18 Aug

By: Tony L. Jefferson, Jr.


Hunger and desire define the feeling

It’s a constant thirst for more

More than you know you can handle, but the desire overrides reason

Feed the need is what it whispers to you

I feel the burning passion inside myself

It is addictive and enticing and I will do any and everything to get the obsession

Give it to me, feed me my wants and desires, entice me with your riches

The taste of the obsession is so sweet

The feeling of the moment is so intense

My feeling explode and overrun

I am brainwashed by its charms

My obsession is strong

Strong like the bond between mother and son

My emotions turn negative and I attempt to run

The obsession beckons to me

Slowly drawing me back into its grasp

Obsession is powerful

A mixture of good and bad

Wrapped with temptation and enticement





1 Comment

Posted by on August 18, 2008 in Emotional Writing


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One response to “Obsession

  1. Doug

    August 22, 2008 at 6:52 pm

    I like the poem. It defines obsession very well. Well done for an abstract type poem. It would be interesting to see a particular example of an obsession with a particular character or narrator embedded in a different poem with a similar theme to this one. I don’t think I’ve done a poem exactly on this topic, but I’ve done some where a character is obsessed with guilt… I’m sorry if I’m not making myself clear… Maybe an example here:
    …..CHERRY PIE….
    I remember
    a cup of sugar
    half a lemon
    dark red cherries in
    a crust of pain
    crumbly falling into a
    hellish oven fired
    like she told me, 375

    In search of peace, I
    pray to forget the pain
    remember a fragment
    a recognizable fondness
    without stains baked in

    Because in blood
    she’s gone, I’ve
    dreamt of her
    flying through the windshield
    unsheathed grief a steel shard
    poking in the night, bladed
    blame stabbing me, I’ve

    fallen asleep too much,
    letting her wiggle back
    into my bed with
    screams driven
    around the maple
    red syrup on pancaked body
    splayed from brave speeding guts
    driving death too slowly for agony,
    her nerves still alive
    for howling pain
    mourning for morning
    in heaven, but

    she waits in dreams
    she’s gone
    not far

    I still look for her
    charming me like
    all the times we
    drank together just
    fooling around

    Steer me to insomnia
    and don’t tell me
    I shou’n’t ‘ve been
    driving around
    fallen leaves of
    growing blame

    I am innocent though
    I hear her cries as
    I pull green leaves,
    rake others,
    a chore I take to stay awake, yet
    mangled words I hear from
    green veins turned red rustlers
    stealing steel hearts to rust

    I can’t drive this hell
    away from the tree,
    she was
    in a pulp
    novel dream
    all real

    Lord, I’ve
    dreamt of her
    she’s gone

    Don’t let me listen to her songs
    booming my soul sorry ways

    Down the road to regrets remembered:
    my friends who died in battle
    like period clumps the size of Seattle,
    because of these
    I must eat pie and beer suds,
    cherry filling that looks like blood,
    the sting cherries like sudsy guts

    I must rest
    in a restaurant
    slicing beef filet
    like dicing shrapnel
    from hell that beats
    down fox hole hearts
    in cherry rivers heat. These
    pie marks stain the brain
    though gaining ghosts
    have no beef with me,
    as I was brave then
    to try to save them and me,
    but I will desert dessert

    Too sweet
    a lie
    that life
    is like a pie
    thrown out of a disco
    by me
    gin high on despair,
    falling in snow, cutting my hands
    on ice crystals, watching the Angel of Death
    seized by her anti-muses
    dancing her mocking prelude
    to my own booming grief
    death amused
    by lean harvests of thought and
    lost jobs

    I dream of her in song
    because she’s gone

    Because I will not sell
    my boom box for food, away
    from boom times
    I’ll dance into sadness. Fresh batteries
    will let me live. I will

    dance north past the winter wheat
    into the cold, to the arctic. If

    not stolen in silence
    my music soul will dance
    me, murky joy forward
    pumping bends thrusted
    stamping, panting moans
    spin tapping down the up
    beating soul bursts
    desperate to express a
    tone of noise splashing. I will
    not die laughing wet
    when batteries are gone. I will
    die dancing
    an old Eskimo
    parading on ice flows,
    horns of mortality played
    strings strummed, no
    chords encore
    chafing from chaff


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