Come May. Come what may. The most significant thing today first Monday in May my wife six months pregnant with twins says she’s scared what we’re getting ourselves into. Like the time I moved into an apartment uptown I mean way uptown, Bronx uptown, uptown where I’d never been bomba echoing in the airshaft painted the walls banana yellow and moved out the next day. Lost the deposit. A few months later moved right back to the same neighborhood, stayed a decade. I’m not—scared, that is—but they’re not kicking my insides out, either.
there is a beginning, in that I am sure the ending is out there, right through that door the door may not open, will that be a surprise if you open it early you may meet demise in my honest opinion, the secret is clear keep that door tightly closed and kick life in the rear...
chaos has a silver lining don't be afraid and quit your whining we're all in this, at the very same time we will get through this but it's a tough climb wash your hands, don't touch your face distant yourself and keep the pace the bug won't win if we do what it takes let's kick it's *** and put on it's brakes
This is the story of a tipped tree, Some fish, And two men who hit the streets. They wanted to spread the word About how to keep pets safe. To speak up for those who could Not be heard. They'd knock on the door, Say "hi! We're from PETA! And just like that, they weren't Invited to say anymore. This happened again and again and again. Finally, they agreed "one more. Then that will be the end." They knocked on the door. But this time, no one answered. They knocked again, no answer. They went to the window And what did they see? Baby goldfish in clear ***** of water Hanging off the tree. They looked at each other, and both said "we need to act quick." Luckily, the door was unlocked. No lock to pick. Handling them with care, They got the fish to safety and got Out of there. But before they left, They kicked the tree down in anger. And that's the story of how the tree was knocked over not by a cat, But a stranger.
This was inspired by a prompt to write a poem about why the tree was knocked over.
You confuse karate with love. You punch, kick, and block. You master the form, Practice and practice. You remember the creed. Karate is not love. You don’t kickstart the heart, You can’t block love out, Or punch it into submission.
I confuse love with poetry. I read, write, and dream. I master the edict of the pen, Recite and recite. I remember the sonnets. Poetry is not love. You don’t stanza the heart, You can’t make a metaphor out of love, Or personify it into breathing.
When will we learn? When will you stop kicking Cupid? When will I stop serenading him? When will we stop this silly interpretation of love?