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Thomas Crone Jan 2015
Once every few years she is around,
but she is still around. She is around enough nough to shine light on the constantly dying life that is my own. She is around every few years when the trees hold their supreme grace. Every few years, in the Summertime she is around. And every few years we meet, in the countryside blanketing the city. It's on a bench, we meet. A bench overlooking a crisp-yellow field of sunflowers, much inferior in beauty, to her radiant stare. She sits down beside me. The smell of her perfume overwhelms my senses, like a single wave in the ocean, greeting a lonely rock. Before any bit of music flows from her luscious, but naked lips, she presents a cigarette. The damp and silent air is filled with the subtle crackle of a match being lit. The flame, meeting the tip of the cigarette, now burning with complete compatibility. She exhales a perfect funnel, and we watch as the smoke disappears into the gentle breeze. She offers it to me, as I take a breath to decline, she entraps my vulnerable soul with her mesmerizing gaze. Michaelangelo himself could not have created a more perfect pair. Like two planets, holding all the beauty and mystery, in the universe. I remove it from her silky hands as she smiles. A small but powerful smile holding the very definition of perfection. "Hello." I feel helpless as the warm tone of her voice fills the air around me. My ears have not heard a more aesthetically pleasing sound since the last time we met. It is as though I am hearing the word for the first time. "Hello," I say back. We sit in silence for a while. Side by side, her leg gently pressed against mine. Not a word yet spoken, and I cannot be more satisfied. She eventually speaks. She tells stories of the years passed. The world, shrinking as I listen. Word after word as the sun begins to slowly retire. Hours pass and she falls asleep in my arms. Upon sunrise we will go our separate ways. But in this moment of time standing still, I rejoice.
Thomas Crone Jan 2014
There was once a little jalapeño alone in a garden with very little to do but think. He thought about his old friends. Those he considered family. He thought of the silent sound of their screaming in pain while being ripped from their homes. The little jalapeño was caught under a leaf and unseen. There he hid unable to save his friends. The bell peppers, the onions, the avocados. The family of carrots was right next to him. Those were the hardest to watch. One was just a baby. Everything happened so fast. The cabbage heads, oh the cabbage heads. The monster had dropped one. The little jalapeño watched it roll silently to a tree trunk. The monster had more than it could carry, and left it there, alone.

A few days had gone by since the genocide in that little garden by that little jalapeño. It was getting cold outside. Wasn't long before the cabbage head gave up. Crumpled away to nothing more than a small pile of dry, rotten leaves. The little jalapeño was the only one left. Alone in a garden with very little to do but think. He thought of his friends being chopped up to nothing. The horror of being nothing more than an ingredient. As the temperature began to drop he started to feel weak. The little jalapeño was dying. With no one at his side. But he was ok with this. Everything he knew or ever cared about was gone. No more laughing together.  No more crying together.

It began to rain very gently one morning. The drops splashed back from lightly tapping the sheet of frost on the ground. It was time. Time to be reunited with the rest of the garden. Time for the little jalapeño alone with his let go.
Write about spicy peppers she said...
Thomas Crone Dec 2013
I tremble and wonder
How life took a turn away from bliss.
I think of my childhood worries,
Of my parents yelling at each other
Only to end in divorce when I was only
Nine years old.
Of my youth being taken in confusion
About what is right or wrong.
I think of how I treated my poor
Mother as I chose a side in the battle
Of custody between the three of us.
How I flawed as a person during
My first real chance to be truly happy.
I think of being thrown out into the night
Blindsided and full of anger,
Trying hard to not cause myself harm.
And of walking out a year and a half later
Giving up on being dissatisfied
With how I was living.
I think of hopping from one home
To another, unable to find a job.
Of needing quick relief,
And enlisting in the armed forces.
Wondering how I now await
The life of a special operations soldier.
What happened to that child
Who was not yet nine years old?
Who was he? Was he happy?
How did he picture his future?
Yes, this is my life
Thomas Crone Dec 2013
To all the ******* who don't
Know what is and isn't important
For their own **** good.
A *****, rigid, spiked, smelly
One finger salute for each
And every one of you.

This ******* throws his kids
Out into the streets in November.
Big man of the house who trys so
Desperately to be intimidating,
With a ****** back and a
Horrible stench of alcohol on his breath.

This ******* who thinks she's special.
The stuck up ***** that too closely
Resembles a plump ****** carrot.
Who thinks the perfect guy is a hairless
Fruity smelling mommy's boy *****
With perfect flippy hair and a big ****.

This *******, the few, the proud,
The fruity smelling mommy's boy *****
Who wouldn't know a pair of pliers
If they were ripping off his sparkly earrings.
Never having an ounce of dirt on his hands,
But at least she... I mean he has nice teeth.

