Submissions by Gemini (Mr. Gemini)
POEMS AND SHORT STORIES
Poet Introduction
Many styles. Many subjects. Many poems. You should be able to find something you like in my collection. If you can't then let me know because I'll work on that style or genre next. -Gemini
Sinful Criminal
![restricted poem](/images/extremecontent.jpg)
400 reads
4 Comments
Escaping Enslavement
I observe her lying in bed
sleeping
peacefully
quietly
tranquilly
The cool spring breeze brings comfort
An oak tree still bare
from a mild winter
The occasional vehicle
quietly cruising by
7 A.M.
A bell rings
serving as a shepherd
Hundreds flock to their stations
A great migration from the south
and me
A sea of steel to
bend
burn
shape
build
We are disposable machines
made of flesh
rented by the hour
programmed to work hard
Our minds
irrelevant
Destined for...
sleeping
peacefully
quietly
tranquilly
The cool spring breeze brings comfort
An oak tree still bare
from a mild winter
The occasional vehicle
quietly cruising by
7 A.M.
A bell rings
serving as a shepherd
Hundreds flock to their stations
A great migration from the south
and me
A sea of steel to
bend
burn
shape
build
We are disposable machines
made of flesh
rented by the hour
programmed to work hard
Our minds
irrelevant
Destined for...
109 reads
10 Comments
Sadness
It’s not depression
in the clinical sense
but a sadness
that’s washed over me
A combination of
grey skies
darkening days
and a lack of time
spent with my son
who’s being raised
by a woman who’s
easily influenced
by others
It’s the melancholy
of loneliness
due to lack of
contact with a slender
female body
that I crave
the way I used to
long for a shot of
potent smack
It’s not hard
to get out of bed
and I don’t want
to blow my brains out
It’s just a sadness
that will...
in the clinical sense
but a sadness
that’s washed over me
A combination of
grey skies
darkening days
and a lack of time
spent with my son
who’s being raised
by a woman who’s
easily influenced
by others
It’s the melancholy
of loneliness
due to lack of
contact with a slender
female body
that I crave
the way I used to
long for a shot of
potent smack
It’s not hard
to get out of bed
and I don’t want
to blow my brains out
It’s just a sadness
that will...
109 reads
16 Comments
One Final Fix
It’s been two months since I lied in that hospital bed. It seems much longer. It was my second day in the hospital; my second day of withdrawal from heroin.
I checked into the hospital on a Monday morning because my doctor didn’t have any appointments available and my arms, hands, and feet were all infected from shooting dope. They had been for a few days. My doctor’s wife told me to go to the local emergency room so I did. I wasn’t too sure what I wanted that day. Part of me hoped that they would check me in and detox me but another part of me hoped that they’d give me an...
I checked into the hospital on a Monday morning because my doctor didn’t have any appointments available and my arms, hands, and feet were all infected from shooting dope. They had been for a few days. My doctor’s wife told me to go to the local emergency room so I did. I wasn’t too sure what I wanted that day. Part of me hoped that they would check me in and detox me but another part of me hoped that they’d give me an...
90 reads
10 Comments
The Warrior
Occasionally
I miss the war
It’s not the desert heat
or shitting in the sand
It’s the battle
Raising my weapon
aiming
firing
watching a head ripped apart
the turban turning red
Anxiously combing
through Baghdad’s homes
hoping to shoot and kill
Invading a region
on a mission
gone terribly awry
Fallujah’s urban warfare
bullets sizzling by
Insurgents scattered in the streets
with bullet riddled bodies
Dodging friendly fire of incompetence
and...
I miss the war
It’s not the desert heat
or shitting in the sand
It’s the battle
Raising my weapon
aiming
firing
watching a head ripped apart
the turban turning red
Anxiously combing
through Baghdad’s homes
hoping to shoot and kill
Invading a region
on a mission
gone terribly awry
Fallujah’s urban warfare
bullets sizzling by
Insurgents scattered in the streets
with bullet riddled bodies
Dodging friendly fire of incompetence
and...
