"admission" poems
Ladies and gentleman skinny and scout
I'll tell you a tale I know nothing about
The admission is free so pay at the door
Now pull out a chair and sit on the floor
On one bright day in the middle of the night
Two dead boys got up to fight
Back to back they faced each other
Drew their swords and shot each other
The blind man came to see fair play
The mute man came to shout hooray
The deaf policeman heard the noise
And came to stop those two dead boys
He lived on the corner in the middle of the block
In a two story house on a vacant lot
A man with no legs came walking by
And kicked the lawman in his thigh
He crashed through a wall without making a sound
Into a dry creek bed and suddenly drowned
A long black hearse came to cart him away
But he ran for his life and is still gone today
I watched from the corner of the table
The only eyewitness to facts of my fable
If you doubt my lies are true
Just ask the blind man, he saw it too
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 1:31 PM UTC
Failure is the hardest emotional hurdle to overcome.
It means the end of the adventure,
And worse,
That this particular end is your fault.
Failure means a creased brow, fidgety fingers, and knotted stomach
It means confrontation
And admission of guilt.
Failure means you didn't succeed.
When failure sneaks up on me at night,
Seeps into the skin on my back,
And wraps its slimy hands around my rib cage
When I'm in its vice grip
And I can't breathe
Will you give me CPR?
Aug 20, 2015
Aug 20, 2015 at 12:17 AM UTC
I’m walking across the street.
There is someone I have to meet,
My Mr. sun.
I’m looking for him on the green grass field where we met before.
Though I don’t see any trace of him, I’m still waiting.
I have best believe that I’ll meet him again.
But it seems like I won’t meet my sun,
because rain is pouring heavily all of the sudden.
I got my hopes down in a split of second.
I think, meeting you was just an accident, not destiny.
I’m ready to go home, I’m giving up.
It’s when my eyes catch the same light as before.
It’s when my heart feel the same warmth as before.
My Mr. Sun is standing before me.
“Hi, You.” Said Mr. Sun.
I got my hopes up again as you greeted me.
I forget when did I sign-up on any admission for admiration,
but now I’m admiring you.
I’ve never known that one conversation can lead to addiction, but I know now.
I’m addicted to you even when we’ve only met once.
Am I addicted to you?
Am I addicted to your warmth? Or
Am I addicted to you charm?
Please tell me, Mr. Sun.
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 12:28 AM UTC
*There is a place that I go
that exists within my mind.
And when I'm feeling troubled,
I can leave this world behind.
On wings of gossamer
I'll sail in airships made of mist
to sparkling shores of diamond dust
the golden sun has kissed.
There are unicorns with silver horns
and friendly dragons too.
There's griffins, fauns and centaurs
why, it's heaven's petting zoo.
The rain falls gently on my face
from tears the angels shed.
And blessings from The Father fall
like leaves on every head.
I'll swim in lakes of lavender
and also float upon my back.
to see a glittering rainbow there
with no colors does it lack.
There is no evil in this place
no envy, pride or hate.
For if I wish admission there,
I check them at the gate.
I'm kin to every heartbeat
and a soul mate to each star.
And I'm never lost or scared
for He's never very far.
And everyone is family there
the humans and the beasts.
There is no **********
There's no "greatest" and no "least".
Someday, I'll find thy solitude
and there I shall abide.
And I'll join the souls
that I have missed
upon thy mystic tide.*
Aug 2, 2017
Aug 2, 2017 at 10:13 AM UTC
I don’t think you understand,
because I don’t, this wasn’t what I planned.
So I’m wondering how you can understand, when I don’t.
I won’t lose myself loving you, I won’t.
You’ve got me feeling too many different things,
got me contemplating cutting our tethered strings.
Falling in love has me tripping
over my own two feet? Maybe. All I know is I’m slipping
face first into this tangled mess
and now guilt eats at me as I slip from your arms half dressed
in the mornings when all I want is to escape,
wishing I was Wonder Woman with that red cape.
