hopes can’t fulfill because they were merely lent.
When sweet stuff spoils because it wasn’t well kept,
what would complete even be?

- thom alexander
Photo credit : John Abair

Good stuff yeah?

Do we blame, to explain, the pain?
Doesn’t have to be that way.
Always the same old games.
Me vs you, us vs them.
Can anyone see we can begin again?

Crashing planes, rain, on immigrant promenade.
Headlines sus, but threat levels change.
Neighbors glare knowing who is sane.
Forgetting division starts with one.

- thom alexander