#somethings - Hello Poetry

I don’t think it’s from the heart anymore, Writing or love or anything. Diagnosed with greatest of all time syndrome, But it’s not from me, Too much winning makes people expect way more, Till I’m panting begging for the mercy of the floor. Real writing doesn’t sell, But I can’t write vague ideas and modern morals forever. Bring me back, Because I’m on the brink, Of being somebody out of touch, Either your hero, Or somebody you don’t give a second look.

0

Jul 11, 2025

Jul 11, 2025 at 4:26 PM UTC

AbbottJHardison

How are you?

I don’t think it’s from the heart anymore, Writing or love or anything. Diagnosed with greatest of all time syndrome, But it’s not from me, Too much winning makes people expect way more, Till I’m panting begging for the mercy of the floor. Real writing doesn’t sell, But I can’t write vague ideas and modern morals forever. Bring me back, Because I’m on the brink, Of being somebody out of touch, Either your hero, Or somebody you don’t give a second look.

13

Something’s changed. 6:00 AM Sun August 16 2022 The temperature today will baby step up the kitchen ladder, careful, senior slow, to hover at a pleasant 79 Fahrenheit. But, I am unfooled. ‘tis the birthing of the changeling of mid-Augustus, June’s initiating summer solstice, an intimate longing now a long gone forgotten memory, now a calendar X a valedictorian graduate. But of late, the sun has lately been heisted by late afternoon by a batter thick grayish cloud cover, right here, hovering upon this godly place on earth. there is a underlying fragrance, familiar, an unmistakable chilling odor of cool fall. an urgency emerges, hurry up you, pluck the blueberries, harvest the peaches, because trace hints of crispin fall apples, falling browning foliage, curling leaves, pumpkin flavorings and yellow gourds is unjustly barely there, a definitely discernible. Back-to-school ads replace banners proclaiming bargain prices for summer necessities, vin rosé. Even the squirrels are enjoying a Sunday rest, after mornin’ worship, no feverish acorn collection, a subtle hint, winter supplying must be nearly done. dare not superstitious say out loud, the **** geese, have made themselves scarce going on two weeks, having learned a trick or two from the Ukrainians, I chuckle to think that we may have regained territory. But, I am unfooled. Morning boats of all ilk and demeanor ply-plow the bay waters, but all seem less hurried, savoring the pretense of forever long summer days, beyond-belief sunsets, soft white ice of creamy calming waters, no impasto^ seas wintry rough. Return-to-bed, coffee mugged, I await the Dumps early call, the sorting done, metal, plastic,compostable, so easy to bring order to our daily detritus, thinking if only one could sort the seasons *then I would be a forever summer man, here, on this godly place.* But, I am unfooled. 7:06 AM Tue Aug 16 2020 Shelter Island, N.Y. ———————— ^Impasto is a technique used in painting, where paint is laid on an area of the surface thickly, usually thick enough that the brush or painting-knife strokes are visible. Paint can also be mixed right on the canvas. When dry, impasto provides texture; the paint appears to be coming out of the canvas.

0

Aug 16, 2022

Aug 16, 2022 at 7:17 AM UTC

nat-lipstadt

Something’s changed (but I am unfooled)

