I keep thinking about the mailman
Tark Wain
Sep 11, 2014      Sep 12, 2014

At this point I know it's over
They've told us where the plane is heading
I've always thought I'd know what to think if something like this happened
But I'm lost here
I'm not thinking about my beautiful wife
Or my daughter
My parents who will outlive me
Or my friends who are off living their lives

I keep thinking about the mailman
No really I do
How he'll have to go around tomorrow
Passing this tale of tragedy
Gracing my family with statistics
Thousands dead thousands hurt
I feel bad for that mailman
For he will never truly understand the pain he will bring

This mailman does not know my name
He does not know my wife, my daughter,
The man next to me,
My first grade teacher, my first girlfriend
He does not know my dog
He does not know my true dreams or my hopes
My ambitions, my musings, my innermost thoughts
No this mailman only knows he is passing out the paper

Delivering news to millions who do not want it

#think   #911   #mailman  
Lora Cerdan
Lora Cerdan
Aug 25, 2014

It's 2 in the morning and I'm still awake,
drinking alone, again.
It's not like I have the most interesting job to wake up to
I just deliver words to people's homes
and get chased by dogs every now and then  
wondering if they got bad news or not
and how they feel about it

At night, I deliver the words to myself
With the pen in my hand, staining the paper
crafting each word with stories of days that passed me by
Sitting in the dark writing while others are standing
out there in the cold harsh reality, living and breathing
expecting release
but never did much to achieve that freedom
aside from complaining about it every single day
I never did much either
Maybe I got so used at being a prisoner
That the idea of freedom seems more like a myth
than something we all deserve

After I finished my final bottle, the last of its kind
I walked out and went home, hoping I did my best to drown
my demons and my feelings
It's not until I reached my door that I realized they fucking know how to swim
and they do it so well I might as well let them

I decided I don't want to go home
It's hardly a home anyway
It's just a bunch of furniture crammed in a room
So I would feel less empty

With my pen and my paper I walked
my footsteps behind me echoing until they too,
became silent
I threw my keys into the ocean
and should anyone find it, I hope they won't be disappointed
of what they'd find behind the door it opens

I stood at the edge, trying to write a letter
addressed to no one in particular
I wanted to sum it all up in a few words
but I couldn't
I keep worrying about the people
who won't be receiving their letters
And who would deliver mine?

I ended up writing six pages worth of
words I don't even remember writing
All the letters I have inside my bag flew like pigeons on a good day
and I silently wished for the wind to bring them
all to the right addresses

as for my letter addressed to no one in particular
Some of them landed on a puddle
some of them landed on dog shit
As for me, I landed on the concrete
between 6th and 7th street

I had a talk with Charles.
I made friends with the mailman today.
Aug 28, 2013

I made friends with the mailman today.
Because I thought he'd care to know
I'll be gone soon, he won't have to come around for much longer.
He smiled at me, with a hint of uncertainty
and carried on with his daily routine.

I watched the mailman go by again
Jul 18, 2014

I watched the mailman go by again
He was at it again
Delivering mail
It reminded me how the days pass by
How theres always thursdays
The mailman goes by day after day
Shoving mail into box after box
I watch him
I watch his technique
He doesnt know im watching
But then slowly people trickle out of their houses
To open the previously closed box
And fondle the previously fondled letter
One letter may be special
So lets be thankful for this doorless truck and his driver
But really its all about the driver
The mailman

chadrick s winkle
chadrick s winkle
Feb 25, 2014

I've limped through another
I got scars to feel especially when they're burned

limited in imagination
sparking only when I
start my car

I get high now, again
it makes little to no sense
cold spells
online video games
my lighter works
I believe in purification
Ill try to achieve the heights of my imagination
again I try
sometimes twice a day

Tommy Johnson
Tommy Johnson
Jul 5, 2014

Tossing the pigskin
Burrowing and displaying the Ostrich effect
All applause for the chairman of the board of trustees
And all the spiddle on his back up shirt

Mortify them
An incomplete pass
Rally the troops
For unfinished business

Shift gears
Reread the post script

"P.S.  The unzipped flies of store owners trying to replicate the success of their fathers. Piddle about, play with implements of torture, instruments of destruction. Wander in the wilderness, grunt and sigh as your civilized brain rattles. Make way for Plan B, and fill out the forms in triplicate. Fumbling at the controls, emergency landing. The gear shift and crankshaft have given out. Listen to the titillating chatter of the disappointed passengers who all longed for the window seat.

