The Poet: To Smoke Or…

I’m now found in a very tight spot,
A smoker am I, a great fan of nicotine,
But, you see, the habit is costing me a yacht,
And, minus the cost, it’s a health guillotine.

Once, long ago, I said: “You have to die some way”,
My opinion has changed since then,
I’ve seen the way cigarettes strip you fully away,
I don’t want to be caught in its murderous pen.

Quitting then is the only decision,
I’ve got added dollar signs to help with motivation,
If I quit now I can avoid the incision,
And hear my family’s total elation.

To smoke, or not to smoke?
The answer’s so clear, the questions a joke.

Ryan S. Kinsgrove

RSK

Follow along with my peculiar brand of insanity: https://upscri.be/5a20f7/

The Poet: Money, Money, Money

In this world of horrific capitalism,
One need stands above all others,
It’s nigh as omnipotent as radicalism,
Keeping us hidden up under the covers.

Want to self-actualize, do you?
Good luck with that quest in this hellish climate,
It’s difficult for all, save for a few,
Those with the money to keep nice and private.

We may dream that love makes the world go round,
It’s a falsehood,
Money powers the Earth’s spin around,
Covering our eyes like an executioner’s hood.

Money, my friends, is the power almighty,
Hold onto it, nice and tightly.

Ryan S. Kinsgrove

RSK

Follow along with my peculiar brand of insanity: https://upscri.be/5a20f7/

The Poet: Do You Believe in the Beauty of Your Dreams?

Do you believe in the beauty of your dreams?
It’s said the future belongs to those who do,
That beauty is a goal to reach for it seems,
Beauty as bright as morning dew.

I feel I fail at reaching for this goal,
Procrastination rules my mind with an iron fist,
It is the beauty that it stole,
Carrying it off in an impenetrable mist.

I want to believe in the beauty,
I want to hold it close,
Reaching for it should be my only duty,
Showcasing it here in glorious prose.

And, now I’m extremely depressed,
Feeling nowhere near my very best.

Ryan S. Kinsgrove

RSK

Follow along with my peculiar brand of insanity: https://upscri.be/5a20f7/

The Poet: The Curse of the Vacation

Vacation. What does that word mean to you?
Form me, the definition is do absolutely nothing,
That definition comes in far to impractical a hue,
Doing nothing leaves me not feeling anything.

I wanted to be proud of what I accomplished,
But, I didn’t do a damn thing,
I did nothing I promised,
Super me, the waste time king.

I wanted to go out with friends,
Hopefully build a new relationship,
Those hopes came to empty ends,
With zero money I missed the trip.

As with everything, I struck out,
My life is thoroughly filled up with doubt.

Ryan S. Kinsgrove

RSK

Follow along with my peculiar brand of insanity: https://upscri.be/5a20f7/

The Poet: Stressing Over A Cat

Sitting down to write a poem,
After stressing all day over a cat,
You would understand if you know him,
He’s a little ball of orange fluff, and not very fat.

I work nights,
So, naturally, the appointment was mid-day,
I was scared, and time was tight,
I didn’t have much say.

Turns out he’s allergic to the tiniest flea,
His skin scabbed up and broke out into a really nasty rash,
A shot was all he needed, a big relief to me,
And not a terrible drain on my pool of cash.

Insomnia is here, so much for sleep,
Sometimes I really want to scream BLEEP!

Ryan S. Kinsgrove

RSK

Follow along with my peculiar brand of insanity: https://upscri.be/5a20f7/

The Poet-Super Sonnet Sunday: All Under Control

Delirious he,
Delirious she,
Delirious me,
Delirious thee.

Mania and Dementia,
Manic and Depressive,
Twins on the same coin, hallelujah,
Yet suddenly compressive.

Bi-polar disorder, you old fiend,
Or claim you Sheogorath be,
From thee the Joker has many things gleaned,
Constant accursed companion you are to me.

Mental health is not a joke,
Trapped in this monster’s eternal yoke,
My brains spill out little more than yolk,
And, I’ll feel as if I never woke.

On paper, it’s easy to be mad,
The audience merely thinks it’s an act,
In reality, I’m not all that bad,
I’d say I’ve got plenty of tact.

Negative thoughts, self-deprecation, all under control,
I’ll at least let you think I’m playing that role.

Ryan S. Kinsgrove

RSK

Follow along with my peculiar brand of insanity: https://upscri.be/5a20f7/

The Poet: Crying In The Rain

The key is not for me,
No happiness there shall be,
I do not deserve to be free,
Bleeding, broken, and bound to a tree.

They freedom, thou dost surrender,
Going through life devoid of splendor,
Feeling like nothing more than a pretender,
At the very worst a repeat offender.

The sun is there, hidden behind black clouds,
Their silver lining is its burial shroud,
Tearing through and breaking their vows,
Into the depths beneath the bowels.

Here I am left, crying in the rain,
Wondering what life is like without any pain.

Ryan S. Kinsgrove

RSK

Follow along with my peculiar brand of insanity: https://upscri.be/5a20f7/

The Poet: I Once Thought I Had The Key

Life feels empty,
Great stone corridors devoid of anything,
Depression, it seems, is quite trendy,
Deep in the tomb, burying.

Writing from an emotional place,
Sometimes forges the best art,
I wouldn’t know fine art if it hit me in the face,
How long are we to be apart?

How deep does despair go,
I don’t think I’ll even know,
Not so long as I’m falling, falling, falling,
The silence of the grave is a siren’s calling.

I once thought I had the key,
The key meant to set me free.

Ryan S. Kinsgrove

RSK

Follow along with my peculiar brand of insanity: https://upscri.be/5a20f7/

The Poet: -ing

Summer’s fell by winter’s sting,
Hope held out only for the spring,
A day upon which I will sing,
Glorious praise to the spaghetti king.

Here’s the one who holds the ring,
It is with her I’ll have a fling,
Metal makes the bell go ding,
Some other word that ends with -ing.

In meditation I search for something,
Not a higher power, glorious and thumping,
But inner peace with little stressing,
I’ll always come up guessing.

In a fight, I’ll go down swinging,
Tis the only path, aside from singing.

Ryan S. Kinsgrove

RSK

Follow along with my peculiar brand of insanity: https://upscri.be/5a20f7/

The Poet: Dobhar-chu, Who Are You?

Dobhar-chu,
Who are you,
The water hound,
Whose upward bound.

Irish mythos for the win,
Dragons have nothing on his kin,
Seriously, don’t say anything about a selkie,
Or I’ll have to tell Aunt Melkie.

To my new short story,
There’s nothing to cause you worry,
My genius will see me through,
Even if my dialogue’s a little mew.

I can’t believe he took the cat,
Now how will I kill the rat?

Ryan S. Kinsgrove

RSK

Follow along with my peculiar brand of insanity: https://upscri.be/5a20f7/