#80
i asked you to save me for eighty,
but i’m looking at the calendar today and realizing
it was never actually about you.
i was just counting the weeks it took
to build a fortress out of my own wreckage.
today is the eighty.
and the math doesn't feel like a physical weight anymore—
it feels like an acquittal.
i spent two years watching boys like you
fumble through the easy mechanics of consumption.
i watched you reach for the cookies, the unwrapped things,
the girls who treat your own dignity like a punchline
because you were too lazy to peel something real,
too terrified of a conversation that requires you
to actually stand behind your words.
you chose the convenient layout because you couldn't handle
the heavy, jagged prose of a girl who demands substance.
but the house has divided,
and i’m not looking at your side of the floor anymore.
i spent my first winter in a black-and-white pantsuit,
learning that the room is full of hollow fronts.
i learned that there are no inherently good people,
only beautiful, desperate actions we choose to take.
that i can only bleed so much onto someone else’s legal pad
before my own rounds start running dry.
i spent my first spring retreating into the static,
learning that when the world get too loud, i shut down.
i learned to bury my head in the music,
i learned that i give too many chances,
and that instead of fearing the gavel,
i could become the force behind it.
i spent this winter learning that the fear in my chest
is just an echo of a round i already finished.
i learned that when i care— i care deeply.
but that not everyone deserves a seat in my chamber.
if i have to choose myself first,
and second, and third, and a hundred times over,
it’s just reclaiming the keys to a kingdom i almost gave away.
i spent this spring tracing the outline of my own shadow.
i looked back through the ledger of every season i survived,
and in the process of auditing the wreckage,
i finally stumbled into my own core.
the girl you met in that black-and-white suit
was just playing at being grown.
she stood at a plastic podium, arguing amendments,
believing that passing a mock bill could change the world.
she thought authority came from a title and a clean ballot.
i know now that the chamber can't save anyone.
the mock bills don't fix the broken things outside the glass.
but i can.
i change the world one real, messy action at a time.
i change it in the margins, where the spotlight doesn't reach.
it’s in one honest poem left on a classroom wall.
it’s in one midnight letter sent to a boy who was drowning in his own silence.
it’s in the quiet choices to stay real when everyone else is putting up fronts.
all my little, insignificant motions on the floor—
they add up to something heavy.
it’s funny, isn't it? i used to check the room
to see if i was allowed to breathe— now i just do it.
i fake the confidence until the brass feels warm in my palm.
i am flawed, and i am angry, and i am sad—
but i am the one holding the ballot.
i used to think the way i felt things was a liability.
i spent years trying to harden the ink,
trying to make my chest as clinical as the air in the chamber.
but i was wrong.
my empathy isn't a weakness.
it is the asset that lets me see the people who are actually hurting,
the ones who look up to the podium and just need someone to be strong.
and the people who matter?
they don't leave the argument on read.
they don't show up only when the speaker points are convenient.
they show up with hands ready to carry the weight they promised.
they are the ones who write poetry into the margins of your life,
the ones who look up at you and make you want to be stronger,
the ones who believe in your solvency because their actions prove it,
even when the ink bleeds.
even the ones you didn't think were watching.
let the critics dissect the cross-examination.
i am letting go of the things beyond my control,
reclaiming my jurisdiction,
and embracing the linear regression of my own healing.
so enjoy your crumbs and your second-hand sugar.
i’m looking in the mirror today,
and for the first time,
the girl looking back at me is whole.
she doesn't need you to save her an orange.
she’s already eating it.
May 16
May 16, 2026 at 11:34 AM UTC
off loaded myself into a momentary pause,
of quiet reflection, errands dome, now we
wait for our Sunday guests, who come in
all, sizes, ages, a potpourri of friends and
relatable~relatives, but not till noon, and
the nyc marathon will inevitable delay their
celebrated arrival
speak to you in comfortable tones, comforting,
those who just happen to be alone, think of
this as your invitation to join us please, in deeds,
indeed, you are more than welcome, as honored
poet~guests, with sig. others, and any four legged
pets
included.
it’s chilly in nyc today, an excellent forecast for the
runners, who are roundly cheered as a tribute to
their work ethic, of body prep, and endurance mental,
to get ready for this trial by time & distance
so couch~hound, me, just letting my hair down,
and happy to share this timeout from the onerous,
the pile of papers that demanded my attention
at least two weeks ago…but I say, no matter, no
matter me, this is just a poet, who knows that when
the head doesn’t demand an ecrivez, you gotta
ecrivez anyway, because listening to your heart
is always good, and I even hear your hearts too,
because
hear is 80% of heart,
and that my dears
ain’t no accident …
fin. <nml>
postscript
————-
hear/heart = 4/5 = 80%
and unintentionally my smile goes all whimsical, go “figure”
Nov 2, 2025
Nov 2, 2025 at 10:56 AM UTC
No one,
Has ever said,
They trusted me,
Loved me,
And cared for me.
That they've been trough it all,
And wanted to make sure I'm okay.
_But you did._
Jun 5, 2019
Jun 5, 2019 at 2:45 PM UTC
i am nothing if
not just my mistakes,
with bones.
i will wear a cheap suit
to your dinner party
and hit on your wife
by accident.
sorry.
im just so tired of pretending
id rather just be.
Confident
Sad.
Arrogant.
Alone.
when you are those things
you just are.
and when you want to be
youre just toxic.
i am green.
with poison and absence
of anything someone would call
normal life experience.
i cant tell *** from tequila
but i will drink them both
if offered.
i thought i found
heaven on the queensway,
it was really just a cable boy,
who wants to make music.
Sep 8, 2018
Sep 8, 2018 at 6:57 PM UTC
Phileas Fogg,
On a brigantine sledge,
Braved the Omaha wind
As it twirled.
So, Jules Verne might say
That a full eighty days
Is plenty to travel the world.
Amelia Earhart
Crossed the sea –
The quickliest feat
…For a girl –
In twelve hundred forty
Short minutes, you know:
Others failed, but gave it a whirl.
Rosemary Doyle,
Our wonderful mum,
Exceeded these
Feats of grand scale!
She has crossed oceans faster,
Breezed over Great Plains,
And – without perspiration – prevailed!
Carefully, casually,
She raised five kids:
‘Neath our burden
She never collapsed.
Loving and giving
Us lives we are living.
Have there – really – eight decades elapsed?
Octogenarian?
Silliest word:
It sounds like
A sea creature’s vet,
But if you want true fun,
Then just orbit the sun
Eighty times, like our mom: It’s no sweat!
© 2Mar2018 DracoTalpus
For Rosemary N. Doyle
On the occasion of her 80th birthday
Mar 3, 2018
Mar 3, 2018 at 6:35 PM UTC
Red, dark and light, apples,
They sell it for Rupees 80 a kg,
Available sans the ripples,
But sans bargaining not so easy.
Even the grapes, delicious,
They sell it for Rupees 80 a kg,
Appears to be so luscious,
There're many other fruits here.
Apr 17, 2017
Apr 17, 2017 at 9:56 AM UTC
Narcoleptic storyteller living the dream; it's a ******* nightmare.
Dark eclectic gory hell or giving up steam; watered luck is right there.
Appear today; drawn tomorrow
I could tell which words you borrow
Inconvenienced shades of gray
Eighty shades of sorrow weigh
today, which way to say,
I will stay here when you stray hear
they may play fear, bray they pay dear
Ever listen on to bold tomorrows.
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 5:01 AM UTC