I slip away, but it hurts-
but I’ve seen it; my family, we’re cursed.
Concerning love, we’ve had no luck
I can’t lose you, so I’m labeling us a causal ****
I hear you yelling now that you know my reasons,
promising our love could survive even the coldest season.
But how can he be so sure?
Doubts plague me as I slip toward his front door,
because love didn’t come with a brochure.
I hear you figuring aloud that I don’t love you enough.
You come to the conclusion,
“if this is how you feel, then I’ll set you free”
I got in my car, driving around till the clouds were dark and the clock said three.
Your words had been like knives,
but then I started thinking about my dad’s four wives.
My brain’s all jumbled,
it’s like there was one second left, I was on the one yard line, and I fumbled.
Is the risk worth it?
Could my heart even take the hit?
When I got home, in the dark I saw you standing
my heart was demanding
that I make my way over to you
but my brain said these feelings needed to be subdued.
I heard you say “I love you too much to set you free”
It was then when I looked in your eyes, love was all I could truly see.
My scalp tingled in realization,
as I floated toward you with some type of natural gravitation.
My heart had already taken the risk, without permission
and that’s when I mumbled my belated admission;
“I love you too and I’ll take my chances,”
My brain finally conceded to your romantic advances.
But really, truth was, I’d been under an illusion
because our love had always been a foregone conclusion.
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 4:31 PM UTC
In bed, I lay
upon my cushioned existence I stay
but outside the world's at play
birds swimming in the sky
and trees that gently sway
dancing the day away
and I continue to lie
the distant sounds
of yawning grounds
two parched lips
as the Earth does rip
let the rain come
so we may take a sip
heavens nectar
falls upon a discarded deckchair
striped like candy cane
blotched with the rain
scattered upon sandy dunes
could this be a monsoon
ironically late
but still worth the wait
paid patience admission at the gate
one ticket to wet wet wet
this is what patience gets
just need a raincoat
so I can appear in the matrix
how can you hate this
a neopolitan sky
dripping with colour
if I were a scholar
I could espouse on its many virtues
instead, I turn up my collar
and tip my hat
a little milk won't hurt you
an umbrella swung round a lamppost
and now I'm Gene Kelly
still wearing a raincoat
but dancing
romancing the moonlight
for night has snuck in the back door
like an absent teenager
but this too shall pass
soon the dunes turn to grass
and I too return to task
a new day
at play.
Oct 7, 2018
Oct 7, 2018 at 2:35 PM UTC
Last week, among friends black and white,
among some discussion of protests in Ferguson
and the related looting of stores, I invoked
the word. It was an admission, in a round
of confessions, of something about myself
that I didn't like: that I had perceived Michael Brown
in that way based on his possible participation
in a strong-armed robbery.
When Travon Martin was in the news,
I was inflamed like many others who wanted
George Zimmerman in jail for ******
The outcome of that trial was an injustice,
I was utterly certain. Why does this case
in Missouri feel different? More importantly,
Who is inside me that still wants to rise
in defiance of 48 years of learning how
to be a better person, a person without prejudices,
stereotyping, labeling of others, hurtful language?
Where is the hippie girl now? How does she live
with this other person? Am I Sterling, Gibson,
a hater and spewer of viciousness, a lover
of separation and separateness, that I should
invite damage to my own relationships
with those I love and cherish and respect?
What is a **** but a bully, and what is a bully
but someone who pushes words around like
weapons, spits them out indiscriminately,
so that they land on the already bruised heart
and set it on fire.
Whose heart, besides mine, now sits in smoke
and ash, with that word like a brand
still sore and permanent, having been spoken
aloud?
