SimplyGoodPoetry

A Partial List of What We Buried by p.b. wells we made America great one grave at a time. that is the part they leave out between the flags, the hymns, the brass bands, and the cheap speeches from men with clean hands and dirty souls. the Wampanoag were first, or close enough, they fed strangers who later learned how to steal land with a Bible in one hand and a musket in the other. the Pequot burned in their villages, and we called the smoke settlement. the Powhatan knew rivers, corn, seasons, the old language of earth. we knew hunger, greed, and how to rename theft destiny. the Lenape watched their home become someone else’s map. the Haudenosaunee built councils while we built excuses. the Cherokee had newspapers, courts, farms, a written language, and still we marched them west until the road itself started coughing up the dead. the Choctaw, the Chickasaw, the Muscogee, the Seminole, each carrying songs older than our little

SR 9 by p.b. wells Sitting on the front porch. Sipping some Admiral and Coke. Looking down at the traffic on SR 9. 18-wheelers, cycles, SUVs, farm tractors, you name it. Most driven by hard-working people. Some driven by complete assholes. Been four months since I moved here. Four months. Four months outta the city. Four months in the country. Even with a state road running by me, it's still quieter than the goddamn city. The only gunshots have been those of hunters or just plain target shooters. Haven't read of a local gas station being knocked over. Or a pissed-off drug dealer shooting his customer. Or a low-life bastard beating the hell outta his wife or girlfriend. The biggest news has been the possible sighting of a wolf. A wolf. Four-legged kind. Not the two-legged human kind. I'm bored. But that's good. It's the good boredom. The kind that lets your soul heal. The kind that lets your imagination grow. And my soul desperately needs healing. And my imagination needs

Flooded basements hold me. Mold drifts through the air like wandering ghosts, and every breath is a quiet sip of death. Jagged lines on cold cement reflect a version of me that pulses a carousel of selves spinning like the wobbling wheel on my first bike. I try to balance What I know will one day fall. Warm water gathers, oil shimmering in colors That rise from sun‑struck asphalt. I lose myself in its hypnotic glow. Ice‑crusted emeralds inside steel‑hard eyes I am there. A Christmas tree long gone glimmers in memory. Laughter echoes. Lights flicker. I blink. Tears taste salty, sweetness, and dust. Sheer stockings, on young girls Guys in broken cars, thinking they have found the cause An old man sitting all alone Holding his vodka watching orange snowflakes descend. Where am I? How did I get here? Sometimes I feel like I'm nowhere. Other times, It's like I'm here, there, and everywhere

Today, I hold no grudges against anyone. That doesn’t mean I agree with them. Most times I certainly do not. But as I get older, the more clearly, I see: we are all beings fragile, stitched together from feelings forged in fire older than any language. Cursed the moment we first wondered who we were. Fear was the first thing we felt. Envy the first comparison. Greed the first survival mechanism. We pretend we’ve moved past these things. The universe doesn’t care what we pretend. It watches us the same way it watches dying stars and drifting comets without interest, or judgment. Most of us think of ourselves first. Everything else every person, idea, goal becomes something we use to feel like we are more than a frightened animal trying desperately to survive. Some of us build lies to avoid the truth. We hide behind being good, spiritual, part of a group, or a type of person that makes us feel less small in a universe that doesn’t know we exist. If you are human, you