top of page
  • Writer's pictureAnxious Poets Society

Tell me something good

“tell me something good,” you say. I stumble. “not with your words...” my brain sputters the same way my jeep does struggling to find the ideal air to gas ratio. i don’t know much good, or if I do it fleets me constantly. the same way a mountain sheds it’s excess water into rivers and streams and creeks, eventually leading to the ocean that is my brain. this vast expanse of nothingness full of unknown creatures, thoughts, feelings. things that you, or I, will never know. things that will never be seen, whether it’s from blindness or confusion ignorance or a barrier built by myself, by the creatures that lurk deep under the surface.

“tell me something good,” you say. the receptors in my brain go into hyperdrive. good. something good. I think, you. I say nothing. I think of all the bad things I’ve done and try to find their opposites, I think of the dead bird I saw on my walk over and how sad it was, but how beautiful the developed picture I took will be. opposites.

“tell me something good,” you say. and the cycle starts over. sputtering jeeps excess water and dead birds.

the ocean.


Tyler Posyton was born and raised in New Jersey. He has always enjoyed writing music but only recently has delved into the field of poetry. He cites his writing influences as Bukowski, Fante, Walt Whitman, and William Carlos Williams, among others. Tyler’s interests include music, good food, alcohol, and visiting his family in Maine. Tyler’s writing involves the concepts and examinations of love, abandonment, and trust.

#good #words #brain #mountain #water #ocean #birds #creatures #nothingness #thoughts #feelings

11 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All

I. Your skin is wet paste sticking to a hospital wristband Under an empty wide gaze that sees nothing. Though I imagine how pretty you must look With your friends at the park, Lying on a picnic table,

blank paper sheets waiting to be filled on the study table, she picked her pen up every ink burst’s her spell word by word, she started weaving kingdom—her utopia. before her eyes, an ethereal scenery

More powerful than a locomotive, able to leap reality in a single bound, it’s a nuclear bomb, it’s a super computer: it’s the age-old strain of virulent addiction. Once in its ravenous and raptor claw

bottom of page