Huddled, strained, with craned necks to the board,
They wish for that missing number,
The hope they wait upon—
The launchpad to their homes.

Puzzled, drained, enraged—the muttered sounds.
They miss that sudden cue,
The rush to be the one;
That fearful scrum of drones.

Tom Lefort

Egoism kills, I read, when walking.
I continued, strolling ahead and talking
to myself. I assured me I was fine,
the problem 'egoism' wasn't mine.

At home, cozy, dropping kisses
to the missus
and the kids, amidst I stopped, I questioned
myself
and told them I had come up with a plan.
Do if you're strong and respect those who
do whatever they can

to spread the charisma of care-ism, a
way to think of the others and ****
egoism.

The Pain of Love
by Michael R. Burch

for T. M.

The pain of love is this:
the parting after the kiss;

the train steaming from the station
whistling abnegation;

each interstate’s bleak white bar
that vanishes under your car;

every hour and flower and friend
that cannot be saved in the end;

dear things of immeasurable cost ...
now all irretrievably lost.

Note: The title “The Pain of Love” was suggested by an interview with Little Richard, then eighty years old, in Rolling Stone. He said that someone should create a song called “The Pain of Love.” I have always found the departure platforms of railway stations and the vanishing broken white bars of highway dividing lines to be terribly depressing. Keywords/Tags: pain, love, parting, kiss, train, whistle, departure, platform, interstate, dividing, line, hour, flower, friend, lost, cost

wanting a huge stage
to display her excellence
for all the world's eyes

alas she cried
on getting a tiny platform
not too grand of size

Backwards, like a sign that's hard to read. Like a leather jacket that's too stiff in the arms but 2 years off the rack. And then the heart explodes in the esophagus. Pieces of young trust comes out all over what the eyes can see, and each body part wants to go back to their respective bed nestling areas. Sometimes, even this little me gets nervous about being vulnerable. You can only burn the velveteen rabbit once.

These are the monkeys of my throat and the dinosaurs that tend to my fingertips. My skin gets leathery before it feels like silk. I don't smell like a motorcycle or sound like the fast lane but I'm not sure if I want to yet. I'm happier not waiting to randomly be reminded of the pain, it's much better to chase down those hydrogen bombs while the cattle **** is still hot and fire-red. Two served and five Peanuts left for playtime. I rather enjoy being a vampire.

Dedication to hello poetry..
Feel your emotions,
Live true your passions,
I will give My whole life to you
I believe that you're my talent station
To you I offer every best of my letters
I believe that you will value it.

I want to share my whole of my creativity with you,
For me to show that my talent is true
I want to hold you in my words
And show to everyone here is also a new life.                  
what a beautiful life is this....to be continued...

I am not meant to be, where I yam, what I yam
Unless life like spinach, is meant to be canned,
A failure by all reports, I have no retort,

Not one, n o response, my previous successes
lead me to believe, that "what have you done
lately" does not deceive, fills the beast, technology,

That leads me to my breaking point,
Rogue wave, out of the deep blue see,
If I were a martyr, that might be true,

But I am nothing more, than a man
with a love for words and I play with
sounds, really adore what they do;

with my mind,
with my heart,
preventing stagnation,
of my imagination.

Ah, the breaking point
not the tip of a coast,
where land ends,
              and bends open water
to new possibilities.

We all have at least one
In our life, in our career, in our day
Weakness, faint of heart,... No Way,

Even the oceans, and their waves,
As those waves come to shore,
On breakwater's and beaches

Break! but do not dull the ocean's roar.