A reader comes upon a Poem,
their interest already Piqued.
It may be a seldom Pleasure,
or their millionth Poem this week.
But regardless of their Past,
Present or future reading,
the reader will note a Pattern
and seek the promised meaning.
... Previous verse was false?
Perhaps it rings true now,
for the reader cannot Pass off
the constant rhythmic Pow.
As it flows into first Person,
I Pray your interest stays,
for you might find a Pleasant answer
and go about your day.
On your second Poem reading,
(for I've Predicted your return),
your smile is far Prettier
than I could Possibly discern.
And why is that, you Ponder?
The title Provides an answer.
But if you never read this Part,
then you will have to read much further.
Each word is perfectly Placed
for the Purpose of the end.
8 lines in every Piece
save the Puzzle's final 10.
So Press on, my dear reader;
may your Patience never fail.
Whether Pages or real life,
you will certainly Prevail.
Many will get to this Point,
and many... Perhaps not
But you, my dear Pilgrim,
are the Prudent of the lot.
You never bought my Ps
with a cent from your Purse,
for you know the answer is
the first letter of each verse!
(And now, since it's the end,
you will gladly read again. )
Nov 12, 2019
Nov 12, 2019 at 1:32 AM UTC
A word to begin
the singing of my lines
A word to end
this sentence of rhymes
But the middle is lost and
undefined.
So the poem is unfinished until
due time.
Nov 10, 2019
Nov 10, 2019 at 7:51 PM UTC
you see those numbers
big and ugly, on crumpled paper
and you feel them on your skin
like a stain on yourself, on
who you are, who you'll ever be
shame
it wraps its hot hands around you
its whispers harsh and sharp
in your ear:
"stupid. stupid. stupid"
your new heart beat, pumping
hot blood around your body
burning you on the inside
and you scream,
desperately wanting
to come out and be
someone else, someone smart
someone that just isn't you
you failed. this is it. you're done.
they were right about you.
you're just a stupid, ugly,
worthless. hopeless...
....Beautiful, brilliant
wonderful girl.
Your daughter looks away,
burning with embarrassment.
"You'll do well", you say,
"Just try your best.
And even if you don't
do as well as you'd like,
you'll still be my smart little girl"
"Thank you" she says, and disappears again
into her room, to study
You sigh, hope, pray, beg
That she believed you
More than you ever believed yourself
Jun 7, 2017
Jun 7, 2017 at 11:22 PM UTC
Tuesday
It’s 2 pm, she guessed
curtains drawn, like a mask covering the
fresh, new, pretty face of the day, sunlight an enemy
the noise of birds breaking through the silk
she’s been half-sleeping since about 7 am
in and out, she dips herself into dreams
and their drowsy paint
drunk with the lethargy
thoughts running smooth like water
and crashing into each other like waves
the phone rings with sudden expectancy
her daughter again, she’s been calling since 9
it’s strange how her ring sounds different
from those of her friends
and the rest of her family
it’s more annoying, a bit louder
and it makes her a bit angry
she feels older than she is
too old to worry about herself
needing a million phone calls just to feel safe
pitied like a toddler
stumbling, using everything to pull herself
through the world
the preparation age
for the years she endured
she’s back to stage one, then?
maybe that’s why God decided
to put the full stop around 90.
So people wouldn’t have to relive
years of tumbling through the world
like a clumsy giant, even though you’re tinier
than you’d ever know, so small in this universe
you feel so young and powerful
your parents think you’re cute
then, later on, they wonder where they went wrong
and you tell them “in bed ”
and your dad slaps you
and you walk out the door
and you tumble, stumble, fumble
through people and places
and boys that never called back
and best friends that never existed
and jobs that paid to **** you dry
and weddings and funerals
and your mom crying in your arms
then you crying by yourself
after she’s gone
we’re all toddlers
each and every one of us
even those of us who got their heads ******* on tight
sometimes that light switch in your heart
doesn’t generate light in your head
and you can’t see to get through this dark world
sometimes you gotta cry
scream
bash your head against something
and cry harder because it hurts
then laugh like you’re crazy
you are crazy
just a crazy old lady
sitting in a dark room
crying as if something’s wrong
when you’re actually happy
happy, because you aren’t at the full stop
happy, because God’s still reading
happy, because your stupid daughter still loves you
after all the times you went wrong
happy because your parents forgave you
and you still have your best friend from 16
and you were employed when you retired
and you fell in love a million times
and you could fall in love a million times more
it’s about 3 pm
she feels like it’s been forever
she reaches over for that phone
a shaky finger swiping
30 missed calls
120 messages
“mom, im coming over”
“mom, answer the phone!”