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 11:44 AM UTC
at the track today,
Father's Day,
each paid admission was
entitled to a wallet
and each contained a
little surprise.
most of the men seemed
between 30 and 55,
going to fat,
many of them in walking
shorts,
they had gone stale in
life,
flattened out....
in fact, **** it, they
aren't even worth writing
about!
why am I doing
this?
these don't even
deserve a death bed,
these little walking
whales,
only there are so
many of
them,
in the urinals,
in the food lines,
they have managed to
survive
in a most limited
sense
but when you see
so many of them
like that,
there and not there,
breathing, farting,
commenting,
waiting for a thunder
that will not arrive,
waiting for the charging
white horse of
Glory,
waiting for the lovely
female that is not
there,
waiting to WIN,
waiting for the great
dream to
engulf them
but they do nothing,
they clomp in their
sandals,
gnaw at hot dogs
dog style,
gulping at the
meat,
they complain about
losing,
blame the jocks,
drink green
beer,
the parking lot is
jammed with their
unpaid for
cars,
the jocks mount
again for another
race,
the men press
toward the betting
windows
mesmerized,
fathers and non-fathers
Monday is waiting
for them,
this is the last
big lark.
and the horses are
totally
beautiful.
it is shocking how
beautiful they
are
at that time,
at that place,
their life shines
through;
miracles happen,
even in
hell.
I decide to stay for
one more
race.
from Transit magazine, 1994
6.9k
I hear a knock upon my door.
Or was it there inside my head, where only ever dread for the things in life I can't obtain remains; No matter how hard I may in one form or another train?
And so I'll sell a piece of my soul yet again; My price of admission to taste love's glory for but a momentary grin.
With you it was so much different.
My heart is still broke, but my real loss is more than conviction.
I lost my heart, my soul, my vision.
A future bleaker than a demonic prediction.
My mind is racing as I try to relax but thoughts of you come rushing back.
I try to close my eyes to snore but there's always a monster lurking behind memory's door.
And as I recalled I saw my cursed fate,
Always here to be here but never to stay.
I'm airport luggage thrown and lost,
Maybe sought another day.
But I'll still love you through any amount of pain.
I've loved before you but never loved in this way: So full of passion and love for who we both are and could be. I'd marry you now and yet I've never stopped you to say that you're such an invaluable friend, and I'm sorry I can't be okay.
I hate that I'm not only jealous but hurt when I shouldn't feel so deeply burnt by the girl that stole my heart; She's so far beyond my worth.
But she came at night and without a knife she took my heart off it's throne in life, and put it kneeling like she had the key. As if some Divine being that, before we had even met, had my heart beat.
Your love for him is clear even from afar,
And so my heart will beat forever subpar.
So confusing are you truly to me.
The one thing I know is you are the one to whom my soul and heart chose to leave me to be.
Maybe heartless and soul-less should go hand in hand? Ripped from the body by something far greater than man.
Something unknowingly more than human, yet divined by human hands.
Ill be content that while I'm still so broke, She can be healed and her love will help her float: And she can finally forgive herself for the wrongs He wrote.
She'll shoulder the pain and strife of life,
With love beside her every night.
I can be okay but never better,
So I write to myself and you all this letter.
I'm high as a kite,
And just as exposed,
I will never not hear the call of my soul.
Depart away so you can hate me,
And close the chapter of my life called meaning.
I want only for you to be whole.
Regardless of cost, repercussion or role.
My love for you will live until dawn rises untouched by Earth's rock.
Yet ever haunting as a ghost who only ever knocks.
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 9:26 PM UTC
In conversation with my cousin,
she says, 'Oh my God, my
brother-in-law still remembers
you
as my cousin with the 'nice ass';
the 'hottie' from my wedding.
Still talking about me after
all these years, I see.
I couldn't help but think,
'wow, quite the first impression
I must make, or is it the
impression I leave BEHIND?'
and I felt the wheels spinning
in my mind, as they always do,
trying to decipher what the
appropriate response to
such an admission should be...
in this...particular...instance.
And I heard this voice in my
mind, shout, in its softest tone,
'I...AM MORE...THAN JUST...
A...NICE...ASS, if you take
the time to know me.'
So I realize that I find
the observation anything but
flattering.
