I once knew a person
Named Ophelia
She worked for United Airlines
She was a stewardess
Or a flight attendant
She was many different
People at the same time
Ophelia refused
To become the pilot
She was born to be
She was too tired
To follow her dreams
All she wanted was
To sleep in the womb
Of the deepest sleep
She’s an angel now
I have her wings
Welcome to the Motel California.
The Eagles have landed.
Joan Jett is leaving John Denver
On a Jefferson Airplane.
Rainy days and Mondays
Always get Karen Carpenter down.
Why do the Byrds suddenly appear
Every time Don Henley is near?
Welcome to the Motel California.
The Eagles have landed.
If you’re going to San Francisco
Be sure to wear flowers in despair.
Snapping turtles
All the way
Down
Time to drain the mainframe
Time to shave the whales
Time to make the donut holes
Infinite repression
Edge of chaos
Circular guilt
Endless breadsticks
Free Wi-Fi
Surf and turf toe
It’s the summer of sixty-nine
It’s four-twenty somewhere
The rent is too damn high
I’m a bipolar bear
Eating fish
Out of water
My name is
Wet Willy or is it
Lazy Susan?
While I blow wads of cash
On free Wi-Fi at Motel 6
Wet Willy dry humps Lazy Susan
In front of a dumbwaiter.
While I blow wads of cash
On endless breadsticks at Olive Garden
Wet Willy dry humps Lazy Susan
In front of a dumb waiter.
My name is Sir Real
Or is it Miss Fortune?
Welcome to Motel 6
Or is this Olive Garden?
Whirlpools in a rushing river
No man’s land
This lamb is your lamb
Charlie McCarthy rides
Mister Ed Sullivan
Harder than Woody Woodpecker
Carnegie Hall wasn’t built
In a day it took practice
Practice practice
Let’s all go to Hobby Lobby
And grab ourselves
Some Chick-fil-A
Cigars! Cigarettes!
Cigars! Cigarettes!
This is not a pipe dream
A rooster
Eating crow
Pets a cockatoo
Mister Ed Sullivan
Leaves a jolly rancher
For a factory farmer
Tomorrow looks
Cloudy with a chance
Of mothballs
I’m itching
Like a beagle
In a fuzzy peach tree
Mister Ed Sullivan
Has left
The building
Too many cooks
In the kitchen sink
Too many forks
Too many knives
Too many forks
Spooning knives
Too many spoons
Forking knives
Too many bowls
Of rice cakes
Too many cups
Of sugar cubes
Too many soy
Milk Duds
Too many frosted
Wheat Thins
Too many green onions
Or are they chives?
Too many
Legs of lamb
Not enough hands
To pass the thyme
Vegan cheese?
No fucking whey!
Green onions
Give me hives
Sir Real says
There’s no place
Like home
Confinement
Miss Fortune says
I make a better trapdoor
Than a windowsill
I’m depressed
I’m an atheist
I think I’m God
I don’t believe in myself
Sir Real hits me
Where the landlord
Split me
Miss Fortune rubs me
The wrong way
I spill my guts
I spill my seed
I cry over sour
Grapes of wrath
When Sir Real slams
A trapdoor
Miss Fortune shatters
A windowsill
All I want is relief
From the burden
Of being me
All I want is relief
From the burden
Of seeking relief
From the burden
Of being me
All I want is relief
From the burden
Of being free
To choose my own
Confinements
Wounded healers
Accept we can’t
Ease suffering
Without easing
The suffering
Within ourselves
I’m a wounded healer
Practicing the art
Of suffering well
I see people in pain
But I can’t help them
Ease their suffering
I’m afraid I’m not
Strong enough
To help people heal
I’m afraid I might
Further wound
Those looking to heal
Wounded healers
Accept we can’t
Ease suffering
Without easing
The suffering
Within ourselves
Wounded healers
Taught me first
To heal myself
I’m a human being
Practicing the art
Of healing myself
I refuse to become
The person
I was born to be.
I’m too tired
To follow
My dreams.
All I want is sleep.
The deepest sleep.
All I want is to sleep
In the womb
Of the deepest sleep.
All I want is sleep.
The deepest sleep.
All I want is to sleep
In the womb
Of the deepest sleep.