Always your's
Edmund Balthazar "

Take two
I could slap you

taijarea darius
Jul 15, 2013

you wrote  me  a letter with you signature
in that letter was lines of lust. this lust was deep you talked about .. curves ,breast , lips
i read on and thought damn he moves me with so much passion i sworn it was because he loved me
because i was the only woman that feed him songs of freedom . freedom from the chains of pain
late nights of running through each others  minds.
you wrote  me a letter with your signature in that letter was lines of secrets you talked  about  your past i read on
then understood i couldnt be your little secret anymore. i would have to leave you alone you wrote me a letter with your signature in in that letter was lines of mysery the paper wet from your tears  and in bold letter was the reason why. you said the lost of compassion kept you up late. tossing and turning in bed. and that you havent ate .
you wrote me a letter  with your signature in that letter was lines of love. deep love that you wanted to experience. love that wasnt judging  but  forgiving . i read thet letter thinking we could have done better. grab my hand i can take you back to your begining when you and i were kings and queens
at the bottom was a p.s. stating that you have moved on.
and what we shared had been lost.
that time was wasted being with me. you needed space to breathe. and thats when i knew that the writing was not about me.

by the kind mailman’s gathering bag,
Vincent Moore
Vincent Moore
Nov 2, 2014

This old box stands in memory

of who we were. I remember often

running to drop my treasured

envelope into it, I opened the

awaiting abyss drawer, so deep

I shuddered wondering where

and how far my letter would travel.

Would it be alone, on the bottom

while others piled upon it and lost

it buried forever only to be retrieved

by the kind mailman’s gathering bag,

or would it float atop pile high mixed

feelings, sad, earnest, love, peaceful

letters waiting to find its recipient

so far away or maybe close by.

The paint is peeled and faded,

a lonely iconic box, holding memories,

from so many peoples and races,

they felt compelled to write, to seal,

stamp and run to this box, fearing

being too late for pickup, yet

knowing that no matter what, their

letter would eventually reach their


Comforting words to many, a letter

was the kindest, most sincerest way to

convey one’s feelings, the tone, the

language, the importance of expressing

heart rendering, though words may be

lost in translation, they were important

to the reader, the battle worn soldier

waiting for news from family and friends,

a shut in bed ridden victim of sickness,

tears heavy on their paled cheeks

waiting to read their only connection

to the outside of heaven or hell’s gate.

Now a victim of history, it’s slow demise

to the digital rapid wireless world,

this box is a conveyor of so

many thoughts, it received us

without any questions asked,

it simply opened up its lid allowing

us to fill it with so many messages

it took into it’s soul, it never failed us,

it never criticized our content, it kept

our secret messages safe, private

and sound, awaiting the early truck

to empty it and move its soul contents

to all recipients near and far.

So many faded letters I have

as cherished memories of

deliverance from this box,

its faithfulness never faltering,

weathering all storms, it stood tall,

erect and always ready to

receive and deliver on time.

I now sit, untie the ribbon of

precious memories before me,

though faded; these letters

were received with love.

Thank you big red for receiving

them and finding me, I am alive

but for these letters that my love

wrote to me before she passed,

the ink smudged, her perfume

still lingers on their pages,

oh my love, you are missed,

but thankfully I hold you close

to my bosom, these letters fill

me so and I remember receiving

each and every one of them,

my days and nights fulfilled with

your sweet memory.

Vincent Moore 2014

#letters   #news   #mailbox   #mailman  
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