Gaunt cheeks, solemn eyes.
Wizened, gray wisps hang from head,
perhaps I am already dead.
My face, like death in the night,
frightens all with sight.
Why does this corpse contain motion?
It has no purpose, not a single notion.
Terror breathing, emotion seething.
Tell me what to do
when age creeps through.

She can't let them know
The pain she has been through
So she puts on a show
'Bout the places she's been too
With a Halls cough drop
Fresh in her mouth
And a connection with a cop
Somewhere in the south
Living the ways
Of the street savvy hipster
And the scent that always stays
A cold Vics smell, always bitter

I shall not sing a May song.
A May song should be gay.
I'll wait until November
And sing a song of gray.

I'll wait until November
That is the time for me.
I'll go out in the frosty dark
And sing most terribly.

And all the little people
Will stare at me and say,
"That is the Crazy Woman
Who would not sing in May."


Anonymous submission.
Gwendolyn Brooks

What is my Purpose?
On this earth's surface.
Do I have an ultimate service,
within these verses?

What is my purpose,
In today's circus.
Is it to buy all that I can purchase?
Or be out on the street shirtless.

What is my purpose,
Among the Earth's worthless,
Is it to grow up scared and nervous?
Or walk around nerveless.

What is my purpose,
In this earth's furnace,
Is it to be full of pureness
and warm those around me like a thermos?

To the above questions,
I am wordless.
To the above questions,
I am verbless.
To the above questions,
I am termless.
So i guess my purpose,
Is full of obscureness.
And in this search for sureness,
I strive on with sterness,
Ignoring the churchless,
In doing my best to furbish
My best definition
Of Purpose.