Sometimes you segregate your cereal.
Sometimes you cringe at meat.
Sometimes you hide you face in your hands when you're embarrassed, sad or see someone's feet.
Sometimes you're so cute I want to put you in my pocket.
Sometimes these picture frames are perfect, I wish I could click a button and lock it.
Sometimes you cry.
Sometimes you dream.
Sometimes we don't talk and it makes me want to scream.
Sometimes you put your feet on my dash and leave little marks of dirt.
Sometimes when you're not here, I look at them and it makes loneliness hurt.
Sometimes you treat me better than you should
Sometimes you make this life seem too good.
Sometimes you hold my hand and we get caught.
Sometimes you fit better in my world than I would have ever thought.
Sometimes the way you smile is my favorite thing.
Sometimes if I weren't a poet, I'd write you a song that we could sing.
Sometimes you go through packs of gum like an addiction.
Sometimes our hearts beat with motions of friction.
Sometimes you take pictures of various birds.
Sometimes I hope you fall in love with my words.
Sometimes you worry and you seem a bit frantic
So I'll always be there to kiss your forehead because sometimes I'm a hopeless romantic.

Why are there so many sad poems?
Did the old masters write sing verses about depression and anxiety?
Or is that a new feature?

I don't ask to be pretentious.
To bemoan the state of the new generation.
But I have to wonder,
Has the poets changed?
Or have I?

Our generation has learned one thing:
How to break over and over and over and over again,
Barely piecing together the pieces before they shatter again.
So is it a surprise to anyone that the poets speak of heartbreak and pain?
It is all we know.

Or is it all in my head?
Do I simply think I see more tragic poems because I seek them out?
Only remember the poems that make me cry,
'cause sadness the only emotion I can feel anymore.

i've been to kenya, all that these "charity" adverts are fuelling
is ignorance, they're presupposing
all the african nations are like kindergarten,
they're insulating them... it's like that:
give a man fish or give him a fishing rod,
i.e.: give a man money or give him a
method creating & subsequently circulating wealth:
these charitable companies are insulting
african nations to be at a loss,
they're only feeding european bureaucrats
who are really the only worthwhile
charitable pay-cheque givens, odds 4-5.*

a retired lady selling poppies
for a feeling
committed suicide
being hunted by ninety-nine
charity organisations...
charity organisations...
start-ups akin to apps of
cue: shaved face, young, eager
****** venom ****** statues
of jealousy...
all the bankers' wives have
a tier system, the origin of
charity companies
(surely a wife can't be as pristine
as her husband):
first two don't count,
third: modern art "collector",
fifth: philanthropist,
seventh: possessor of an O.B.E.
and as one bemused englishman said:
king arthur and the zimmerframe table
of knights with walking sticks rather than swords:
money made people lazy, less adventurous,
let alone less tribal and communist,
adventure just became predictable,
tourism...
the modern shopper is envious of
the hunter gatherer... so envious
he wants to look the part, but live as modern
lazy allows... after all... all the gym sessions
can't go to waste... got to run standing still:
hey! don quixote! leave the windmills!
check out the treadmills... you see a caveman
anywhere in the sweaty parlours?
i don't.

It's costing me all I got to give
Just to dig myself out of this hole
I can't figure out why I was meant to live
Or how I can make myself feel whole

I can't afford to deal with this pain
That's been going on for so long
Even sheltered from the rain
I find a way to do something wrong

It's a struggle just to get out of bed
And go on living a life so empty
I can't erase these thoughts from my head
You can't understand what they do to me

I saw the stars,
and thought foolishly once again

I asked for so many things;
things I thought were out of reach,
but near to them

I finally realized,
they were asking me all along;
for they were as distant to me
as I to them;
and the things we needed;
from each other
were the things you can find;
from a friend

New home, new road
New life, new leaf
New page for me
To place my feet

New dreams, new hopes
New thoughts, new goals
Or are they old
Just like 'new' gold?

Gleaming, polished
And sparkling,
They're fitting like
The perfect ring

They've swept me up
And pulled me in,
Right here, right now
My life begins




© Karen L Hamilton,  January 2016