#envelopes
it appears
the glue strip
on every one
of the envelopes
in my desk drawer
hoarded months ago
and rarely used
no longer sticks
even when licked
if i need to
send any letters
formal or otherwise
i will be left hoping
there is still enough
tape remaining
on one of those rolls
long-forgotten until
desperately needed
in the junk drawer
downstairs
Nov 25, 2025
Nov 25, 2025 at 9:30 AM UTC
you know what's creepy about humpty dumpty? they never said it was an egg
don't you dare sounds normal, but do not you dare sounds weird
envelopes are strange. its like here's a paper wrapped in paper that i sealed with my saliva
butter is food lotion
when you wait for the waiter you are the waiter
How much pain do I have go though until giving up is okay?
Mar 22, 2019
Mar 22, 2019 at 10:37 PM UTC
*Know not the turn of my cheek
The strength of my chest
Or the way in which my mattress rests
Just beneath the sill
Yet in front of the envelope which waits for you
Though you ought to know
That every line and every word
Was meant to be
In broken verse
Just as it it
That way one day
Only you could find me there within
And surpass the number set before
Thirty-two
For I am my own
And none of her names
Though in idealism
Perhaps a bit, one and the same
And should you never arrive by me
Then the envelope as directed will be
Delivered to you
So worry not
But hopefully it will not come to that
And that I will live to see your face
As you learn such of things
Like the envelope without a name*
May 13, 2017
May 13, 2017 at 2:33 AM UTC
Too many expectations that too from humans
Bring miseries to life with lot of sheer remorse
Movements are disjointed with strayed actions
A whirlwind where one loses path in discourse
Downtrodden rascals play with norms of society
Uprights are loser at times just on certain stages
But fortune determines their path being fair and free
The bad ones with their tricks earn ***** and wages
A drama is being staged a circus is being played
Like monkeys people are on just different ropes
Justice is prevalent justice denied is justice delayed
Some humans are open and some are in envelopes
Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2016 Golden Glow
Aug 31, 2016
Aug 31, 2016 at 3:59 AM UTC
I still listen to music with words
When I am writing words
Sunlight streams through the window
Trees sway outside, with branches scratching the glass window
-
I smell fresh coffee beans
Starbucks, from the Philippines
A piece of paper flutters down
I look at it with a frown.
-
And one thing I suddenly recall,
It gives me an idea, a reason to stall
From what I am doing, (hummingbird mind, my friend.)
And I went into an imaginary glen.
With only my pen and my notes
For company, then my mind began to float.
*He wrote in the most perfect handwriting
Compared to my scatterbrained black scribbling
He strummed a chord on my heartstrings
Without him even knowing
His name sounded like
the gold-tipped wings
of angels.
While mine sat on the
brown earth,
dreaming to the skies.
Though, once we'd meet once a week
And I would smile in the hallways
looking like a freak
There was always something idiotic
the way his teeth stuck out like a bunny's
He reminded me of Ishaan from* Taare Zameen Par
*A dyslexic student, great artist, had a smile so sunny.
I'm playing Owl City on my mp3
That's our secret anthem
Tears were there
The melody from the speakers
I wished I could've sat beside you
When your fingers waltzed over the black-and-white keys
Now I'm sitting all alone by myself
Tapping on black-and-white letters on the Mac
Even though I play the violin
I can't accompany you
My bow screeching against the strings
Just doesn't do your mesmerising piano justice
What I can only do is write
And draw with a cheap ballpen from a meeting hall
I will draw your eyes and your crooked grin.
And my dreams of you that remain unfulfilled.*
I finish the poem
Rip the page out of my notebook
And tape it to the wall with my other works
and newspaper clippings, oh just look.
Tomorrow I take it down again
Slip it into an envelope
Wonder if I should buy a stamp.
Maybe mail it overseas with forlorn hope.
A month passes by,
The envelope gathers dust under my bed.
Oh my darling, oh my darling
The chances with you are hanging by a thread
We're going to fly back home once more
So I decide to get you a keepsake from here.
A wooden owl, carved by hand
I slip the poem inside, thinking what you'd think when it appears…
Jan 21, 2015
Jan 21, 2015 at 12:48 PM UTC