#mailbox - Hello Poetry

The man who lives in a mailbox Sings his song alone The rent he says is reasonable And he likes the tone. He sings: I possess but what I have That time does not remove. All the castles all the kings Are never here alone. Brave parades and cheerful tunes Do not the truth disprove. We are each a single soul And never here alone. Never here alone. His song is sung to passersby Always much surprised To pass a mailbox, hear a song Coming from inside. He sings: I possess but what I have That time does not remove. All the castles all the kings Are never here alone. Brave parades and cheerful tunes Do not the truth disprove. We are each a single soul And never here alone. Never here alone. Now, some protest, they say he’s mad They tell him he is wrong And some ignore his choice of home And listen to his song. He sings: I possess but what I have That time does not remove. All the castles all the kings Are never here alone. Brave parades and cheerful tunes Do not the truth disprove. We are each a single soul And never here alone. Never here alone.

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Apr 24, 2016

Apr 24, 2016 at 5:08 PM UTC

brent-kincaid

MAN WHO LIVES IN A MAILBOX

The man who lives in a mailbox Sings his song alone The rent he says is reasonable And he likes the tone. He sings: I possess but what I have That time does not remove. All the castles all the kings Are never here alone. Brave parades and cheerful tunes Do not the truth disprove. We are each a single soul And never here alone. Never here alone. His song is sung to passersby Always much surprised To pass a mailbox, hear a song Coming from inside. He sings: I possess but what I have That time does not remove. All the castles all the kings Are never here alone. Brave parades and cheerful tunes Do not the truth disprove. We are each a single soul And never here alone. Never here alone. Now, some protest, they say he’s mad They tell him he is wrong And some ignore his choice of home And listen to his song. He sings: I possess but what I have That time does not remove. All the castles all the kings Are never here alone. Brave parades and cheerful tunes Do not the truth disprove. We are each a single soul And never here alone. Never here alone.

42

My heart was like a mail box. Waiting for one piece of mail in particular. A special letter hand delivered. The promise of sealed flap, carefully stamped addressed perfectly. Scented in heavy anticipation. There I stood in different variation of weather. Going from hot to cold, the thought alone keeping me warm, closed in. Suppressing everything that I held in. The flutter of ads, bills, and different envelopes addressed to other P.O boxes helped build this anticipation. Waiting for the moment I could open my mouth and accept you for everything you are. Pouring your heart out in full stationary fashion. Without hands to satisfy such anticipation. To open such a flap and grant myself the gift of you kind of puts us in awkward disposition. But the urgency of it all is as clear as day

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Feb 27, 2017

Feb 27, 2017 at 9:54 AM UTC

kewayne-wadley

Anticipation Of Waiting

My heart was like a mail box. Waiting for one piece of mail in particular. A special letter hand delivered. The promise of sealed flap, carefully stamped addressed perfectly. Scented in heavy anticipation. There I stood in different variation of weather. Going from hot to cold, the thought alone keeping me warm, closed in. Suppressing everything that I held in. The flutter of ads, bills, and different envelopes addressed to other P.O boxes helped build this anticipation. Waiting for the moment I could open my mouth and accept you for everything you are. Pouring your heart out in full stationary fashion. Without hands to satisfy such anticipation. To open such a flap and grant myself the gift of you kind of puts us in awkward disposition. But the urgency of it all is as clear as day

14

Can a mailbox truly expire or does it simply get archived? Can a text really be deleted or does it move to another folder? Can I simply log off and shut down or do I remain partially connected? When I manage to restart I hope I retain some memory.

0

Feb 23, 2025

Feb 23, 2025 at 4:34 PM UTC

stevejeff

Death of a Mailbox

Can a mailbox truly expire or does it simply get archived? Can a text really be deleted or does it move to another folder? Can I simply log off and shut down or do I remain partially connected? When I manage to restart I hope I retain some memory.

8

I am one who knows the streets that run through the shabby houses and abandoned warehouses of my hometown ravaged by depression. I sift daily through the shambles of that nearby ghost town, stifling mind and body's urge to stiffen in its own grip as I take my daily hobble down the straight and narrow driveway of a quick fix ambition to the neutral, tarnished armored messenger standing by the roadside, holding high his red flag lifted as a sort of triumphant battle cry or a sign of warning. I approach this messenger with hope of receiving the promise of yet another Golden Age boom. But I know more so the wooded paths gliding aimlessly amid fallen needles of pine which repress unwanted but necessary undergrowth; and the cheering leaves of the slight wistful poplars spiteful diverting of my attention away from the strong and silent oak. I kick up leaves in defiance of the fallen leaves of a soul in a midsummer's dream of a soul covered by a deceivingly comforting white shawl of a slow- creeping season. I once strode proud and tall down and through these streets and roads, paths and meadows, winding and stretching deeper into the summer of a clear-sighted tomorrow. I am now slightly bent with a walking stick of experience, hobbling down and through streets and roads, paths and meadows, dense thickets and swamps, winding and stretching deeper into the autumn of a somewhat dim-sighted tomorrow.

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Nov 25, 2025

Nov 25, 2025 at 9:00 AM UTC

DanielTucker

I Am One Who Knows The Streets

I am one who knows the streets that run through the shabby houses and abandoned warehouses of my hometown ravaged by depression. I sift daily through the shambles of that nearby ghost town, stifling mind and body's urge to stiffen in its own grip as I take my daily hobble down the straight and narrow driveway of a quick fix ambition to the neutral, tarnished armored messenger standing by the roadside, holding high his red flag lifted as a sort of triumphant battle cry or a sign of warning. I approach this messenger with hope of receiving the promise of yet another Golden Age boom. But I know more so the wooded paths gliding aimlessly amid fallen needles of pine which repress unwanted but necessary undergrowth; and the cheering leaves of the slight wistful poplars spiteful diverting of my attention away from the strong and silent oak. I kick up leaves in defiance of the fallen leaves of a soul in a midsummer's dream of a soul covered by a deceivingly comforting white shawl of a slow- creeping season. I once strode proud and tall down and through these streets and roads, paths and meadows, winding and stretching deeper into the summer of a clear-sighted tomorrow. I am now slightly bent with a walking stick of experience, hobbling down and through streets and roads, paths and meadows, dense thickets and swamps, winding and stretching deeper into the autumn of a somewhat dim-sighted tomorrow.

59