Poetry from Chris Butler

Eight Day Weeks

sunny Sundays
blue Mondays,
laid a day
so dark
and full
of hate
that it shall
not be named.


There's no black,
there's no white.
There's no wrong,
there's no right.
There's no good,
there's no evil.
There's no dark,
there's no light;

because just before
the looming storm,

exists distant, infinite
shades of gray.

Thoughts and Prayers

When a national tragedy
becomes just another day
and the news is always

grab a letter sized
white envelope
and fill it with all of the

thoughts and prayers

from your big heart
and your little head,
then lick and seal it
shut before they escape
into the open air,
stick on a stamp,
and wait until the
next day's tragedy
for the address
to mail it to
your child's school.

Hello Sorrow

Hello Sorrow
my first friend,
will you allow
me to drown
in burning rivers
of fire water,
or float like
a hollow log
as you hover over
the ghostly souls
of all who you
have met before,
until you arrive
to make the
skies cry,
or will you keep
me afloat like
a log flowing

and we meet again,
my last friend.

Even When You're Dead

Even when you're dead
the neurons keep firing

against the inside of the skull,

but tricking others into thinking
that figeting, flickering and flinching
doesn't mean that you're still living.

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