As soon as you're born there’s no time at all
By the age of 15 your a kid no more
You’ll clean up their **** you’ll scrub the floor
You’ll hate your work  always begging NO MORE
You’ll ***** so much never having no fun
You’ll hate your ******* boss and The person you’ve become
You’ll cuss his mother you’ll call her a *****
But your still  broke and forever poor
Every day the same as before
A working class hero is something to be
Just open your ears and listen to me
Your back will hurt and they’ll test your ***
If you don’t go to college you’ll flip burgers for free
They’ll bend you over forget vaseline

Your  boss is a **** - so much **** you’ll  have to  take
A working class hero is something to be
Yes
A working class hero is something to be
They like em young they like them free
Paid in peanuts or even magic beans
Your just a number you’ll always be
**** you’re living the American dream
A working class hero is something to be
You work till your dead with bruises on your knees
They’ll beat you down
Until 63
You’ll never retire
Retirements not free
You’ll spend your life working
There’s never any time for “me”
A working class hero is something to be
strive to be the best you can be
Just like Bill Gates  you’ve gotta aspire and dream  always remember never settle for mediocrity        
                          BECAUSE!!!!
A working class hero is something to be
life is what you make it take it from me

Standing with Marshal Gebbie

No trumpet sounds.  
No banner bleeds.  
Just the quiet hum  
of satellites watching  
what we dare not name.

Power does not sleep,
it drips  
from trade routes,  
from whispered sanctions,  
from the tremble  
of a diplomat’s hand  
hovering over the red phone.

We are not at war,  
but we rehearse it  
in algorithms,  
in tariffs,  
in the way maps  
shrink and swell  
without consent.

The empire is hungover,  
but still it walks,
barefoot through proxy fields,  
cloaked in plausible deniability.

And we,  
the breathers between borders,  
write poems  
on the backs of embargoes,  
sing lullabies  
in contested airspace,  
and pray  
that silence  
is not mistaken  
for surrender.

for the moment that never moved

I keep the photo of you,
not for your smile,
but for the memories behind it.
The way your collar curled
like a question never asked,
the light grazing your cheek
as if it knew
this was the last time
you’d be that exact version of you.

You are forever mid-laugh,
forever leaning just so,
forever unaware
that I would return
to this frame
like a pilgrim to a relic,
touching the edges
as if they could answer
what time refused to explain.

The world has spun
since that shutter blinked,
but you–
you remain
untouched by the turning.
No grief has reached you there.
No apology.
No change.

I keep the photo of you
because it doesn’t ask for anything.
It doesn’t age.
It doesn’t forget.
It simply holds
what I cannot:
the stillness of you,
before the leaving,
before the blur.

And in between heartbeats,
I visit you,
not to remember,
but to stay.

With a week to live
how would you live it?

Sulk?
Celebrate?
Would it be different?

Would you reminisce
on your livelier days?

Or love
in the last of them
every which way?

She sits still in a corner
He juts in to the room
White butterflies adorn her
He carries darkest doom


She keeps her feelings hidden
He knows of them and sighs
She cowers as was bidden
They both eye up her thighs


She loves those undeserving
Ignoble hands, he grasps
She holds his gaze unnerving
He takes without an ask


She mounts a throne of wounding
He spouts a light impure
She counts the nights in bruising
His will to shape contours


She bathes herself in shadow
He takes with him the light
She dreams it a fandango
He lets her think she's right


She makes her home the corner
He makes her house a hell
She smiles inside her torpor
He knows she'll never tell

by Geof, glucose-aware and still poetic

🍞 White Bread
Soft as a lullaby, sliced with ease,
it cradles the butter, it aims to please.
But oh, the spike, the stealthy rise—
I pass it by with narrowed eyes.

🥔 Mashed Potatoes
Creamy clouds on a Sunday plate,
they whisper comfort, they tempt fate.
I count the carbs, I dodge the mash—
a spoonful now feels brash and rash.

