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Nineteen candles don't
easily fit, it turns out,
onto one Pop-****.
I miss the way your fingertips
drew circles on my almond skin.
I miss wrapping your hair around
my finger like a phone cord
when I watched you sleep beside
me.

Now that I have your attention…

My issue’s not with the lost loves
but with the ones still holding on.
Because of you, pain is a cliché.
Human emotion has become
redundant. The only thing
that’s #depressing about
your life is how you’ve made
a conscious decision to relive
your “hells” constantly by making
them the focus of your poetry.
I know poetry is a window to the soul, and this is a look into mine recently. I may get a lot of hate for this, but I feel like it has to be said. It's rare that I scroll through the trending poems and favorite any because they're all about missing someone. I get it, people miss people. But there's no originality in how people present it. And I feel badly for those whose ORIGINAL work goes unnoticed. I'd like to think I have a valid point. Maybe I don't. Regardless, this has been on my mind a lot lately.
I'd like to think that we
could unplug our Ethernet
arteries, replace them with
notebook spirals, and still
live long enough to fill
the pages.
Go listen to Watsky's "Tiny Glowing Screens" here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vAqVmUciDSc. It wasn't the direct inspiration for this spur of the moment poem, but it definitely is an amazing track.
Time is money,
and money is power,
and power moves people
who prosper, and flower,
and grow into workers.
And workers bring service.
But service brings customers;
workers get nervous.
And nerves cause anxiety,
panic, and pain,
which cause workers' mistakes,
which, with pride, create shame.
And with shame, all the workers
stay home, never trying
to make something else
of their lives. Never buying
the houses they actually
want. They regret.
And regret causes anger,
and will to forget,
and forgetfulness causes
complacence and silence,
which causes more anger,
which brings about violence,
which leads to destruction,
and passionless death,
and then one lonely worker,
his last lonely breath:

"The world stole my power.
Ain't stealing a crime?"

But power is money.
And money is time.
4.
"Finally," he smiled,
"time to relax." Exhaling,
he pulled the trigger.
I eyed three carnations
that I'd pulled from a bin,
and tied together with a rubber band,
so they wouldn't separate in the car
like his parents did a short month before
the funeral.

My engine grumbled on fittingly
towards a short-term patient
whose death bed
was shaped like a race car.
I'm inclined to take your hand
and pull you from the fire.
God designed a puppet stand
and hung us from a wire.

Set upon a canopy
of green, for dark we wait.
Lips are parted manually
by hands on arms of fate.

Literal and lyrical,
the rules of love are few.
Finding you was spiritual;
my love, I'm coming through.
From a few years ago And although I believe wholeheartedly in stepping away from the past, artistically speaking, I just couldn't not upload this.
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