Amusing, predictable,
redundant...yes.
But am I flattered, am I
even intrigued, or...
impressed, in the slightest?
Not at all.
For me, it is just...
inevitable entertainment,
among other things I
won't freely admit at this
time.
But if, and when, I happen
to lose any components
of my identity,
I can always remember,
that if nothing else,
I am...
(not my name, or even
my fetching idiosyncracies,
but...)
the 'Hottie with the
nice ASS', and
I wouldn't be able to help,
but smirk.
-by Mercurychyld
Copyrights
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 5:22 PM UTC
Two years ago on Valentine's Day
We had an attempt at reconciliation
And did 69 on a small sweaty couch
In a karaoke bar.
One year ago on Valentine's Day
You avoided eye contact with me and this year
You'll probably kiss someone else
And not talk to me but
That's okay.
Because it'll be just like three years ago
When I didn't know you and
I had a pretty good day.
I don't know. Maybe it won't be exactly like that.
I'm sorry, I'm not trying to deceive myself or anything,
It's just hard to say what real and what's
An admission
Of incompatibility.
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 12:02 AM UTC
My creativity has created this creation.
The outcome of my creation reflects only to the Creator.
The inner Narrator narrates a repetitive monologue.
Believe me, I've seen the films, and I've read that ******* blog.
Long logging of nights.
Internal.
External.
Fights.
Anger lasts.
I employed that past to take power away from fear.
Aware now of being here.
Consciousness.
Humbleness.
This doesn't come from admission.
Remission of a previous mission.
My dispositions constriction from speaking up.
**** that.
That cup.
That rig.
Spoon.
***
Drug.
Love is what I need.
Love is what I give.
Creating only a creation to love to live.
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 10:44 AM UTC
i woke up today to the world
drinking tea and chaos,
as if nothing has changed,
like the ground hasn't collided and
caused the water to rise or the
fact that the government just may not
care about us at all.
the debt we are in could last us a century,
and i'm not talkin' about the government funds,
i'm worried about how luck is never on our side
of the dead green grass but,
we can get through this.
i've never been one for religion, so
when i catch myself saying that i have faith,
it's feels like marbles in my mouth and
the glass is melting to form
a sculpture of how we could be
little or we could be big,
but only time will tell in between the seconds,
and that moment we know which we are,
i'll turn to you and tell you if the faith
is still crashing on my bad days
and i hope you'll stick around if it isn't.
if you don't stay, the earth may quake
close to a 8.5 and it will go down in history of
how difficult it was to piece back
my grounds.
so even if the world stops spinning,
i'll still spin it for you like when you used to pay
for my admission and walk me to my doorstep,
like there was nothing more dangerous
than leaving traces of my footsteps across my dewy
lawn.
i'll spin it like the beer bottle with the foam
settling at the bottom, just so i can see
something fluid move because
sometimes being fluid is more beautiful than being
solid since solidity only has one shape.
so once you tell me that you won't be there to spin my bad days
to good,
i'll leave you alone, like i would the dead
carcass of the deer we hit two days ago in your rusty
volvo but don't be surprised if you ever
wonder if i dream about you
and when the answer is
only every once
in a
while.
Mar 11, 2011
Mar 11, 2011 at 6:08 AM UTC
Far narwhaled
silly monkey speared
aquatic creature cucumbered
another mammal tonight
On the fishing boat,
they reeled in both bodies
the monkey frozen solid
narwhal flapping harmlessly
They asked the monkey how it happened
his reply was this:
So they took his wide-eyed frozen stare
as for an admission of guilt.
his shock spoke volumes like
a speaker being blown out.
Tonight, the sailors drink moonshine.
Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 12:12 AM UTC
~
The Giraffe Cries
Dancing on a thread of silk - taut of pain,
balanced deep within the fear…
Swaying to the side in calculated energy,
breathing as the sweat begins to pour
Toeing the line with blinders on
only to face the evil waiting - miles above my last breath
Shambles become my life’s dreams,
as fifty or so exit the compact car below- all doors ajar
Pointing skyward with gloved fingers and flowered bonnets
they gasp - splashing red paint of severed smiles
and floating eyebrows, merely decorations placed by hand
and contractual obligations
The rings add up to three - yet left alone I find is me,
teetering of lost imagination and breath taking nuances,
blanketing the sawdust creations
of worries portrayed in a gallery of netted promises
It is calling now for my end - free falling with wings to spare,
a calliope whistles its crescendo beneath a tent
pitched and heaved in frustration,
riding the rail lines of someone else’s thoughts
Not worth the price of admission - I wave
as I exit this cotton candy dream world in search of the nightmares slowly unfolding
along platform bridges of age
and destined footpaths
The train departs…the giraffe cries
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 12:40 PM UTC
This morning we jogged early
I was back in my flat by six-thirty
From my tenth floor view of the Charles River basin,
The morning was incandescently flushed by the peach-colored sun.
The transparent clouds seemed stylistically stained, artfully workshopped, which offered a softened, Tiffany glass effect wholly worthy of worship.
I can’t stop to admire it. I’m jamming things into suitcases.
Cramming things into boxes, giving things away.
I had a second interview Monday afternoon, for Johns Hopkins med school. They put the question to me:
“The semester starts in 18 days - can you do that?”
“Yes,” I replied, and just like that, I'm a Blue Jay.
Of course, I had to withdraw from the masters program but Harvard gave me a full (95K) refund - I think they’re more excited about my med school admission than I am.
I’m not afraid of discordant notes.
They change the landscape.
Take us to new emotional places.
Any major work is going to have them.
.
.
A song for this:
Hang on Little Tomato by Pink Martini
It's Amazing by Jem
Jul 31, 2025
Jul 31, 2025 at 12:45 AM UTC
crisp atmosphere, special ordered
for perfect pumpkin patching, apple picking,
stout sweaters all, a blueish autumnal sky,
orange 'n red leaves delivered on time
the old uber-man-grand-pa,
hired as a day driver,
saddles them up,
three generations all tucked in a
repeating mise en scène
a replay of some thirty years earlier,
when the now-father
was about the same age,
as his boy, three years aged
and yet so impatient
asking the same question
his father perfected,
in the same sweet voice,
at about the same time,
in the same way,
a little voice from deep in
the cavernous back seat,
sighing, squeaking with an
I've-seen-it-all ennui,
some mere five minutes into
the hour's plus journey
to the 'country' bound
"are we there yet?"
titters 'n snickers from assorted adults,
but grandpa weeps words with composition instant,
so many answers to such an important question,
so serious that an admission, confession
required, due you,
grandpa still asks the same question
every day of his life
it's Sunday and longish poems per Yeoman,
strictly verboten,
God knows there's an essay unwritten
as the answer, a symphonette with
a thousand opus, by-your-command repertoire,
a pumpkin for every patch,
some answers that even may be a
young prince's carriage in hiding
but for now let this suffice,
sometimes yes, sometimes no,
and sometimes, the goal line just goes and moves on ya
so with utmost seriousness
a purposed thoughtfulness proposed,
posing said inquiry knows no age limitation,
if you have not asked of yourself this day,
"are we there yet?”