🍚 White Rice
Polished pearls in a steaming heap,
they lull the tongue, they make me weep.
I swap for barley, quinoa’s cheer—
but jasmine still draws near, too near.

🍝 Pasta
Twists and ribbons, sauce-soaked bliss,
a tangled kiss I dearly miss.
I twirl restraint around my fork—
and serve up lentils, squash, or cork.

🍕 Pizza Crust
Golden edge of molten sin,
it holds the cheese, it reels me in.
I nibble toppings, dodge the base—
a crustless life, a slower pace.

🥞 Pancakes
Stacked like dreams on a diner tray,
they rise with syrup, then betray.
I flip my cravings, count the toll—
and let the almond batter roll.

🍟 French Fries
Crisp rebellion in a paper cone,
they crunch like joy, they moan and groan.
I sniff, I sigh, I walk away—
my pancreas has final say.

🍿 Popcorn (buttered)
Movie-night muse,
a salty flirt, it pops with glee,
it wears a shirt of melted gold and hidden cost—
I portion small, or mourn the lost.

🥖 Bagels
Dense and proud, a chewy ring,
they sing of brunch and everything.
I slice regret, I halve the round—
and seek a thinner, safer sound.

🍰 Cake
Frosted lies in layered form,
they dance at birthdays, sweet and warm.
I toast with berries, skip the slice—
and write a poem in sacrifice.

🩺 Final Verse: The Reckoning
So here I stand, carb-curious still,
with measured joy and tempered will.
I mourn the feast; I praise the fight—
and find new sweetness in the light.

most days on the lake
i see the red-tailed hawk
slow in deliberate circles

one or both herons
their shadows keeping speed
across the water

butterflies
chaotic in their crossing
from one shore to the other

ripples        of         fish        ripples        of        wind

it was dead
on the side of the road

wings wide with surprise
it's feathers it's eyes

already dull with death
crows are clever birds

but sometimes
they linger too long

in the road
seeking a seed

cracking a nut
poking at

this
and that

mornings        when the whole body hurts
afternoons      when the shadows are so sharp
evenings         when the sky is calloused with stars

when i am lost
please find me

the monarch butterflies
above the sand dunes.

orange and black wings fluttering,
enjoy eternal maps, (no glove compartment)

the smell of ocean salt
in the morning air.

they lift higher and higher
the journey begins
as it has for thousands of years

(the artist's brush)

one morning they fly

a journey of thousands of miles.
the moment that begins and never ends,

sand and sea and serendipity.

Life is short, this is true
remember that.
Yet it’s the longest road
you will ever walk.
Find someone to walk beside you;
nobody is perfect,
but it is better to walk alone,
even in the wrong direction,
than with the wrong person.

Many lessons I’ve learnt,
some I’ve misplaced,
others I’ve forgotten.
But one remains,
like spirals in the sands of my mind,
like truth carved deep in my soul:
there is nothing more lonely
than spending your life
loving someone
who did not love you back,
or at all.
All the possibilities passed by
while you held their hand
and the lies you whispered to yourself,
“It will change,
there is time”
becoming a prison
you built with your own hope.

Time is not the enemy.
It never was.
It is the choices,
the unspoken ones,
the moments forgotten.
It is the blindness we wear,
the mask that hides
what mattered most.

Not knowing which seconds
to hold forever,
not knowing which to release,
like moments slipping
through weary hands.
I wish I had known then
which were the ones to cherish
not now,
digging through scattered thoughts,
scratching at shadows
to piece together
what was,
and what was not.

The people I saw,
the hands I shook,
the embraces I shared
had I known
this was the last time
we would stand together in a moment,
I might have held on longer.
I might have breathed it in deeper,
honored the minute
a little more.

I could craft a metaphor,
a clever disguise,
to polish this into poetry.
But these tears, this trembling,
falling as I let go
of what I carried too long

this is already a poem.
And it is more
than enough.