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CupcakesArePink Sep 2020
i was like mustard, you said
a nice shade of yellow
a complimentary condiment to you

the spice you wanted in your life
but you wanted only a little bit of me
because a lot of me was too much for you

and you decided then and there
as you walked away in the vast kitchen
that i was too much for you
too much mustard, he mumbled.
I wasn't nice to my mother
My mother was a lonely woman
Daughter of a farmer
who I think I heard
Used to touch kids
Wife of many
Who beat her
Spat on her face and
Tore her soul off her
And she was a mother to me 

Sometime just before
my teens
She made me
a sandwich
to take to school
With a little
too much
Mustard in it

I took a bite
during my lunch break
And the sharp and sickening
of the mustard
Made me sick

I took the sandwich
back home
And shouted at her
Asking why
she would put
so much mustard
in my sandwich

"Is it not nice? I thought you'd like it"
she said
"I like mustard
I'll eat it"

I had never seen
someone look so heart broken
Eating what they like
She was dressed in mustard,
on a tall golden chair
She sat before clean,
crisp and clear silverware
around her, nothing mattered
not even the polluted air
she left, nobody noticed
they ask "was she even there"

b e mccomb Jul 2016
Once in awhile
I feel inclined
To stay up all night
Writing stanzas like this.

And having drunk three
Shimmering tumblerfulls of
Self-doubting coffee
The prospect seems alive.

The longer I stay
The sooner I can
Reinvent myself.

My body is
And so is my

And I'm beginning to see
Where I went wrong
In this world where I
Raised myself to be right.

However, if I stay awake
One cannot forget the issue of
Filled notebooks, attractive men
And tomorrow's frosted gaze.

Perhaps I will shower in
Whole-grain mustard at three a.m.
Copyright 5/8/15 by B. E. McComb
Steve May 2016
A Scotsman and his bonnie lassie
Feeling fit and rather sassie
Went out one day to climb a hill
The views up there were bound to thrill
When a wind blew round the poor man's kilt
The lassies head did quickly tilt
Trying hard to calculate
As he struggled there upon yon gate
"My, my *****" she smugly blustered
"I've brought a sandwich and I see you've got the mustard."
Hannah Jo Jun 2015
Everything is made up of the tiniest particles and if you think about it,
we're not that big compared to a lot of things out there in the universe and
I don't know about you, but sometimes I feel everything crashing down on top of me,
I feel the weight of being such a tiny speck in such a great big world closing in around me and straining my very bones and when you get to the point of lying lifeless on your bedroom floor or screaming and cursing at the moon with every breath stored up in your little lungs, you start to think you could never feel much worse but I'll tell you something: there is something small but great
inside your very core and just a little Faith, it doesn't have to be any bigger than a mustard seed,
well that can go a long way and if you look hard enough, if you really try,
Darling find that God Atom inside of you; I promise you'll get by.
This one is for every little broken heart smashed by someone they looked at like they were a whole world. This is for every boy and girl who feel like they’ll just get hurt if they ever speak an honest word. This is a poem for every loved one of mine who has had one too many hard times. This is for the girls who know what it’s like to be grabbed forcefully and shaken. Who’ve had electric fear forced into their frail little bones, and the flower of their soul taken. This is for the boys who had their hearts stolen in one faraway glance, never to be seen again. This is for the children who crave constantly for parental approval but can’t ever seem to win. And not most importantly, but importantly, this is for me; oh God, help me find my way home again.
Lenore Lux Jan 2015
There's so much about the way leaves look.
Under light.
Wet with rain.
I seize up.
Of service.
Rush into.
My safe space.
For all I've hardened is just a front.
La Mer Sep 2014
Creaming leaves, dripping
off her spiderweb branches
as we eat dinner under the mustard sun,
I feel her nervous as I eat slowly, she glances
at my spiderweb branches and grabs my web.
She spins her prey in my web and moves it slowly
down, among her roots, where I feel gnarled and leafless.
My autumn colors have vanished in her winter
frozen stems, frozen in time, I stare into her
mustard reflected eyes.
Derick Smith Sep 2014
Between her and our
Almighty Beloved,
this mustard seed faith
grows as the willow.

— The End —