“pls im worried”
“mom, answer”
a smile breaks her stiff skin
pale eyes watering to the bright light
illuminating the darkness
she sits alone with this digital candle
she knows she should be grateful
so many mothers are disowned
nine months, no,
20 years of pregnancy
their babies tight under their hearts
fed on blood and tears and sweat
only to abandon them
on the doorstep of some retirement ‘home’
aborted
forgotten
but she’s the one
under her daughter’s heart
God, she loves that girl
it’s.....she doesn’t know the time.
maybe centuries went by while she was in her room
thinking
someone’s knocking on the door
the phone’s ringing again
the birds are still singing
she smiles
“Coming!”
Dec 23, 2016
Dec 23, 2016 at 9:19 PM UTC
Sometimes, I swear I can feel my chest concaving at the thought of you.
I find interest in the fact that sometimes I want to be near you, but sometimes, I wish you were an ocean away.
Sometimes I look at my mother, and pray I'm not like her, but other times, I wish I could be more like her because that would make my life so much easier.
Sometimes, I cry alone at night.
I sit unaccompanied and begin to gorge myself on memories and guilt that I am certain will forever haunt me.
And during the day.
I think about how many more days I must suffer before I can be me freely.
Sometimes, I wish I was as much of a physical man as my brother is.
Because sometimes, like when we have a relatives birthday, or a celebration, he is glorified for his ability to be ox-like.
And while I sit here only weighing 130 pounds and having the strength of a rubber chicken I feel as though every bit of breath I breathe is not with the carbon my lungs put out.
Sometimes I think about you.
And how you're with him.
And it makes me sick.
Because sometimes. . .
I wish sometimes didn't exist
Nov 14, 2016
Nov 14, 2016 at 5:32 PM UTC
I did not ask to enter this world a female,
but it's what God granted me.
I did not ask to be regulated by hormones,
but it is what is expected of me.
I did not ask for this child,
that was forced upon me late one night.
I did not ask for this judgement,
that is so easily handed out.
I did not ask to be called 'baby',
by that man on the subway.
I did not ask for the opinions of my weight,
which are so casually thrown about.
I did not ask for a smaller salary,
due to the genitalia I was provided.
But this is the life I was given, and so I find my tribe.
I find other women who grant me peace and protection.
I advocate for women whose voices are not heard.
I fight for my future daughters.
I protest the hate.
I protest the inequalities.
I protest for our Mother, Earth.
I protest, and I stand, and I cry.
My ****** is my home.
My womb is my decision.
My body my choice.
Nov 14, 2016
Nov 14, 2016 at 5:13 PM UTC
This is my sanctuary
a sylvan of serenity
(soothing my sanity)
my stellar solace of sanctity
my strange & soaring Fantasies
superior to Realities
(with all its sick Enormities)
I’d stay asleep for Eternities
Stray from society
with a sudden spontaneity
To the sweet sensuality
Of a night’s serendipity
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 2:11 PM UTC
Haggard heavens,
pale white in their dormancy,
weary wind,
sweeping through the trees,
sleeping sun,
warm in her blanket of clouds.
Over the waiting earth,
the storm watches with a single eye,
a cold Cyclops.
Dank darkness,
bathes the waiting world,
the still static of cheap radios,
adds to the deafening silence,
short candles sit, covered,
in their own hot wax.
At the end
of their
dormancy,
the heavens shriek, their sharp tears,
tearing through the air, clashing with the ground,
cold bullets shooting the world,
white flashes
jagged white swords slashing through the horizon,
stabbing the wet earth,
the heavens groan,
sonorous rumbles,
as if they’re stabbing themselves.
Howling screams of vicious gale,
as it tears the world apart,
ripping through trees,crashing them to the ground,
flinging the world around in whirling anger.
The world sits, huddled
whispered prayers fighting through the air
to reach the heavens
and pass the storm along the way.
Now
finally
satisfied,
the cyclops moves on
a warrior wandering to
his next country
still strong
with its pale skin,
bleeding rain to wash away
the remaining carcasses
Oct 10, 2016
Oct 10, 2016 at 11:08 PM UTC