84 reads
6 Comments
Rhyme Therapy
I started writing poetry while I was kicking dope
Consumed with my own murder, hanging from a rope
Someone hooked me up with a pencil and pad
I put the lead to paper to prevent from going mad
Daily journaling became a therapy of rhyme
It helped through the withdrawal and passed the creeping time
I went back to shooting smack many times over the years
but writing out these rhymes has helped me calm my fears
The habit’s finally gone, I’m living my life clean
The fears are kept at bay, now I write to stay serene
Consumed with my own murder, hanging from a rope
Someone hooked me up with a pencil and pad
I put the lead to paper to prevent from going mad
Daily journaling became a therapy of rhyme
It helped through the withdrawal and passed the creeping time
I went back to shooting smack many times over the years
but writing out these rhymes has helped me calm my fears
The habit’s finally gone, I’m living my life clean
The fears are kept at bay, now I write to stay serene
95 reads
10 Comments
The Writer and his Muse - Part IV
Kenny spotted Jackson approaching him at the baggage claim area of LAX and waved him over. Kenny held out his hand and Jackson shook it. Kenny asked, “So, you ready to write a movie script?”
“They want me to write it?”
“They want you to consult with the writers. I want you to write it though.”
“I’m okay with either option. This isn’t about the money for me at this point. I’m living the dream, brother. Let’s step out. I need a smoke.”
They walked outside and Jackson inhaled a deep whiff of the L.A. smog then lit a Marlboro. He’d lived in L.A. for four years...
“They want me to write it?”
“They want you to consult with the writers. I want you to write it though.”
“I’m okay with either option. This isn’t about the money for me at this point. I’m living the dream, brother. Let’s step out. I need a smoke.”
They walked outside and Jackson inhaled a deep whiff of the L.A. smog then lit a Marlboro. He’d lived in L.A. for four years...
62 reads
2 Comments
Cara Cara
I was on my ninety-eighth day of my dope free life and the thought of shooting smack hadn’t cropped up for a while. Then Cara called. I had met her in rehab a few months back. She was also an ex-junkie and she had been clean for just a few days longer than me. She called me for support because her demons were infiltrating her mind.
Cara was from Zion and her dealer lived in Waukegan so after rehab she decided to settle into a halfway house in the west burbs, called Tranquility House, which was only ten minutes from my place. She was nineteen years old and while she was not my...
Cara was from Zion and her dealer lived in Waukegan so after rehab she decided to settle into a halfway house in the west burbs, called Tranquility House, which was only ten minutes from my place. She was nineteen years old and while she was not my...
124 reads
8 Comments
Beautiful Disaster
![restricted poem](/images/extremecontent.jpg)
180 reads
6 Comments
Losing My Virginity
Ginger pulled my car into the parking lot. I was in no condition to drive on that hot and humid Chicago afternoon. Melissa’s jabbering in the back seat was getting on my nerves and all I could think about was the newfound technique they were going to share with me. I was consumed with a combination of nervousness and excitement. I had longed for this day but never worked up the courage to actually have a needle in my arm. It was now a necessity if I were to go on living this lifestyle. I was constantly congested from snorting heroin. Ginger and Melissa had plenty of experience but this would...
75 reads
2 Comments
Ramblings from Rehab
It’s a warm September evening
with the sun settling
beyond the shingles
My eyes squint
behind darkened lenses
whilst drinking cheap coffee
from a styrofoam cup
and sucking down
one Marlboro
after another
I sit at a hexagon picnic table
on a patio of stone
with full branches
dangling above
my smoothly shaved head
I’m decked out in black
from shirt to shoe
I ponder on
what’s racing through the minds
of the women letting me down
and why I continually trust
against my will
...
with the sun settling
beyond the shingles
My eyes squint
behind darkened lenses
whilst drinking cheap coffee
from a styrofoam cup
and sucking down
one Marlboro
after another
I sit at a hexagon picnic table
on a patio of stone
with full branches
dangling above
my smoothly shaved head
I’m decked out in black
from shirt to shoe
I ponder on
what’s racing through the minds
of the women letting me down
and why I continually trust
against my will
...
102 reads
8 Comments
Killing Creativity
Therapy kills the writer’s spirit
It sucks at our souls
yanking at our
stories
feelings
minds
We give it freely
to save our lives
fending off the reaper
yet it empties us inside
stretching the sanity
of the writer within
leaving our brains cleared
bodies starved
spirits incomplete
We try to force
what the professionals
have raped away
leaving us with nothing but
a free verse poem
that I didn’t want to write
and you didn’t care to read.
It sucks at our souls
yanking at our
stories
feelings
minds
We give it freely
to save our lives
fending off the reaper
yet it empties us inside
stretching the sanity
of the writer within
leaving our brains cleared
bodies starved
spirits incomplete
We try to force
what the professionals
have raped away
leaving us with nothing but
a free verse poem
that I didn’t want to write
and you didn’t care to read.
85 reads
4 Comments
DU Poetry : Submissions by Gemini (Mr. Gemini)