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there are emojis for everything.
Emojis for that,
               emojis for this.
Emojis for bro,
              emojis for sis.
Emojis of dogs,
             emojis of cats.
Emojis wearing scarfs,
                       emojis wearing hats.
But please don't forget about words.
Only use kind one,
not ones that hurt.
Katherine Jan 14
You want to make something beautiful.
You try on your many hats-
Can you make art that stirs hearts to syncopated fluid intake?
Can you sing songs that lift the diaphragm?
Can you move in a dance that will bring your audience’s tear ducts to full production?
But you are not good at those things.
And you are not patient- here’s where it gets difficult.
You are not patient, so you move on.
You pull more hats from the closet.
You want to make something beautiful, so you save lives
In safety features for automated factories,
In the stitch of a needle through shredded flesh,
In the measure of a brace in a new office building
But you are too good at those things.
You want to feel like you’ve made something beautiful
Not just looking back, but as you make it
The stroke of a brush forming the curve of a lover’s cheek
The curl of the final bracket in a series of nested loops
The flex of your shoulderblades and press into the pillows
Everyone wants to make something beautiful,
In blood, in sweat, in paint
In lyric and code, in ink and tears
They want to have made something extraordinary by the time they die
So they can say they did, so it wasn’t a waste, so it just
So it was, and is, and could be forever.
I wear many hats
i switch them up
Turn them
I wear the hat
that presents me
as the person i am
in the moment

But how do I wear so many different hats?
how can i be such a

Do I Even Have A Personality?
Or AM I jusT a BundLe of PaRts?

Interchangeable pieces,
No defined course of action

am i even a person?

or just a reflection of who i think i should be?
aM I Me? oR Am I jUsT a SheLL of wHaT MADe mE?
advertising pays
very well
if you've an excellent
product to sell

you won't believe
the turn over you'll obtain
when posting an ad
on your pages plain

advertising is where its at
on letting the public know
about a bowler hat
Marks and Spencer
have the latest range
on their London stores
display mat

were it not for free to air television
and billboards on the street
we'd be unaware of an Aspire brand
of cotton sheet

advertising reaches
potential customers
looking for wares
who'll be wanting
to purchase
a variety of hares
ollie Oct 2017
I look out of place
Like a piece from another puzzle that they crammed into this one
But that's essentially what they did
A vision of ecstasy under my lid
But I had such a blinding capacity for love that I fell to it
I fell hard
And I fell too **** fast
I fell like you fall on a rollercoaster
When you’re filled with anxiety
And you plummet
Sometimes you put your hands up
Sometimes you don’t
But you’re always worried about your ring flying off
I was worried about falling out
Falling out platonically
Cause nobody ever wanted to fall in love with me
I guess I thought that was okay
But I fell to the capacity
I had the audacity to love everyone I met
Yet get so upset if they hurt me
I’ve always been a different puzzle piece
But I fit a different puzzle
Shoved in
Not belonging in the middle
But that’s where they put me
A single piece of black in a pulsing field of of white
The bit that said goodnight while the rest couldn’t shut up and get some rest themselves
But I was a vision of ecstasy when I fell
I was disheveled
And gone
And I plummeted
I imagine my feet flying
As if I jumped
If I fall, it’ll be from high places
People always tell me I’m going to do great things
I wish they’d stop
I don’t want to expect to do them without deserving them
I have nothing I have the influence to change
Maybe I love too much
Will I live to 16
Am I just living to live
To give
Maybe just to the one with all the secrets
Who I mention too much
But only because I love them
Like I love everything else
People call me adorable
Or cute
I stand to believe those are words you describe a puppy or a kitten with
So what qualities do I have that make me like that
Do I smile weird
Is it my eyes
How can I a human light up a room
With the clothes I wear, I know I can’t
Sometimes I think of my head as a galaxy
And I try to connect the constellations
But my mouth doesn’t move fast enough
And neither do my hands
And I can’t share all of what goes on up there
I talk too much
I have way too many questions
I’m always second guessing myself
And I’m bad at writing
“Is there pity for the plain girl”
I don’t know if I’m the plain girl anymore
Like plain old Jane
Someday I want to sail across the sun
Maybe it’s like a river
Or maybe it is so blindingly hot that it blocks out the constellations of my mind
But I’ll sail it all the same
Even if my boat breaks up
I collect small figures and keep them on my nightstand
3 of them are bobbleheads with stands
I don’t know why
the first few lines of this popped into my head once and wouldn’t leave until I wrote them down. It was ****** annoying. I felt like expanding on the idea.
Viseract Nov 2016
Bright blue skies and country roads,
Dust trails billowing behind the distant rumble of a 4x4
Gravel crunching, stones skipping
Sweat on his forehead and barley in his mouth,
Broad-brim hat clapped on his head
Dusty jeans and boots,
Checked red shirt and plain sandy dirt

