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~~♥~~

I used to think men
should be more like books
Both you cannot
judge by looks...

If I didn't want to finish reading
I put it down... no heart was bleeding

A book will never fuss or fight
It will stay with you
through the night...

It doesn't smoke. It doesn't drink.
It won't leave toothpaste
in the sink!

It doesn't binge... it don't eat...
It won't leave up the toilet seat!

It don't forget. It doesn't mope.
It won't hog the TV remote!

It doesn't have to have
The last say...
It doesn't have legs

to walk away.

But it's not soft. It isn't warm.
It doesn't keep you
safe from harm.

Even though it makes no fuss
It can't think. It can't discuss.

Even though it has its charms
it can't hold you in its arms.

It doesn't pine. It doesn't miss.
It can't hug and it can't kiss.

So now I think on it again...
... I think BOOKS should be
             more like MEN!!!



SoulSurvivor
2/20/2015
~~♥~~
 Aug 2018 Vaniexe Kafka
Holly M
tonight i am
a tourist
in your bedroom
my party dress
is like hawaiian shirts and khakis
compared to the t-shirts and jeans
littering your carpet
like fallen brown leaves
during autumn
i sit on your duvet
because you said
wait here-
i’ll be back in a minute
but it’s been ten
so my eyes wander
like a wayward wren
your books are not mine
there’s no poetry
there are pictures of memories
on your wall
none of them me
after tonight, that’s all i’ll be-
a note is on your board:
i love you
was it her?
it’s hard to see
oh wait, it was me
it’s bent and folded
like my insides
the writing is fading
like the makeup on my face
what’s taking you so long?
maybe you didn’t want me
and all this time i was wrong
and you’re hiding in the bathroom
waiting for me to take the hint
and leave
of course that’s it
i can’t believe
i thought you
actually wanted me
i’m so silly
of course
i do not belong here
my purse looks wrong
laying next to your guitar
but i can fix that quick
i will simply
thank you
for the ride
nurse my wounded pride
then i’ll be gone
and you will forget me
before long
so i get up
and the door opens
and you’re there
and you smile
and you touch my shoulder
and you say
i’m sorry
i took so long
i wanted to find
the perfect record
with the perfect song
you know that one
about a sunset in waterloo?
it always reminds me of you
but i’m here now
and i’m so silly
this whole night
is a mess
like my lipstick
on your lips
oh this anxiety i detest
your clothes are funny
compared to my dress
your books are not mine
besides the one on the end
(my brilliant friend)
the memories on the wall
are not of me
but they could be
i do not belong here
that is for sure
but then again-
all these things
were chosen by you
and i was too
so maybe i do belong
after all
 Aug 2018 Vaniexe Kafka
r
If I close my eyes
maybe you can’t see me
and I won’t have to lie
here, still and silent -
on my side
of the great divide
that’s come between us -
the quiet nights
no longer dreaming
go on and on -
living, breathing
beating hearts, forgotten
seasons lost -
in distant canyons
we once walked
our paths entwined -
companions once
leaving shadows
aligned in the sand -
in the canyons
where we left our hand
prints on a wall -
side by side
you and I.
I’ve watched them
play
Tic - tac - toe
The exes won
Use your mind don’t let your mind use you..... Cherish those who love you and find joy in your spouse...
Kiss Of Peace!
<>
The Instigation:
Edmund  Black, commenting on “weary weighted,”

I agree with Kim; This is poetry at its best :)“

<•>

both of you shush!

there is no “better” in poetry

mine yours theirs, alive or not,

just gasps tears and blood
whimsical smiles and isles
cuts and burns of pained revelations,
hidden in fog,
that words try to delete away,
through the shrouded mists of
human tissues,
unconstrained by the
bounded shape
of the human cell,
our first, our own
self-imposed jail

tissue, too,
baby soft, or,
purple beating majestic bruised blotches
by those weaklings whose
kindness never
fully developed;  
or old man mine whose
skin cells erodes, so poems and light
weary weighted, lightly flake off
for your “betterment”
mostly tho for worse

good humans all await,
in patientce lightly hidden,
residents of dark sunspots
in the glaring existence exposer
of the unlit lighthouse whose time will come

they get it

how we get there unimportant

get there

GET THERE

get there
that is the poetic
mission critical

no path best or style preferred-
no compare just, but,
any path that
lifts and elevates,
to the commonplace


the common place

where all costarred, universal,
where common is the temple mount
of highest praise, holy smoke rising,

a place that
that discloses and closes,
is scribed/described honestly as
a connective,
which is the simplest
successive

call my poems,
blessedly common!

that an honorable,
so gladly accepted
and
so much more meaning-full
than merely best or better



for that,
I’d gladly weep,
for no praise
ever been
bettered





8/2/18 406pm
on the jitney to my isle
the instigation: Edmund black › “weary weighted, I agree with Kim .... This is poetry at its best :)“
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