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Emma Ottinger Jun 2018
She says she doesn’t have the strength within herself to write poetry.
Yes, her. The one who so often nourished me with song
til my soul began to learn how to hunt for itself,
whose word carried weight in leading me to pick my own instrument,
albeit one of a different tone,
as the key in keyboard became prominent for the first time
and the sound of purposeful fingers upon it could be considered,
only in the right light,
synonymous to the plucking of strings, just as rooted in emotion.

Yet she's the first to say that she herself can't do it.

Thing is, I suppose we’re politely at odds on the matter.
She favors poetry that’s sharper, with a cleaner cut,
that’s message is immediate and jarring
as a conduit running from soul through skin,
or a loose-lipped diary finally freed from lock and key.
And when she declared it, I started to consider what my poems seem to me:
Blackberry bushes (but kinder, I hope)
that snag and immerse just long enough
to make me feel I’ve had an effect.
I’ve used writing to expel my most gnarled feelings
to any passerby who’s maybe felt the same.
Like crying in a mirror:
alarming, but oddly refreshing,
and an indefinite reminder that our aches are never only our own.

Still, I'm not sure why it blows my mind
to hear that even the most glamorous hearts,
who wear confidence as a summer breeze that's always in their favor
and who inspire, from beau gestures to sleight of hand,
are included in those who find themselves pacing back, back and forth,
begging curbside at the dime store
for a scrap of the same feed that convinces a heart to pump ink.

But she says that any art that's enjoyed is worth it.
So while she seeks out words that bare the bones,
I’ll stay and make a meal of the marrow,
hollowing them so that the poetry may have a rightful place
to reverberate as hymns in a universal monastery.

But hell, like I’m any old soul.
I dress nicer than I otherwise would,
turn to the mother who told me I don’t meet her lowest standards,
and ask for a critique.
All for the moment when she greets me at the door with a legendary G#.

...Now please, could you spare a dime?
Dedicated to Elise, who, when faced with my tangled mouthful of flattery, somehow saw through to the part of me that’s actually worth a ****.
SimpleWritings  Dec 2018
choices
SimpleWritings Dec 2018
one of the hardest things in life
is to simply accept someone
for who they are

one of the easiest things in life
is to strongly hate them
for not being able to change

choosing the hard one
will help you grow

choosing the easy one
will help you destroy

but what if accepting someone
for who they are means loving them
more than loving yourself?

what if accepting someone
for who they are means accepting
violent hellos and condescending goodbyes?

06/06/2011
My friend has a baby and she's crying on the phone
She called me up in the park sitting all alone
Telling me about her problems as I'm writing this poem
Not every family show love to their child yet we still complain
About not having everything we wanted we can't relate the pain
A young girl thought her family loved her then a baby came
The baby smiled when he notice the family but don't feel the change
He's too young to understand life as things evolve it's never the same
Now the young girl became a young mother and her mother is ashamed
The young mother has a lot on her brain her son, the struggle, and a lot of blame
Life seems to get heavy if you can't release the stress
If you decide to commit suicide then you failed the test
The young mother is planning to leave with her baby from the nest
Everyday she's talked down in ways i didn't believe
Her mother told her the life she's living now she wont achieve
The things the young mother told me now I see why she has to leave
——————————— 
Since I'm a good friend like no other I actually care
I pushed my problems to the side and told her I'll be there
She never cried on the phone with me before so I had to go
I washed up, put my clothes on, and walked out the door
We chilled, We talked, We Walked back and forth
She took me on a journey of her life from then to now
I don't know how she could still breath...the pain she allowed
A strong young woman with a beautiful son....
 
Aaron Osgood
I wrote this for a friend in the 2010. Then she realized she was pregnant and sometimes family don’t agree. I have not spoken to her in a while.

This was copied from fb page.
Crow Mar 15
professor Burke and professor Lee
two mathematicians who could not agree

loudly voiced their differences at half past noon
having daily lunch at the Greasy Spoon

the subject on the fateful day was Pi
and they could not see eye to eye

a disagreement on the thousandth digit
had Burke turn red and caused Lee to fidget

said Burke “No you are off by one!”
spat Lee “Your math is poorly done!”

Burke shouted, “Lee, you have gone too far!”
reached toward the counter for a candy jar

but his hand instead encountered pie
a hideous gleam sprang to his eye

he flung the pie with all his might
hit Lee full face, eyes wide with fright

but Lee recovered and found more pies
Boston Creme took Burke between the eyes

apple, custard, lemon, berry
pecan, pumpkin, key lime, cherry

pies of every kind were thrown
plates' radius squared remained unknown

the police arrived to break up the fray
took the two meringued men away

many hours later in the quiet cell
with pie for ink and tempers quelled

the two stood looking at the wall
upon which lay their equation scrawled

said Burke, with both their faces long
“Well, what do you know. We both were wrong.”
In honor of Pi Day. With gratitude to Mr. Laurel and Mr. Hardy.
I welcome dissent,
Disagreement is vital,
To democracy.

Personal attacks,
Are also acceptable,
When grounded in truth.

Malicious attacks,
Are launched by liars to hide,
Inconvenient truths.

We must condemn lies,
Used to defame good people,
With differing views.
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