Incorrigible hoarder of the useless and perishables
Fridge full of forgotten decay and unfinishing leftovers
A comforting illusion of plenty and unending riches
To which she nibble away, always leaving behind ten percent

Here at Yale University we’re encouraged to attend these campus “get togethers” - to meet other students and broaden our circles. Some are about interesting subjects like politics or science and sometimes you get to meet famous people.

Others are concerned with less interesting subjects - like the bewildering aspects of philosophy: “Would you **** baby ****** if you had the chance - and if so - could you do it with a gun? Shoot a baby to stop world war two? What if you didn’t HAVE a gun, could you find it in yourself to use your bare hands?”

“Well,” I say, giving it some serious consideration - just to show that I’m as philosophical as the next girl - “if I had BEAR hands, couldn’t I claw him to death?”

A garden trowel in a patch of irradiated weeds

An odometer in an endless maze of MickeyD's

An encyclopedia in a pawn shop full of tweakers

A love song on a boombox with broken speakers

May I present several examples of useless things with nothing to do

Now if you think those're bad, you should see what I'm like...

Extravagant parties and luscious life...
Everybody's in disguise
of a simple man and kind,
Who runs away to find
Himself; in a very small village.

He will reform, redirect and redesign,
Only to see his neighbors sigh;
Who is this new man who thinks
That suddenly he won't pour drinks?

Onegin was bored, both here, and back home,
But it seems he doesn't want to be alone,
He fools around with a lovely young girl,
Who cares for Lensky, for whom she's a pearl.

There was an enthusiast, a calm yet wild soul,
She read and she wrote, played a different role
Than Onegin would've expected; a letter she signed,
And with her pen, she painted what she had in mind.

Yet those, who are nonchalant and fairly useless,
Will not count the hours that were spent being thought about them.
That's how Onegin lived his life and after 8 long years,
He finally loved, but then, he went by.

there was something i wanted write
some thing i wanted to make right
but in the end, i lost sight
and moved on

there were many things i wished to do
many a thing that would've borne fruit
but nearer the finish, my light grew dimmish
so i moved on

you told me there was never
an answer to the question "forever"
but death knows different
because we move on

and there is no trying now
no sense in staving off the dying, anyhow
a distance merchant comes to pick up his purchase
of a bid you can't out

last night her sleep was measured on steel,
****** down without a drop wasted.

we were spoons ‘til her limbs stilled -
tears spilled, found their way to my pillow.

I don’t know why I cry - if tears did help
she’d feel better by now.

A wall of doublethink
denies my hands,
wrapped and bound
by wordy chains
I bend to their demands.
Look; the questions on my knuckles,
phrases down my fingers.
These second-thoughts like shining buckles,
locked tight; words left to linger.
In haunted glass I watch your decent,
unable to reach out;
wishing words could extricate,
but gagged am I by cruel doubt.

the use of being useless
is it’s easy to progress

- aim up