#mail
I sent that letter in the mail
Its just three words
I like you
But it feels like a death sentence
What if I don't get a letter back
Get ghosted forever
Never see you again
And suddenly your married
Three kids
A husband with a steady job
A dog named jack
My ears start to ring
Its been two weeks still no reply
I lay on the floor in my room
Banging my head against the wall
Everyday I run to the mailbox
Practically dying
But every time its empty
Until it wasn't
Apr 8
Apr 8, 2026 at 11:06 PM UTC
Did you post the mail I gave you? Asked the one I must obey.
Sure I posted it when at the shop, getting dog food yesterday.
You bought the dog food Tuesday, it’s now Friday afternoon.
Came the dig from Mrs perfect who was perched in our back room.
It couldn’t be, sure I watched the match, last night on the TV.
The mid-week game, on Wednesday, I sat on this settee.
Last night was flaming Thursday came the rant from down the hall.
I sat there dumb, my head a swirl, just staring at the wall.
The cloakroom door, her footsteps, her mutters getting loud.
Appearing in the doorway with my coat held like a shroud.
Her face was stern her shaking head I knew this was not good.
I smiled at her and tried a joke, maybe I could change her mood.
But I knew the night was ruined and any fun, well that was banned.
Cause she held that ****** letter grasped tightly in her hand.
Sep 21, 2025
Sep 21, 2025 at 2:17 AM UTC
In the debate between dubbing and subbing
I side with subs to savor the original
mellifluous French, Tamil, Korean, Italian...
Reading the subtitles assists the deaf
and hard of hearing although voiceovers
benefit the blind and vision impaired.
Historically dubbing was employed
by fascist governments to advance
the nationalist agenda. In our own time
the tendency to consider dubbers dumb
implies reading’s the indispensable skill.
My wife reads her mail while watching movies
so she prefers dubs. I admire her mastery
of two idioms simultaneously
but my limited bandwidth favors subs.
Jun 5, 2025
Jun 5, 2025 at 6:57 AM UTC
How long does it take?
For you to see my poem,
Mr. Publisher?
You have me checking the mailbox,
Over and over, like I’m a little boy again.
Every time I open it and find no letter,
I feel the pain of self-doubt inside.
I wonder, Mr. Publisher, when will you read my work?
Or, have you read it already,
And are planning to send it back?
Using the ‘significant postage’ I left in the envelope.
Will I open your letter,
And find a cold message of rejection?
Or, will you love my poem?
Will you beg me to come publish with you?
Oh, Mr. Publisher, I need to know!
The little boy in me has grow old by now,
He clutches his walking stick,
As he goes to check his mail box.
Looking for that wax postage seal,
Red like the hide of a fox.
Mr. Publisher please!
I grow anxious everyday you do not respond,
And I re-read the poem I sent you almost every hour of the day.
My lover left me, Publisher Man,
She cursed me for giving more attention to you than her.
But matter not, does that!
That witch will see the man she left when I get my letter of approval from you!
Though, she did take most of our things with her,
Left my house a little empty, didn’t she?
Where will I sleep,
If she has the bed.
Alas, Mr. Publisher, I mind not the lack of sleep,
I’d rather spend the time waiting for the letter that's coming soon.
But how close is soon?
I remember telling my friend,
I’d be able to be her lover, soon.
But soon still hasn’t come,
As she still waits at the door for me.
Mr. Publisher, not a very good postmaster this town has!
For I still have not received your message of approval!
How strange is that?
I’m sure it simply got turned around,
It’s been days after all!
Days with no bed,
Days without my lover,
Days missing my friends.
Dear Publisher Man, have you not sent it at all?
The little boy who ran to check the mail,
Had his funeral yesterday.
I was invited, but as you know,
I was busy waiting for you to respond!
I’ll have to visit some other time,
For I’m sure I’ll see the postman who carries your letter soon.
For the first time in days I left my mailbox,
Mr. Publisher,
Well, not by choice you see.
For, you had me waiting for so long,
I died before your letter came!
What a shame,
Guess you didn’t have time for my work at all!
Mr. Publisher, not a soul came to see me be buried in the ground,
I kept telling my dear friends I could be with them again,
Soon.
But soon never came,
And the only one who will weep on my grave,
Are the crows,
And my dear friend,
That I left years ago.
Ha! Will she be my lover now?
You can keep the stamp Publisher Man,
I won’t be using it anymore.
Dec 13, 2024
Dec 13, 2024 at 1:03 PM UTC
maybe i'll mail the relationship back to you
because now that i'm left with the memories
i realize it's too much for me to keep
so instead of letting us collect dust
in the depths of my closet
or hidden under my bed
i'll find a box wrapped in pink gift wrap
pull us out of my heart and mind
carefully place us with tissue paper and slap on a fragile warning
i'll write your name and address on the top
in my handwriting that you memorized
and just because i'm selfish
i will douse it in my perfume and seal it with a kiss
i send with love and care
it should be there by tuesday
i hope it finds you as well as found me
best wishes, amelie
Nov 30, 2024
Nov 30, 2024 at 1:38 AM UTC
I was never an open letter.