then the answer is surely,
not yet
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 5:14 PM UTC
Dancing on a thread of silk - taut of pain,
balanced deep within the fear…
Swaying to the side in calculated energy,
breathing as the sweat begins to pour
Toeing the line with blinders on
only to face the evil waiting - miles above my last breath
Shambles become my life’s dreams,
as fifty or so exit the compact car below- all doors ajar
Pointing skyward with gloved fingers and flowered bonnets
they gasp - splashing red paint of severed smiles
and floating eyebrows, merely decorations placed by hand
and contractual obligations
The rings add up to three - yet left alone I find is me,
teetering of lost imagination and breath taking nuances,
blanketing the sawdust creations
of worries portrayed in a gallery of netted promises
It is calling now for my end - free falling with wings to spare,
a calliope whistles its crescendo beneath a tent
pitched and heaved in frustration,
riding the rail lines of someone else’s thoughts
Not worth the price of admission - I wave
as I exit this cotton candy dream world in search of the nightmares slowly unfolding
along platform bridges of age
and destined footpaths
The train departs…the giraffe cries
Jul 12, 2013
Jul 12, 2013 at 4:40 PM UTC
I'm not depressed
I just lack what society coins
Common sense
I live life in all 3 tenses
Because the past
Is the blueprint of my fences
That reign the present in
And I might as well live in the future
In case it never does begin
For sanity is not measured by statistics
The majority's vote does not determine what's realistic
For selfishly we work as a whole
Only as convenience
To reach our own goals
The size of our ambitions
Define the status of our positions
Although this would never reach admission
Independence gains ground by submission
Failure is measured by how well we cope
With the reality of our situations
And the absence of hope
Success however
Is measured by distance
Between the final outcome
And our feeble existence
As we try to conquer life
We digress from our true motives
Doing whatever it takes
To prove ourselves devoted
The ballots were never cast
Yet we take pride that we voted
For the notion that our drive
Is all that's keeping us alive
Is hidden in our conscience
Cuz we don't need it to survive
Life is constant, set in stone
Yet we are continuously changing
Spinning towards the unknown
Oblivious
Until we're all alone
With the thoughts in our minds
Releasing the binds
Which tie us to the perception
Built up by deception
That we begin living the moment we are born
When instead we don't awaken till we win the war
For you can not understand a revolution until you are free
Yet you can not be free till you have a revolution
Jun 2, 2011
Jun 2, 2011 at 1:34 PM UTC
Regrets, they come in waves and break around his feet
And he begins to wonder who he might have been
Had roads diverged in different woods and fields
Not yellow or yet any colour still unseen
But clearer now by day than windless nights
Still nearer than the objects of his dreams
It'd rained late into the evening, and when the lights were shaded
Around the pool outside and with the windows shuttered
He'd thrown on loose clothes, flicked open an umbrella
While high outside the stars the lightning flashes muttered
Pulled open doors that led to the veranda
And moved outside once more with all his thoughts unuttered
The smoke, from fires on Java lies heavy on his senses
An omen of the time of year and of the past condition
He shrugs, ***** in the acidic nighttime odors
Reviving lives not lived but revealing his admission
That time beyond the present that mirrors every movement
Within, without, and yet again, the flicker of suspicion.
The pistol in his pocket, illegal not unloaded
A symbol of his state of mind and by his sole discretion
He kneels beside the water, deep-set and in the shadows
Lips forming wordlessly around the last confession
Images of where and what and who and why and whether
A portent of that final action, sensing and impression
The smoke from fires on Java lies heavy on the water
The reek of cordite mixing with the smell of burning grasses
Indignant birds protest the crack of one small set expulsion
The echo round the swimming pool reverberates and passes
Nothing more and nothing less and time and space and matter
Slick red upon the treacherous tiles, the shattered bloodied glasses.
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 6:19 AM UTC
hospice is the admission
they bring morphine
the good stuff
it’s six months or less
a one way flight
of hosts and guests
now numb from the blast
there’s no turning back
it’s inside out
and your hardwiring
is resiliently engaged
to move you forward
into this final encounter
day after day
drinking red tea
with spoons and cups
of Bonanno and Kubler-Ross
their ghosts slurp
with you -
in your prepped room
your James Dean role
now flickers with light
on the ceiling
and you dream
a third stage bargain
that your son had been hit
instead of you
with this wicked sickness
then coolly counseled
by your wife
that it was no dream
just your mind
regulating - processing
you slump there
dying there
in front of a familiar wall
where you once taped
painted olives green
and sipped scotch
with your books
at night.
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 12:34 PM UTC