The shape of the sun; circle
The shape of a city block, square
The shape of a baseball field, rhombus
The shape of a house, pentagon.
But the shape of a home
Is based on what lives inside.
A pyramid proves a simple structure can still succeed
All lines involved
Connect to complete a common goal.
An octagon interludes
So all sides can solidify
A promising whole.
So what is to happen
To a house with
When the lines are misconstrued
And the corners are mismatched.
A splatter on a plane
Lacking effort to be real.
A shape is not a shape
If there are breaks within the lines.
A shape is not a shape
If everyone neglects the vertices.
Geometry should have been priority
while planning a family.
Hey Mother Goose,
what’s the use
of calling me a helpless ******?
Don’t waddle over here,
teeth bared, causing fear,
to remind me that my life’s going nowhere.
Your beady brown eyes
and a beak full of lies
“I hate you” in belligerent cries.
You leave your **** scattered around
then complain of a mess through your permanent frown.
Please just cut me loose.
I’m the unfinished poem
And you’re the deadline closing in way too soon.
This is not shaping up to be anyone’s best work.
You’re the chair with a faulty seat
And I’m the *** falling through.
Is it my fault for not checking first?
I’m the ambulance sirens wailing outside on your street,
But you’re the silence I need to concentrate.
How are you going to work with this?
You’re the hands typing away
And I’m the keyboard with a missing key.
Or maybe you’re missing a finger?
What about the deadline?
How is this going to work if you’re missing a finger?
Is this what’s making me the ***?
I might be the biggest obstacle you have,
And baby you’re not one for track and field.
Bring your best revision to the table,
I don’t think you’re saving this piece.
Whether this is a creative block or not,
You’re dealing with a failure to write.
Putting effort into every word that moves your lips
Is something to be rejoiced.
By your will, they were created
And pushed into reality.
To make sense of nonsense spewing
Is a task deemed rare and true.
To tiptoe the line makes others try
To define the space for you.
What are you saying?
What are you trying to say?
Brookyln Nine-Nine flashes across the screen of my laptop
I wonder if this show makes you think about me
Because even the obnoxious theme song reminds me of
That oversized, purple couch I will never sit on again ,
The Christmas tree you hosted in your living room until March,
Or the pictures that your daughter drew, strung up on the wall next to the sign you bought reading
“You Are My Sunshine”
I wonder if you ever bought that gray sectional,
Or put the tree up extra early this year
Or moved that sign to your daughter’s bedroom door
Every cheesy one-liner Andy Samberg says
Leaves the words you left lonely
In the back of my head.
You were right, that night
When I drove south to a familiar nowhere
To see an open door with your lopsided grin.
You were right,
I think I did love you.
I promised myself I would not let the memory of you ruin this television show.
But I find it hard to watch,
I find it hard to think,
I find it hard to know that I must coincide with the inability to know
how you are
or who you are
Rumors tell me about the weight you’ve lost,
And how the speckled gray now covers nearly all of your freshly shaven head.
I know that your skin would not have slowed to wrinkle with mine,
but I cannot help but roam around the unknown of you and I.
Our episodes did not end
With a bittersweet goodbye or a tragic farewell,
The cliffhanger too skewed to draw conclusions from
A forgettable ending to a promising pilot.
We were not a series.
I did not make the finale.
Life is not a network sitcom
I cannot watch the scenes of your life that proceed without me
As much as I want,
Your existence didn’t cease when your credits rolled to me.
And with every memorable scene we did share,
I am thankful that it did not broadcast on NBC.
The voyage is long and tedious,
Teetering on torturous.
Potential promise to a heavenly completion.
Detailed maps closely direct you to your destination.
Smooth sailing is part skill, part chance.
But what happens when the engine blows?
A cracked fuel pipe can be a fatal flaw.
The pace of the ship slows, water slams the sides with life-altering power.
The waters too rocky to stick to the route,
The ship won’t make it
And the maps do not offer alternatives.
Your crew frantically brews around the cabin. Cries of panic and fear fill the space next to tension in the air.
What is stopping you from steering the wheel
Are you preventing a remedy?
Or are you merciful in your manner?
Is the weight of suffering too much to bare?
What if your destiny
Is to sink like the Titanic?
Tragedy is always memorable,
Especially when the ship is young and beautiful.
Your palms skim the ship’s wheel one more time.
Is there any hope left?
When you clock in on time
Or drive the speed limit
Where is the applause when you don’t hurt?
When you reject
That dangerous last drink,
That tempting last bet,
That unbeatable high?
Who is thanking you
That you didn’t choose to die?