I am that mail that the postman had lost while sending other letters.
I am that letter that was never received.
Oct 10, 2021
Oct 10, 2021 at 3:53 PM UTC
Magnificent envelope is coming
A freshness of ink spread present lovely greeting
It sent just for you, Darling
Lovely words present in the evening
Mar 27, 2021
Mar 27, 2021 at 1:01 PM UTC
I’ve saved our letters,
They’re in a box in my closet.
Nothing screams pain more than old words.
Words that meant the world in that moment,
But over time,
Entered into a downward spiral.
I loved how you curled your Y’s,
And oh-so confidently striked through your A’s.
_That .38 pen fit you too well._
The floral stamps reminded me of a crowded garden,
One filled with bees, butterflies, and even grasshoppers.
_You got those at the Art Museum, I just know it._
An asymmetrical heart sealed the letter,
Instantly ripped in half by my eagerness to read your words.
_Did you kiss the heart where the envelope seals, just like I do?_
Before flooding myself with your paragraphs,
I delicately brought the parchment to my nose.
_Ambrosial, particles of your aroma trapped into the air of the envelope, spread on the parchment._
I am grateful for our endearments that are captured on paper.
No time for reliving, only reminicinsing.
Thank you. So so much.
You will never know how important it was to me.
Jan 20, 2021
Jan 20, 2021 at 6:43 PM UTC
The wind getting cold,
his words are getting old,
yet they keep me warm,
a step away from harm.
The letters I posted
stay lonely and ghosted,
in the icy wind frozen,
amidst the lies, brazen.
Your arrival bought me joy,
but just to hear you tell his ploy,
as you held out his resignation letter.
I turned into my own abettor.
Dec 20, 2020
Dec 20, 2020 at 2:14 AM UTC
-
Just basically an accounting of
language as it is conveyed
between media types
namely,
Air, Silicone and Mail ;
in Air,
you have to
basically be ready to
respond within a reasonable
period, say about three or four seconds
upon Silicone, you could "afk" and then
mix a drink- rinse out the mixing
utensils and type a response
with some degree of
forethinking
in Air,
you could breath
in the real-time vibes that
trigger automatic subject sensitivity,
like, _(something too disturbing for me to detail here)_
upon Silicone, you would be able to digitally
sort and discard these disturbing elements
and then lie to yourself about the
true weight of the
conversation
in Air,
a comedian can
deliver a punchline in
order to impulse a laugh out of you,
even to the point of spitting out your wine
upon Silicone, latency can cause punchlines
to be misinterpreted as an offense, which
will likely sully those carefully
established digital
relationships
—
You
could encode
the Air in the fashion
that Native Americans did
with campfires and blankets,
but i would never suggest that
you try and breath Silicone____ !
nor pattern the "the ins and outs"
of breathing within the basic scope
of a vacuum in order to encode
it upon a microchip that
can only be read by
a machine—
either way, in case you
may not have noticed,
Personal Letters are —at this moment—
asphyxiating into blue screen
oblivion,
deep inside the
Lost Mailbags of Redundancy...
"Comm_Check"
© 2020 by Seranaea Jones
all rights reserved
.
Oct 15, 2020
Oct 15, 2020 at 10:45 PM UTC
The eyeshadows
Of her favorite color palette
Were every bit as neoteric
As they were triturated
--broken to pieces
Inside a mailer
Without bubble wrap
May 20, 2020
May 20, 2020 at 12:16 PM UTC
Every day, at 3 o’ clock, on the dot, I check the mail.
I walk around the corner of the street in bare feet,
And I feel the sidewalk heat seep into my body,
Up my legs,
Making the skin tingle for the rest of the day.
The other day, a car turned around and followed me.
I thought,
What will it be today,
Kidnapped or catcalled?
I got to the mailbox and he pulled up next to me, window down, head out.
Oh, he said, just checking the mail.
Yes, I said.
Just wanted to make sure you were okay, walking away with no shoes, you seemed to be in trouble.
No trouble, I said, just mail. Im okay. Thank you.
He pulled away.
Parked at the house next to mine.
New neighbor.
Are you okay?
Do you feel this numbness as well?
Do you also wake up dizzy and strange?
Somedays,
I eat until I feel something.
Others,
I don’t until all I feel is hunger.
Your driveway is overflowing, neighbor.
Do you feel alone?
Do the dogs keep you up at night?
Does the news?
I’m sorry about the noise, neighbor.
I sing until my throat is sore, and then keep going.
I’m okay, neighbor.
I’m just checking the mail.
There’s nothing today,
But maybe tomorrow.
Apr 18, 2020
Apr 18, 2020 at 12:00 AM UTC
Ever since I moved to a different time period, I get the strangest mail.
