Poems · poetry

“Mushroom Trip Serendipity”

“Paving The Way” C.P. Hickey 2018

“Mushroom Trip Serendipity”

Mushroom trip serendipity.

Can feel the maze closing in on me.

Each limb slips and further imprisons me.

I can’t breathe.

Closing elevator doors,

Gas pump meter rolling on.

Ran the stairs,

And missed the top step.

Catapulted into another day.

Rage rage rage trebuchet,

Conducting malignant doubts,

Into projected projectiles.

Piling casualties.

Assaulting victims.

Who am I?

But, that which aids to infamy.


Resplendent caution.

Affirming my exhaustion,

For living and those living.

40/40 Poetry Project · Poems · poetry · Uncategorized

40/40: Summer Poem Slam-a-bam! – Day 36 – “Collective Angst”

“Collective Angst”

Standing backwards on a forward moving bus.

Time traveling.

The slack- jawed tension of the mob hangs on every blank face.

There are no dreams to be had on this bus,


Just motion sickness and disappointment.

There’s no telling when we arrive at the terminal,

But it’s certain that it will be the last stop.

Poems · poetry

“A Storm Is Coming”

“A Storm Is Coming”

Building and building,

we wait.

Warnings issued,


Some, don’t listen,

and carry on.

Others, don’t believe the weatherman,

despite the evidence.

Rain could wet their clothes,

and they would deny it’s rain.

You can’t change people like that.

Self-destructive nihilists,

want to see the world burn,

so they could say they told you it would.

Reality is not their thing,

The world is flat.

America is great.

The news is fake.

I didn’t say that.

Absofuckinglutely, ridiculous!

Poems · poetry

“Swallowed Harms”

“Swallowed Harms”

right here upon a heart staked hope,

I asked for help, your shoulder cold.

irksome, lonesome, per arrangement,

a perfect marriage becomes estrangement.

left to quiet room’s despair,

Atlas shrugged, and took a chair.

suffer, shame despondent moods.

harried lifelong interludes.

a simple sense surrounding charms,

regurgitating swallowed harms.


“I Once Dated a Trumper”


“I Once Dated a Trumper”


I once dated a Trumper,

before there was a nominal distinction for such a creature.

I can recall the subtleties that existed.

Things like:


  • perceived slights when none were present
  • a misguided sense of justice
  • zero compassion or empathy for the suffering of others
  • a willingness to commit improper behavior while condemning others for the same behavior
  • cruelty


I didn’t realize then, that legions of people like her existed.

Disassociated beings, dwelling in self-assurance, and fostering hatred for all the wrong people.

I should of seen the signs.

I was too busy in my own self-assurance.

But, if I had to point to how we got to where we are,

then I’d say that a good number of folks had it in them to begin with.

They just needed a banner to get behind.

A pied piper.

A charmer.

Shit, I was charmed for nine years.

Getting it on the regular dulls a conscience.

A monotonous procession of concessions that ended abruptly in the sobering shod feet of other Trumpers-in-wait.

I too, behaved poorly in moments that mattered, and made choices that I now live with.

Somehow, I caught a moment that forced me to want to change.

Not everyone is as lucky as I was.


The monotonous procession of concessions carries on, and the band plays on…


Are you tough enough to be kind?_Bono-U2

Poems · poetry





my rage is pent up,

and needs to be spent.

it’s indicative of repressed things.

unknown in memory,

but, suddenly remembered if provoked.

simple cilia-like triggers,

up and down my being.

inextricably woven into my DNA.

prepared for the slightest provocation.

I don’t need a safe space.

I need a rage space.

I’m tired of swallowing your insistent mealy-mouthed duplicity.

You peddle an illusion of liberty.

but, we are all prisoners of self, and condemned of poignant detached fellowship.

born to die.

most often, alone.

dead on our feet.

chasing and avoiding.

The truth, undeniable.

Liberty doesn’t exist at all.

if you had to fight for your life everyday,

in the biological sense,

you would have no time for that.

your patience for tolerance would be swept away,

and you’d marvel at the energy that self-deceptions require.

chaos and order are fierce competitors.

they leave nothing on the field of battle.

life is…

it fucking simply is…

our perspective relative to that should humble, not enable.







Poems · poetry

“Pity Party”

“Pity Party”

Incessant drone of failure.

You cultivate a rage within me,

for your fight is continually a fevered race to who has it worst?

You win.

I have work to do.

You vandalize my empathy.

You spit a vast vigorous venom into my face.

You win at failing and remaining in that nook.

You were destined to stay confined within your myopic view.

You deserve your pain.

Relish it.

Grow it,

It is your identity.

You were born for failure,

and you are the greatest at that, truly.

Poems · poetry · Uncategorized

“Wandering Weary”

“Lichenalia” © C.P. Hickey 2018


“Wandering Weary”

I’m weary, so stop staring.

I’m weary of your being.

You juxtapose projections and aim to hinder me.

I’m weary, so stop staring.

I’m weary of your essence.

A clairvoyant regressive combating senescence.

I’m weary, so stop claiming.

I’m weary of your slights.

Your mirage mirror image causes many sleepless nights.

I’m weary, so stop claiming.

I’m weary of your ego.

Foregone conclusions inform uniformed credos.

I’m weary, stop.

I’m weary.



“Tending To My Disappointment”



“Headed Off at the Passé” © C.P. Hickey 2018


“Tending To My Disappointment”


Tending to my disappointment,

tends to build resentment.


Presented with,

an alternative?


Salvation lives,

‘tween cultivated,



Like true lies,

that sanitize,



Reaching back,

far, far, back.

out the back,

of a used hatchback.


My conscience becomes a stowaway,

accountability thrown away.


Forever, indebted to wrongly attributed superlatives.

Do not forgive a spurious gesture.



always sells you,

gilded gifts and promised pleasure,

but, leaves you concrete pains.


Disappointment’s designation:


The flames of fear,

feed conflagration,

until there is nothing left but dismally disappointing ashes.