This is the image of Australians
...and is somewhat arguable, but whenever someone mentions Australian stereotypes I instantly think of the "working" Australian and not the "bogan" aussie
Andrew T Aug 2016
Each night, indigo blue smoke bloomed from the candle sitting on the patio table while the tall brown-eyed girl spat chewing tobacco into a Styrofoam cup leaning forward with her elbows on the porch railing, watching the black birds pick apart a chicken bone as they teeter tottered across a sable telephone cable. Her name was Candace and she wore a backwards baseball cap, that belonged to her brother Joshua. He had died from a brain aneurysm last year.

She always would tread her fingers around the wide brim of the blue cap, close her eyes and remember how her brother use to take her
to softball practice back when she was in elementary school, driving
her around in his lime green Mitsubishi GT 3000, with the windows down,  and Pink Floyd percolating from the soothing speakers built
into the dashboard. After Joshua had died, Candace dropped out of Mary Washington. She found a job at Movie Theater down the street from the baseball diamond, working at behind the register, arms propped on the countertop, wishing that she had tried out for the club softball team at college. When her shift would end
she’d go back home and sleep in until midafternoon. Then she’d wake up and march over to the library to read the picture books while snuggling  on the lumpy couch with the plump giraffes and short elephants, the toy animals with the holes on the bottom of
their rear ends where the stuffing would roll out whenever she’d squeeze their heads.

One rainy day she strolled to the lake and stole a rowboat from the wooden dock. Dipping the plastic oar into the calm current, she paddled through the blue water, yawning, stuck in her daydreams about winning that soft ball championship back when she was ten years old, and after the game her brother had bought her a fudge brownie sundae
and a strawberry milkshake, with a ****** cherry sunk in the whipped cream.  The night grew darker, as her memories turned more emotional. So she  came back to shore, tied the rowboat back to the dock with looping a knot around the nook with a thick rope cord. Then she went back to her apartment house and
crashed on the couch, the blue baseball cap falling onto the floor.

When she woke up from her nap she put her cap back on her head, and
went out on the porch, lit a cigarette, then gazed out at the shining moon
suspended in the clouded sky. She reached out with her arm, her fingers stretched.

The depths of Joshua’s soul lay beyond her touch, and she knew it.
She grounded out the cigarette, went upstairs to her bedroom, shut the door. And then she cried, cried until the hot tears turned icy with the pain, that was wracking her heart with an emotion that staggered like Joshua had when he was in the kitchen that one day, swaying back and forth. Dropping

to the tiled floor, blood running out his nose like a baseball player
stealing home. Then the memory dissipated from her mind, as if it never
come to fruition in the first place. She took off her blue baseball cap.

She held it in her hands. She clutched the wide brim and treaded her fingers around the stitching, wondering why Joshua had to leave her life.

And why she couldn’t let go of this baseball cap.
Jillian Jesser Dec 2015
It's hard to meet new people
they're so foreign
they do things like wear hats
and play baseball
they listen to bad music
they like crossword puzzles
I don't like to hear them talk
      at night
when I get very cold
and sometimes it hurts to breathe
I'd like one of them next to me
or I'd like to hear them talk
anything to make me warm again
I can't have it all
but sometimes
I want it.
Ethan Moon Apr 2015
Under the bridge
Pills, muscle & back relief
Cigarettes, mirror pond pale ale
Sail away from consciousness
**** slowly
Socials Studies 10 homework
Conflicted cultures, transient economy
Fur hats
Exploration, exploitation, for
Fur hats!
Litter, candy wrapper
What are you underneath that pretty shell?
Hard heart
Soft heart
Lost hope, failed system
Still the stream runs on, runs away
A steady hum, a constant purr
One day the stream will dry
And be forgotten, swept away into
Our memories, our ghosts
Numbed by the sound of water
Vanishes in time's cascade
Like pioneers and their fur hats.
A poem about the garbage I found under the bridge.
J M Surgent Aug 2014
When we come here
We come here to dream,
To live wealthy seaside fantasies
Until it's time to leave.
We hang our hats by the door,
And exchange our dreams for reality
Holding dearly to our memories
To keep us working, endlessly
Until our next retreat.
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