Mike Bee
Likes a fast read.
The End.

Paul Butters

© PB 1\2\2018 (2).

Why waste time dwelling on stuff?
I mean really think about it.
It's time we enjoy the little things
in life.
Wake up and appreciate everything
and everyone.
Even if it's the simple drinking of
magnificent water.

I want to be like Mount Saint Helens,
Strong and firm, quaking every couple years in the faces of the helpless.
I want to make newspaper headlines and magazine articles for being fearless and tall,
Sputtering and spewing at those who've wronged me.
I want to be the conquest men dare try,
Out of fear of being swallowed whole.
The deadly concoction of pure beauty and viciousness,
Threatening those who taunt from below.
Unpredictable and dangerously violent,
They still will want my picture and tell their children of me,
Mount Saint Helens glory will never fade,
For her might is much to strong for the common man.
But I,
I will keep on,
I will conquer and cast my plight willingly
And when they see me, they will tremble because they will know of my unpredictability and daunting grace.
A deadly concoction,
That Mount Saint Helens might find idyllic.

You can't love a poet.
Even though, you feel flattered by my witty one liners,
And my charming stanzas, you can't love a poet.
I will write the good and the bad and you won't like it.
You won't like my version of the fight
And you'll like my metaphors even less.
It will drive you crazy and you will tell your friends,
"She's obsessed".
I can't help the memories that stick like glue, imprinted on my brain
And I can't stop feeling the words exchanged 3 Sunday's ago that you forgot as soon as they left your mouth.
I will relive and reread until the end of my days and inevitably you will leave,
because you can't love a poet.
You can't love someone who will publish your intimacy and print your passion.

snow babies wait amongst the white of december,
cradling their iced-over hearts between cold glass panes;
two dozen of us with eyes glued on the outside,
just counting snowflakes and how many shivers run down our spines.
cold bones shatter the way we wait beneath icicles to drop from the roof,
and we know it's roulette,
but we take our chances and bets on the weather,
odds and ends of inches of snow.
to pass the time after angels dressed in white,
and searing cast iron tattoos,
we wait.
you all prefer the other seasons;
not the quiet that comes with ours,
but you too,
will wait to see;
will watch white fall from the sky
because our storm is just beginning.

I wish I could write things with meaning
With piercing words and breathtaking diction.
I wish that I could give all that I was thinking through words and art,
But everything I want to express is cut short
Broken down or unclean.
I want people to feel things when they read,
When they live I want my thoughts
In the back of their heads
Influencing their own ideas.
I want those feelings to inspire others
To express themselves through my words.
It's always been a dream.
And a far-fetched one at that.

i wear glasses
but i cannot see.

the world is filtered
beyond our windows
showing us the false
and hiding the truth.

look further
past the news
past the people
and truly look at
what has happened
to our world.

and then come back.
look deep inside
and find out
what has happened
to you.

Remember, my dear,
Even the sunshine will return to its darkness

i want to write something people can resonate with.
for most of my life, i spent hours in book that i cried with or laughed to.
but now it is my turn.
i want to write for the ones with swollen hearts that are full of love,
i want to write something for the kids who were never enough,
for those spend hours sitting in the shower because the water frowns out the sounds of their tears,
i want to write something for the ones who have spent nights upon nights dreaming of ways to leave this world,
i want to write something for those finding bliss in baggies and hope in a pill
for the children who have found companionship in literary hero’s,
for the ones who twist words and rhymes,
the ones who for countless hours have manipulated vowel sounds and consonant endings.
i want to write for the ones who still believe in the magic of pixie dust,
for the ones who’s pixie dust only lives in hard bound books and in aisles of forgotten book stores.
i want to write something for those who appreciate the weird and find comfort in the uncommon.
i want to write for those fighting every day for that loaf of bread in the grocery store.
i want to write something people can resonate with.
because i’ve been there
so here it is,
here’s to you.