If I were a cost
would it be worth
the effort to lay it down on paper ?

The woods would be
full of rotting timber
not fit to burn on page

The rivers would be
contaminated
with foul thoughts
from all the words
of poison that they spray

The clean up costs
would be prohibitive
The emotional cost
devastating

So trying to be
cost effective
leaves little to
be me

Then why do I continue to write poetry ? 😠

A fellow poet said,
   I might
        be a bot!
I want to insure
    everyone,
     I'm most
       Assuredly not!
For I'm certain,my
   poetry would
     improve a lot!

~
Lipstick to void. She is a race against time. The beveled past a disruption in her lines of influence.

Travel is dangerous, and tonight it darkens the highway of blood vessels coursing through her extremities. She wants to be luminous and under the skin.

While Dorothy dreams of tornadoes in Kansas, she dreams of remote climbs in lesser Glasgow, of party drugs in Tokyo. How many lights does she see?

In her hair are sixty circuits. But she waits, religiously inclined on the hotel bed. She drove through ghosts to get here wearing nothing but Las Vegas.

So strange at this hour, in a city full of sleepwalkers for the taking, she now dreams she's a bulldozer, she now dreams she's alone in an empty field.
~

For many years,
I didn't own a
television.
I didn't want one.
The news gave me
anxiety, and most of
the movies were
horrible.
Bad actors,
terrible acting
and predictable plots.

I wasn't buying any
of it.

My Dad loved
watching movies.
He often used the word,
contrived
when summarizing them.

I remember watching
The Grapes of Wrath
with him.
After the movie, Dad talked
about leaving in his will,
a list of his ten favorite
movies for his seven kids
to watch sometime.
He wanted us to know
him better.

He forgot about it and died
a few years later.
I always thought Dad had
too much faith in mankind.
But, after watching The Grapes
of Wrath again, maybe he
didn't.
I hope we all live until
we die.

Man craves reassurance,
I am nothing different to that.
We assemble groups of people to agree with us,
That the light doesn't just go out.
As if life were a dying lightbulb,
On an old lamp.
The kind that sits on my grandparents coffee table,
My family doesn't worship a symbol or God,
Will the light go out on them?
I believe in the man named God,
But we do not often talk,
My prayers are crude and unrefined.
Is that enough,
To keep the light on,
For a little long?
I fear not,
We will weep,
Becoming brittle.
People mourning shatter into shards,
For them, death is too far,
For them,
Death is the final friend.

The torn wings of a butterfly,                                                       ­                             
                                   ­                                                                 ­              
never lets them truly
fly,                                                             ­                                             
                   ­                                                                 ­                                
The wind never feels the same
                                                            ­                                                            
  but a different beauty still
  remains                                                       ­                           
                                                                ­                                                  
Lackluster and so fragile,                                                         ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­                         
   perhaps a little less
agile                                                            ­                            
                                                                ­                                                        
  I can still see their former
  light,                                                  ­                                
                                                                ­                                                      
  a beautiful butterfly in flight

Our caps flew like confetti.
Thank god I customized mine.
I'll keep it as a memento of all-nighters,
friendships formed in the academic trenches,
dismissive professors and group-project-tortures.

This isn’t another ‘drunk girl’ holiday, despite obvious similarities.
Our parents, sisters, brothers, and grandmothers are here.

We came in doe-eyed, holding overpriced planners,
and enough provisions for two year Mars missions.
We hoped to discover friends, decent Wi-Fi signals
and perhaps our adult selves.

Now we're holding diplomas, those future-proofing talismans.
Mine’s in molecular biophysics and biochemistry.
Which is wry, because when I was in high school,
my sister accused me of not knowing how to boil water.

I've been asked "What’s next?" a thousand times in the last month.
I have plans—but I was dying to shrug and say, “that’s tomorrow’s problem,” like I’ve spent major duckets, degree wise, but remain the ditzy blonde.
The standard graduate answer, I’ve heard, is "I dunno."
(though honestly, it’s a great answer).

Congratulations, all of you graduating overachievers out there—everywhere.
Go forth, be fabulous and find that next big dream.
Can you believe we actually did this?
Argh! I gotta go, someone wants another picture.
.
.
Songs for this:
What Dreams Are Made Of by Evann McIntosh
Summer Wind by Robert Mosci
Tomorrow by Wings