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Poetry Break: 3 Poems from John Maurer

By: John Maurer




A Bit Abysmal


Everest is short to eagles

Flowers are tall to worms

Masses of arachnids running down my throat

To make up for my lack of sleep

For the sake of my health

I don’t do a god damn thing


Trickling a little cerebral fluid

onto your ‘rental’ oriental rug

If I’m not supposed to do drugs

Why do I have a drug cabinet?

What did you expect me to fill it with

Memories weigh too much, they would break the shelves

Regret would fall through the foundation then the core of the earth



The Cup Runneth Over



Covered in scabs and band aids

No one asks to help you if no one else is around to see them ask

No one does anything for anyone, most of all, themselves

I keep telling myself to keep my hands clean

But poisons in prescription bottles call out to me

They say don’t you remember how I felt

How I felt like nothing at all

How much easier it is for a boat to float when it’s hollow


I am telling my story like it will be over soon

How am I to know, I am not writing that

Surprise is the result of a lack of expectations

Disappointment is the result of having too many


Screaming until my voice erodes

and my lungs are sopping on the hot summer road

Saying everything you told me I couldn’t

I can’t keep a secret for you like I can’t keep a bomb strapped to my chest for you

You are nowhere in the world, I am Atlas holding it up just to examine it further

It does look like me, it does look fucked up

Drunk and spinning and spilling itself out anywhere it can

And wherever it can, it will



Rapid Bicycling



Chupacabra in the chimney, practicing sewing cactuses

Not understanding the needles point until he did needle point

The longer you are unspeakable, the louder your voice will echo back

Like you must be that deep into the cave; you must get that far to read

the sonic hieroglyphics; still you misheard me, I didn’t say it’s hell or heaven

I said it’s hell before heaven


The house I was born in was on a street configured in a figure eight,

two roads diverged in the woods, and no matter which I traveled

it made no difference, it left me where I started



Bio: John Maurer

Poetry Break: John Maurer marilyn l davis two drops of ink

John Maurer is a 26-year-old writer from Pittsburgh who writes fiction, poetry, and everything in-between, but his work always strives to portray that what is true is beautiful.

He has been previously published on more than sixty sites including: 

Follow John and Visit his Website





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