Every midnight
At the crack of dawn
My rooster yelps
There’s a monkey
On my back and a donkey
On his ass
I suspend
My belief
In gravity
Still I rise
Bound to fall
I ride my high horse
To the kitchen
For a bag of crumbs
And a sip of thirst
He draws me a bubble bath
Tells me I’m no angel
I’m a bird of prey
In a house that rattles
All I want is relief
From the burden
Of being me
All I want is a ceiling
On the floor
To rest my wings
A poet swallows
Butterflies
Tied up in knots.
Not real butterflies.
Unreal butterflies.
Not a real poet.
The image of a poet
Tied up in knots.
I told a poet tied up in knots
To listen for a caterpillar
Swallowing butterflies.
Not a real caterpillar.
The word caterpillar.
Not a real poet.
The image of a poet
Tied up in knots.
Same shit
Opposite day
I mistake a deep breath
For a panic attack.
Same shit
Opposite day
A repetitive poem
Repeats itself.
Same shit
Opposite day
A repetitive poem
Repeats itself.
Same shit
Opposite day
A history of trauma
Repeats itself.
Same shit
Opposite day
I take my life
One panic attack at a time.
Stand in the place
Where you work
That’s me
In the corner office
Losing my reflection
It’s the end of this ode
As we know it
And I feel fine
Kurt Cobain said
Everybody shits
Michael Stipe said
Everybody squirts
It’s the end of this ode
As we know it
And I feel fine
It’s the end of this ode
As I wrote it
And I feel divine
Thinner than a sliver of hope
I asked a sensitive soul
Walking on sunshine:
Which came first
The chicken
Or the egg on my face?
Which came first
Chicken wings
Or eggshells?
Which came first
Chicken fingers
Or chicken tenders?
Which came first
Hot wings and cold cuts
Or hot sauce and cold turkey?
Which came first
Walking on sunshine
Or walking on eggshells?
The weight of the world
Rests squarely on the shoulders
Of a sensitive soul
Still I rise
Thinner than
A sliver of hope
Every night in a house that rattles
I suspend my belief in gravity.
Every night in a house that rattles
I take two pills and call
A priest in mourning.
Every night in a house that rattles
I mistake a pinch of salt
For a grain of sand.
Every night in a house that rattles
I sell sex toys and Tupperware
To hot moms in yoga pants.
Every night in a house that rattles
Alex Trebek answers my prayers
In the form of a question
Fats Domino and Little Richard
Play chubby checkers
And I mistake a grain of sand
For an hourglass.
Every night in a house that rattles
Popeye eats Olive Oyl
And a pound of spinach
I clutch my pearls of wisdom
Take two spills and cut
A rug on the ceiling.
Empty mind
Of thoughts
Not mine
Empty reason
Empty rhyme
Every day
I take my life
One decade
At a time
Empty sky
Of sun
Not mine
Empty moon
Empty tide
Every day
I take my pills
One half-life
At a time
Empty ego
Empty pride
Empty mind
Of thoughts
Not mine
Every day
Uncertain
Still I rise
Full of life
Every day
Night falls
Still I rise
Today I told my worries
Nothing light is heavy
If we take our time
And bear our burdens lightly
And I introduced each worry
To another worry
And I loved each worry
In a kind way lightly
And I told each worry
Nothing light is heavy
If we take our time
And bear our burdens lightly
I’ve been writing the same thing over and over for the last 15 years, and I’m tired. Today I feel less motivated to write anything beyond grocery lists and notes to myself. This is fine.
Next month I’m going back to school to become a Certified Recovery Support Specialist. I’ll get to use my lived experience with mental illness to help other people in their journeys through hope and healing.
I won’t update this blog much going forward, but readers can still find my favorite poems from 2019-2022, along with links to buy my books on Amazon.
For now, I want to close with the testimonial I wrote for the mental health center that changed my life: “I feel less ashamed about what happened to me in the past, and I’m excited to embrace my future.”
Update: On September 13, 2022, I changed my mind and made the entire blog public again.
Lonely is the life
Of an anxious mind.
I take my clock out
To unwind
At the stroke
Of midnight.
It’s been forever
Since my first crush
And her girlfriends
New to S&M
Melted in my mouth
And in my hand
At the stroke
Of midnight.
Charles B. Snoad 