This ******* that can't tell one honest
Fact about his "hard and lonely" home life.
The one who nods and laughs but just wants to ****.
Who beats off to his computer after taking a hit
That he bummed off his rich friends.
Who is confused as to why some people (me) hate him.

This ******* who screws with the emotions
Of one of the best guys ever to glide through her life.
Who throws him on a roller coaster with smiles
And flirtatious giggling while she lets him kiss her.
Then throws him to the side and takes the next in line.
I wish only the very best for you, you ****** *****.

Those ******* who abuse, torment
Or play with someone who just wishes the best.
The ones who hurt the vulnerable
To feel better for themselves.
No one deserves the **** you give,
Except each and every one of you.

Honorable mention to those *******
That complain about all men being the same
When in reality they're just searching for
The same type of meat headed ******
Every time they have such a painful terrible
Breakup. Just shut the **** up. For real.
Thomas Crone Nov 2013
I shut the door behind me
And take a gulp of air
Hoping maybe this once
That it's all gone.
I tire of being alone
In this life
I've only recently obtained.
But I'm not alone,
You see.
I open my eyes
Slowly looking down
At the floor.
Dreading that sight
Of my dark companion.
I lose all control
Of my breathing.
Because what I see is
The empty sight
Of my companion, my shadow.
It's still there,
Though I tried
So hard this time
To get away.
Because it isn't
Just a shadow.
It is me,  my worst enemy,
My sadness.
Why was I so naive?
I ran from something
I simply can't escape!
I am forever here
To torment myself
In the middle of the night
When I am most vulnerable.
When I'm alone and without help.

You're sadistic, twisted.
I hate you, leave me be.
You're weak, unprotected.
I'm not going anywhere.
I don't want to think about it,
My future, my memories, my troubles.
Tsk tsk tsk. It's not up to you.
I am in full control.
Thomas Crone Aug 2013
He fought back monsters
With his little black book.
He faced his worst fears
With his little black book.
He conquered the world,
His school and its halls,
Fought for rebellion,
Grew ten feet tall.
He walked up to a bear
And slapped its paw.
Even viewed an "R" rated movie
Down at the mall.
Yeah, Johnny sure lived
The life of them all.
And all thanks
To his little black book.
It made mommy buy flowers,
Instead of drugs by the pound.
It made the house peaceful
When his dad was around.
Instead of a fist
It was a bowl of fruit punch.
Instead of a slap
It was ice cream! For lunch!
Life sure was swell
With that little black book.
'Til one day he came home,
It was nowhere to be found.
He panicked with sweat
As he looked all around.
And all that was heard
Was that quiet sound
Of Johnny crying.
Until he came upon
That fearful sight:
His parents laughing
One fearful night.
And in their hand,
A little black book.
Johnny's heart filled with rage
As they turned the next page.
He ran to the door
And out of his cage
He ran and ran through
Thick fields of sage.
He wept and whaled
Like a singer on stage.
Oh wow oh wow it was
The site of the age!
Until Johnny came to a halt.
If he left without it
It would be his fault.
He needed the little black book
And at any cost.
He stormed through the door
And without being caught
Snatched his book.
And when he thought he was clear
In walks daddy
With case full of beer.
But Johnny sees not beer,
But a case full of cheer!
All with the help
Of that little black book.
Thomas Crone Mar 2013
A funeral is always a saddening thing,
For everybody is somebody to someone.
But some funeral scenes chill you to the bone
And one day in our town we had one.

A very young mother had died;
Something that you just don't expect.
And the shops and stores had all closed their doors;
They did it out of love and respect.

And in the crowded funeral home that day,
With everyone present weeping,
The sound of a little girl's voice was heard.
She said, "That's my mommie, she's sleeping."

Then I heard the sound of her little feet, "tap, tap, tap,"
As she made her way down the aisle.
Her little purse dangled from her tiny wrist
and it brushed her best Sunday dress,
And she boldly asserted the confidence
That little folks like her possess.

To the life that has no final chapter
There's no ending and no last mile.
The preacher and the rest were petrified,
But on the little girl's face was a smile.

She said, "Wake up, Mommie, wake up."
And still not satisfied she reached out with her little hand
And touched her face and cried.
Then the broken hearted daddy spoke
With a gentleness and with power,
And the words that issued from his lips
Was the sermon for the hour.

In a child like faith he told her
That the dead in Christ will rise
"God gave us his word," he said,
"And we know he never lies.

We can't wake up our sleeping Mommie,
But we know someone who can.
Baby, only God can wake up Mommie.
Let's go home and leave her in his hands."
I'm not a religious person, but that doesn't change my opinion towards this poem, and my desire to share it with the world.
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