she likes a little bitterness in her food
a little hunger in her kisses
a little sweetness in her tears
a little irony in her wishes

give her flowers in the street
and post Novembers on her walls
write her playlists to sleep to
and run with her when rain falls

walk the long road with her
as cruel as it may be
she will warm you to her very last--
if you would share her story.

Why's it so hard to write a ten word poem?

Today at a library I spoke to Jim. Such a pleasant 82year old gentleman born on the Isle of Man. As I got to know him a bit more, I found out that he hasn't spoken to a single person in 3weeks! He did mention saying hi or hello to people you normally greet, but nobody wanted to take it from there and spend the time of their day just talking. We spent chatting roughly 20 minutes and every now and then he would almost feel uncomfortable having me around, asking if he wasn't "wasting" my time.
It saddens and angers me, that at an age where everyone feels so connected, we have grown so detached and so distant from each other, even from ourselves. Even our own friends, our own parents and relatives, let alone strangers. We avoid being vulnerable with each other. We project what we think would gather more likes or more acceptance from the society. But by doing so, we are undoing the very basic of the basics. Connection. We are ashamed and embarrassed to project vulnerability.
It all starts with a simple hello. Outside.

.
Lear wanders in stormy open, bares warring elements,
The heavens blister, crackle, night is balmy shroud,
Wretched monarch babbles in sprinkles of wind cold,
Arguments lost by ones own pouring perturbations
And raining sky said 'nothing will come from nothing.'

Howl, howls into blackness treed in lightning splits,
His outcast soul, reels, fleshed, cut to smithereens,
Tang of salt burns on the bluffs and the sea rages,
So entire and ceremonious is Lear's fall meted out,
Air spoke, 'nothing from nothings ever yet was born.'

Sky proclaimed to man child King, here is a reckoning,                                    
Each mad choice was self infliction, now wind flays
And sweet Cordelia lies in her innocent **** grave,
Sky, in thralls of thundering asks, 'what say thee now,
King of highborn follies, even purple heaths are rags,

Yet black and above you and night shades, whine,
Unworthy King, done in by compounded effects,
The might of maelstroms in low butterflies wings,
How now, bare trees, knifing reeds, skeletal flashes,
To rains of night are ever your lanyards my lord,'

Sad Lear so near oblivion fell mute, sky went on,
'Howl and cry mad King your reaper calls beyond,
The icy brisk heavens await to brusque you away,
Your slipshod kingdom was mere and fools' dream,
Howl, til howls abrupt abate, for nothing now comes.'

My mother lost her oldest brother to
a car accident
that didn't mix well with liquor
and on the way to his funeral, she ran
two red lights.

I think I am in love with
the way your words
mean nothing when you
say them.
I must be in love with
the empty promises
that spill off your lips
like poisoned wine.
The only logical explanation
is that I am in love with the
way you kiss other girls
like I'm not standing right
there beside you.
That must be it.
Why else would I have
stayed this long?