The Old Road

There is an old road, it ribbons straight, it coils like a snake ready to strike. Standing guard are those ancient trees, dressed in white robes of snow. 

There’s a quilt of thick snow on the ground, a thin slick layer of ice protectively rests atop the quilt. 

This old road. It winds in between skinny trees as the legs of two lovers subdued in deep passion. A black topped road with two yellow lines like veins of a beating heart. 

Snow drifts creep on to the silent road like strands of untamed hair. Sadly it’s just an old road. 

By Isaac Gathings 

The Unheard

I live in a world of other people. People who do not understand my pain, who silently nod their head in a fained attempt to embrace my journey. 

So, at times I speak to deaf ears, mostly I seek my most in fears and give in like branches to the wind. I wish I wasn’t a statistical, mass incarcerated black man, I laugh when they say they’ll one day give back the Indians land. How am I to cope? When things such as my emotions, my anger, my past all jumble together only to become the slippery slope.

I feel the world has no time for me. Like when you arrive to green light only to have it magically turn red upon your approach. I’m on a passenger in life’s horse drawn coach. Protecting my far from solemn emotions with a weathered coat. But, just off the oblivion pier is a saving grace, a life boat. Unfortunately the person in operation of this small vessel is deaf, so I’ll silently hang myself with life’s rope. 

There is a kid stuck in a well, or is it a sewer? I’ll let you decide. Either way, people walk over and around this terrified voice that screeches to the surface. He’s stuck in his own mental prison, his mental and unjustified incarceration. But why won’t those above acknowledge his face? Is it because he’s in the “other people’s” place? No, no. It’s because he vanished without a single trace. 

He yelled for mom, couldn’t scream for dad for that was one person he never had. So sad, so sad that is. Until he had kids. Now that’s a hell of a story. 

He came at night. Touching a thigh, removing air from the lungs, only to violate the most sacred of places. His place, now tears flow down the boys face. With a quickend heart rate the kids body could barely keep pace. 

Lastly, he knows what it’s like to have and not have a mother. At times there were kisses and hugs. Other times there were only hugs, but in the pitch of a black night there were bugs. Her fists kissed his skull more than sunlight, his blood soaked into a flat pillow just under the moonlight. Between sobs, he could hear the night bird. It was then that little boy was no longer the unheard. 

By Isaac Gathings. 

Hieroglyphic Love

The golden sands roll down distant dunes, over many moons,

She causes my eyes to swoon.

Her words paint pictures over the surface of my hidden temple, she is my sun goddess, offering a love that is not simple. 

Sphinexs stand guard outside her majestic sandstone throne, the smoothness of her pyramids, her hair falling through finger gaps as liquid sand assures me I am not alone. 

My fingers touch her picturesque art, the walls speak to me deep from within her chamber of shining darkness, 

Breathing in her heat, I grow to become fearless. 

She lays upon the golden table, surrounded by the mystic artist rendering of a love never told, 

An Egyptian love fable. 

She is a walking hieroglyphic.

By Isaac Gathings 2017

Stranger Of Me


My emotions boil over,

Like unattended boiling water.

I lash out as a snakes tongue,

Needing to feel the warmth drip from slit wrists.


I don’t like mirrors,

For what glares back,

Is not I,

Rather a piece of me that should be forgotten.


No one wants me,

I’m what others call, wasted goods,

The shitty litter has more thoughts than I,

How am I to exist?


When my wakeful thoughts are of my sadness,

My blindness to the good of the world,

My hatred for this beating heart,

How am I to exist?


If only, a long time ago,

That gun would have released its hot anger,

I would not have to ask these wretched questions,

How am I to exist?


Day and night,

Four seasons,

A clock ticks away at the crawling seconds,

So, how am I to exist?



Romancing Autumn

Her leafs can be the sheets that cover your bed of a chilly earth.

Her fall breeze can be the whisper that deeply burrows.

Trees bare their nakedness, fighting to grasp onto the last bits of body heat mother earth is rewarded.

Cold sweat ice layers form in the night after the moon has left its mark.

Autumns stars wink as I begin romancing autumn.

By Isaac Gathings.

Silent Collisions

I feel at times I am not who I am, I feel at times I am not in control of even the smallest of things.

I am not a father to my two children, how could I be a father to any? I must simply be a burden who floats upon the quiet streams.

Maybe if I drowned, just swept away, tumble over rocks, letting my lungs overfill with life’s water, it is not I who pulls the strings.

I try to be positive, see the good, but looking into the fogged mirror I grow to hate myself, to a point I should take a shot or two.

A case of feeling blue, speaking of feelings the world only wants me hide away, but whom am I if it were not true?

Huffs and puffs when my feels are spoken, what if I lived the fantasy of Tolkien? Shadows form atop the water surface, surely soon I’ll die their lonesome token.

By Isaac Gathings.