Something’s changed. 6:00 AM Sun August 16 2022 The temperature today will baby step up the kitchen ladder, careful, senior slow, to hover at a pleasant 79 Fahrenheit. But, I am unfooled. ‘tis the birthing of the changeling of mid-Augustus, June’s initiating summer solstice, an intimate longing now a long gone forgotten memory, now a calendar X a valedictorian graduate. But of late, the sun has lately been heisted by late afternoon by a batter thick grayish cloud cover, right here, hovering upon this godly place on earth. there is a underlying fragrance, familiar, an unmistakable chilling odor of cool fall. an urgency emerges, hurry up you, pluck the blueberries, harvest the peaches, because trace hints of crispin fall apples, falling browning foliage, curling leaves, pumpkin flavorings and yellow gourds is unjustly barely there, a definitely discernible. Back-to-school ads replace banners proclaiming bargain prices for summer necessities, vin rosé. Even the squirrels are enjoying a Sunday rest, after mornin’ worship, no feverish acorn collection, a subtle hint, winter supplying must be nearly done. dare not superstitious say out loud, the **** geese, have made themselves scarce going on two weeks, having learned a trick or two from the Ukrainians, I chuckle to think that we may have regained territory. But, I am unfooled. Morning boats of all ilk and demeanor ply-plow the bay waters, but all seem less hurried, savoring the pretense of forever long summer days, beyond-belief sunsets, soft white ice of creamy calming waters, no impasto^ seas wintry rough. Return-to-bed, coffee mugged, I await the Dumps early call, the sorting done, metal, plastic,compostable, so easy to bring order to our daily detritus, thinking if only one could sort the seasons *then I would be a forever summer man, here, on this godly place.* But, I am unfooled. 7:06 AM Tue Aug 16 2020 Shelter Island, N.Y. ———————— ^Impasto is a technique used in painting, where paint is laid on an area of the surface thickly, usually thick enough that the brush or painting-knife strokes are visible. Paint can also be mixed right on the canvas. When dry, impasto provides texture; the paint appears to be coming out of the canvas.

47

he melancholy muses, his hand upon his chest. a thousand miles she replies, a thousand eyes winking lying a thousand quiverings she denies, a thousand quaverings a thousands hairs she sighs, everyone of a different color a thousand songs she cries, not any but not the one a thousand sensations she implies, by silence, not the same, sensual a thousand touches, she asks, slyly, is it your tongue your finger? a thousand dies, she contradicts, all mine, not yours, or ours! <> and then she speaks, in Italian, a language so musical, it’s melancholy at its very essence. I’m no longer of surety possessing, *Non ** più la garanzia di possedere,* is it my finger or my tongue, is it è il mio dito o la mia lingua, vero? that my finger became my tongue, il mio dito è diventato la mia lingu, all senses at attention, blurred, tutti i sensi all'attenzione, sfocato, the love song enactment, touch (recitazione della canzone d'amore, tocco)

0

Apr 14, 2020

Apr 14, 2020 at 9:57 AM UTC

lmnsinner

a thousand somethings (the love song enactment, touch)

he melancholy muses, his hand upon his chest. a thousand miles she replies, a thousand eyes winking lying a thousand quiverings she denies, a thousand quaverings a thousands hairs she sighs, everyone of a different color a thousand songs she cries, not any but not the one a thousand sensations she implies, by silence, not the same, sensual a thousand touches, she asks, slyly, is it your tongue your finger? a thousand dies, she contradicts, all mine, not yours, or ours! <> and then she speaks, in Italian, a language so musical, it’s melancholy at its very essence. I’m no longer of surety possessing, *Non ** più la garanzia di possedere,* is it my finger or my tongue, is it è il mio dito o la mia lingua, vero? that my finger became my tongue, il mio dito è diventato la mia lingu, all senses at attention, blurred, tutti i sensi all'attenzione, sfocato, the love song enactment, touch (recitazione della canzone d'amore, tocco)

27

please let me lay by your side for hours that stretch into years, we can talk about thousands of nothings that make us comfortable so we can have a lifetime of somethings with meaning

0

Sep 22, 2019

Sep 22, 2019 at 10:36 PM UTC

MikeD

Lay by you

please let me lay by your side for hours that stretch into years, we can talk about thousands of nothings that make us comfortable so we can have a lifetime of somethings with meaning

1

*Some things can not be explained They can only be felt*

0

Jul 1, 2016

Jul 1, 2016 at 10:53 AM UTC

Loveless

Some things (11w)

*Some things can not be explained They can only be felt*

2

Somethings just happen to, Work out. All the hard times, All the long nights. All the silent cries, All the terrible lies. Somethings just happen to, Work out. The good times, The fun nights. The laughter cries, And no more lies. Somethings just happen to, Work out.

0

Mar 11, 2016

Mar 11, 2016 at 1:25 PM UTC

LoyalOmission

Work Out

Somethings just happen to, Work out. All the hard times, All the long nights. All the silent cries, All the terrible lies. Somethings just happen to, Work out. The good times, The fun nights. The laughter cries, And no more lies. Somethings just happen to, Work out.

14