Letters commissioning Michelangelo
to paint the Sistine Chapel.
Elizabeth Bennet's missive to her aunt
promising pony cart rides at Pemberley.
Long lost IRS tax forms belonging to Abbott and Costello.
Leonardo Da Vinci’s Job Application to the Duke of Milan.
Even Grace Bedell's charming correspondence to Abraham Lincoln, suggesting he grow a beard.
I should have known something was up once I discovered Karl Malone was my mailman.
Feb 12, 2020
Feb 12, 2020 at 10:20 AM UTC
When a housekeeper pours her heart into her work, making your home Clean and shining,
Say thank- you!
When a waitress greets you with a warm smile, and tries her best to Provide you a quality service,
Say thank- you!
When a mailman struggles to deliver your mail, fighting through Challenging weather,
Say thank-you!
Make others feel valued,
Express your gratitude,
Lighten their day with words of appreciation,
Embrace them with humanity, and treat them with kindness!
Hussein Dekmak
Aug 31, 2019
Aug 31, 2019 at 10:32 AM UTC
[Young Male Voice....inebriated, perhaps]
Slit of the tongue Frush guppy !
I sped to you today
So-nah
To treat you to a working meal and...
You’re not there !
You remained a way yonder
Sense-able to my.... me
but too.... mirage n’ fragrant for any talk
this side of miz..mizcomunication
Stay thus sway !
I’ve decided
Is decried
Please...and I’ll love you
as just what I can imagine you to be
...uh..so, yeah...see you tomorrow maybe
Agunda! AGUNGDA !
- voice out man
Aug 15, 2019
Aug 15, 2019 at 7:43 PM UTC
FLASH
"the exposure looks kinda funny"
"maybe just adjust the aperture a bit"
"add in the lighting"
"is the white balance set?"
the chair squeaks as it moves to the left
the weight shifts the couch in their direction
heat radiates from the family
whose fake smiles are nearly as blinding as the flash from the camera
despite the tripod, the camera sits off kilter
like the uneasy tension in the room
it feels hot--no, sweltering
unsettled emotions sit like
discarded mail
away and out of sight
CLICK
"Okay, we're good"
and the family heads off in their separate ways
with no goodbyes for the others
May 19, 2019
May 19, 2019 at 1:01 AM UTC
I bet that man,
he with his white cap,
smashed my box against the wall
as he so carelessly
dumped
my package on the doorstep.
Mar 6, 2019
Mar 6, 2019 at 7:08 PM UTC
She always had a knack
for catching me off guard.
To expect the unexpected.
My heart a doorbell-
Expectation the mat she stood.
Sometimes she'd wait patiently.
Other times she'd constantly press the button.
A sudden nudge of emotion,
The appeal of urgency
Knowing that not many will wait.
Her smile sent special delivery,
Opened on arrival.
She never came when I expected.
Often checking before she rang.
My lips sealed
In suspense of waiting.
Better late than never.
My heart rung last minute.
Pressed again and again.
Again and again.-
Indulged that she came
My lips sealed at the nook of hers.
My heart a doorbell-
Pressed in anticipation.
Met quickly in arrival.
Her finger against my heart a courtesy
The whole time the door unlocked
Waiting for her return
Nov 28, 2018
Nov 28, 2018 at 3:10 PM UTC
#
*splattered in wet ink
sealed with a passionate kiss
deep connections link*
#
Nov 20, 2018
Nov 20, 2018 at 7:22 AM UTC
I did the company mail again today
it was all the same as yesterday
everybody doesn't want to die again
they just want to waste more time again
why do you live
to open more mail?
to send more out?
your dollars are never enough
but you keep trying to make them
why do you try at love
when it makes your tear ducts sore?
I did the company mail again
I guess I didn't use the right stamps
'cause I'm still so ******* sick
and it was all the same as yesterday
everybody doesn't want to die again
and everybody is still dead
Oct 17, 2018
Oct 17, 2018 at 12:59 AM UTC
Four feet, impeding on the sun,
yet only two of them are mine.
Time is rugged against the grain
of questions falling on white sand.
How come no one consciously believes in
anything except fractured light and filtered water?
He walks on broken heels and birttle bones,
but somehow always steps in time.
My only memory of Jesus
is in the aftermath of a forest fire.
We danced throughout destruction,
and her hollow laughter brought the rain.
She was the beginning of the rapture,
sometimes I think of her and pray.
I got lost six years ago,
on the way to change my name.
I wonder, how could I go missing
if I never locked the door?
Did anything really happen,
or does nothing ever change?
Four feet, impeding on the sun,
yet none of them are mine.
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 9:08 PM UTC
If you’ve got a letterbox you’ll end up getting junk mail
which will usually be on a weekly basis and without fail.
_________________
Jun 12, 2018
Jun 12, 2018 at 9:36 PM UTC