A desk. A desk behind me and to my left.
How delicate is the flower upon that desk,
Bright, filled with color, but not for long.

She has been plucked, picked.
This means she was chosen,
She is special,
But how long before she fades?
I hope she and the flower beside her
Hold on to that color,
But they’d have to be fake to do so.

A flower, two flowers, lie delicately
On an empty desk.
One is full, whose petals radiate with
A pink glow, while the other, a little more sparse.
The former has an ant crawling on it, while
The latter twinkle, delicately shivering in the
Air conditioning.

Two flowers,
Two entirely different stories,
Stuck at the same desk.

Dear, little, itty, bitty pencil…
You are rough, ragged, and pitted,
Left with no words to say, but
Those that are as dull as your
Flattened, grey tip.

I commend you for your service,
Being used by all, yet left with
No way to erase your mistakes.

Why are you itty bitty?
Have you just been used so much
That you lack the endurance
Of a sword freshly sharpened?

Instead, you’re overdone in the
Firey kiln of vocabulary.

It shook me.
Like the buzzing of an early morning alarm, I was awoken from my sleep.
Into reality, I was thrown, and into the mini-van, I was packed away.
I didn’t want to leave, but I left with my family
And, by the grace of God, a fourteen hour drive landed us safely in Georgia.
Georgia… Ah, Georgia.
It had been a while since my last visit, though every previous time was voluntary.
In Georgia, they cancel school over a little rain,
While the eye of the storm hovers its dreadful head over my home,
As if to see what it could devour.
But it didn’t.
It didn’t succeed.
It didn’t quench its thirst.
It couldn’t devour.
It barely left a mark on my home, but the mark on the community was much larger.
This was a wake-up call to that community to commune, to partake in its purpose.
It was a call to me to partake in mine.
My calling, like a dream from a deep sleep,
Was awoken… and
It shook me.

Well, hello! We meet again.
I’ve brought you here today to inquire about your likeness.
No, I’m not going anywhere, yet.
But I do want to inform you on how important you are.
Compliments are just a formality, but you’re pretty,
Despite the chains that hold you back,
There are keys to happiness and you’re one of them.
I wonder, though, how even with your colorfully streamed
Shimmer, how you still manage to get lost…

But no judgment here!

Without you, I’d be stuck more often than I already do.
Please consider how much I appreciate your companionship
On those many exhausting rides, and casual strolls.
Now, if you’d excuse me, we gotta go, or we’ll be late.
Please don’t get lost again.

5 pennies in a nickel…
10 pennies in a dime…
25 pennies in a quarter…
100 pennies in a dollar…
Each penny plays a particular part in
the grand scheme of economic "advancement"

Money is exchanged.
It comes…
It goes…
Some people see its worth,
while others don’t.

It makes people happy,
But then again,
It only brings sadness at the same time.

It's counterproductive.

Over the counter, at the minimum wage shopping center,
Minimal glances are changed,
For minimal durations…
Each penny is a part of a whole…
There’s a price to be paid…
It moves into the hands of another.

It’s funny how you can see somebody on a regular basis,
But not know them at all…
How you can see the outward appearance,
But not see who they are?

There’s a guy I know, or… I think I know him.
I do not know his name.
He tries to dress well; He slicks his hair back, but…
Who’s he gonna impress?

I keep these thoughts to myself, because I’m afraid to ask.
Really, I’m embarrassed.
We both laugh and take advice from the same people.
Are we really dif’rent?

He stands short of height and expectations,
There with a crooked smile.
He appears to have a positive energy about him.
I can only guess why.

It’s funny how these thoughts take a tumble in my brain,
Yet they don’t escape my mouth.
Maybe I should speak up. This is another human being.
…
Maybe this isn’t funny at all.

She should have written a book, I wish,
Her eyes having seen more words than mine; her ears having heard more tone.

She should have written a book, you see,
Her wisdom beyond her years, she knew, she held an everlasting soul.

She should have written a book, I know,
For books defined her past, and books, I know, she read them through.

She should have written a book, but now
Her story remains unknown to all; her posterity stands anew