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He gave her
a virginity
no one wanted.

She gave him
a glass slipper
he still cherishes.
True story, August 1983
When the work
is done,
I retire to the garage
to smoke my cannabis,
watch a sitcom rerun
and unwind
as I always do.

I walk to
the front of the house
to check
my daughter's car
to see
if it is locked,
as I always do.

I walk around
the black
2012 Honda Civic
and check the doors
and the windows
as I always do.

Noting this ritual,
as I have done over
100 quarantine days
in a row, I numbly think:

"There is
absolutely nothing special
about this day."

At that moment,
I became conscious
of the purple in the dusk,
the melody in the breeze,
the hopeful laughter of
the children playing
up the street,
the scent of her hair
lingering from an
earlier embrace
and the warmth knowing
all was safe,
calm and bright
for the moment,

and the truth
whispered in my ear:

"Every single thing
about this day
is special."
We Are Stories Nov 2015
I hate the mask I wear
Behind my paper lines,
I hate the mask I wear
And all my un-rhymed rhymes.
I hate the fact that I'm some ghost
Who bleeds black ink onto my white host!
I hate the fact that I harbor my words
To the ships out at sea that all go unheard!
I hate the fact that I am a mess
And all I have left are these words of distress!

I hate that I try to make my self depressed
In order to write a poem that will truly impress!
I hate that I have to sit here everyday
Trying to write my problems away
Only to find
That behind the smeared lines
That I still am battling with my old demons!
That I still am battling with doubt!
Oh I hardly take time to care about the seasons
I just care about the problems I have going on now.

-And even at my best I'm just someone who can't write
And all my poems are a mask for my bloodiest fights
But tonight
I hope someone turns on the lights
And finds my dead corpse rotting off to the side,
I hope that for once it will all be fine
And my heart will stop beating before I start losing my mind-
wes parham Jul 2014
I think about it, *******,
And it leads me to this place.
Teeth all clenched and aching now,
From shouting in your face.

I told you, I ******* hate poetry.

But you poets listen, and then you don't.
You can't, you never will,
Touch me with your sentiments,
Dropped at my windowsill.

******* your muse,  her wells of eyes,
Just **** the ***** and be done.
Stiffen readers with the tale,
But don't count me as one.

Your Dulcinea's sweet and, well,
(She's better than the last…)
You're dying for a future now,
Not living in the past.

For sweet Art's sake, a nest of lies,
The poverty of self,
puts You up high and lost, in shadow,
and Pining, on the shelf.

So speak your mind now, if you must,
Aloud, to no avail.
Your nature blind of clever words,
Is always bound to fail.
I'm fortunate that some of my friends despise poetry but still seem to tolerate me, personally.  One of these wrote to me recently, "WES... I ******* hate poetry...  Make that the title of one of your poems..."

 , I did.       This one is for her.

She will never read it because she cannot abide poetic verse.  
I told her that I'd be sure not to share it with her.  
She replied, "GOOD".  
She's the best.
Read here by the author:*******-hate-poetry

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