To me, My words, Are my thoughts. Milk in a pan drifting, Lazily in mexican waves, On tiptoes with fingertips, Stroking the three litre line.
to you my words are the time you blinked and clots of milk swelled into pregnant pufferfishes and a siren hissed incessant incantions you swore fate birthed to hex your mind and a trident foamed at the mouth relishing the theft of nature's permission to shapeshift into a lightening bolt and to zap your stove a blistering white in three times ten to the eight metres per second
I logged into Hello Poetry today after 5 years. Found a whole heap of very bad teenage poetry (too embaressed to keep public). Maybe my poetry is still bad but I'm almost not a teenager anymore.
the owner operator of the poetry site doesn't adhere to his own guideline's rite it states that all members must be polite yet he allowed slurs from the Michigan *****
one clearly recalls what happened on that day a lowlife bloke used the term ***** in an offensive way whereupon the poetess who'd received his nasty comment, left the site's bay she'd not be subject to this derogatory spray
no action taken against the one in the wrong he still remains part of the site's throng an injustice within the owner's weak song the smell of it is unforgettable of reeking pong
would seem that the trash talker (****) does whatever he likes and the webmaster is complicit in the words he trikes
Sitting in a crowded room, everybody has something to say, i try to tell a story but nobody would listen.
At that moment when i try to raise my voice, i just realise that am blocked out. I sit alone in a crowed room and i wonder what my purpose is.
Much of a helper thats all i am, much of a planner thats what i am, so much of a listener and a talker when something needs to be solved, but less than that am blocked out, less than that am invisible. Thats what i am just less than that
When you just realise that people only come to you when they need help, less than that you are unknown.