"admittedly" poems
Yes, it's seemingly a nonsensical rhetorical question, but, for that precise reason, it will illustrate a lesson, if you so desire to tag along for this short session.
Per Wikipedia, "The horse (Equus ferus caballus) is one of two extant subspecies of Equus ferus. It is an odd-toed ungulate mammal belonging to the taxonomic family Equidae." Hmmm... I much prefer that the horse goes "Nay," eats hay, has a mane, and is ridden by cowboys, cowgirls, Indians, equestrians, knights, jockeys, conquistadors, Mongols, and all. Even better, just point a horse out or otherwise show a picture to a kid and they will never be mistaken again. Even the littlest ones will never be stumped when faced with a rhino, tiger, giraffe, camel, and such.
Admittedly, there is a worry that we could be fooled with that of a donkey or mule. How come no one has taken advantage of this?! What a scam to get us rich! "Duh doy," you say, cause we all know when we see a horse, so why would anyone try to trick us with an *** Well I ask you in turn, why does anyone try to trick us with good art versus bad, let alone art versus crap? How could anyone fall for that?!
Jun 10, 2018
Jun 10, 2018 at 8:48 PM UTC
I don’t think this is an addiction.
No, honestly, it’s just the cat.
No, really, I just fell,
No, I’m positive, I hit a table and-
I don’t think this is an addiction.
If it were an addiction,
I would have to be out of control,
And I’m not doing it five times a day,
now am I?
Though admittedly I think about it,
Five hundred times a day this-
This is not an addiction.
This is not an addiction, I assure you,
when I’m well aware that’s what this is,
When I smile and say that “I’m fine,”
I hope you come to realize that most times,
It’s a lie, and-
“No, really, I ran into the coffee table,”
I grumble to my therapist.
I’ve gotten so good at hiding this that,
“No, I’m serious” and a forced look of honesty
Somehow gets me by.
“This is not an addiction,” I cry,
When I know, deep inside,
That, again, that is was this is.
This.. This is an addiction.
Cuts not healing for three weeks,
Thinking about it for hours at a time,
Wanting the euphoria of bleeding,
On the bathroom floor,
This.. This is an addiction.
This is an addiction, I scream,
Finally taking it for what it is as my friends,
My lover,
My mother,
All yell at me to put my blade down,
To lay down,
To breathe.
They scream at me
To end this seemingly endless cycle
That I’ve been going through
For a little over five years.
The nurse practitioner I saw the other day,
Told me,
“I want you to have a list
Of thirteen things
You can do before you resort
To cutting.”
And I want that to happen.
But this..
This is an addiction.
And it’s going to take a long time to recover.
So far,
I’ve managed to stop the police calls,
The hospital visits,
Some of the more larger issues.
The ones that leave me
worse off than where I started
To an extreme.
I’m still recovering.
I think I’m always going to be recovering,
I don’t think it’s ever gonna leave the back of my mind..
But this.. This is not an addiction.
This is recovery.
Mar 18, 2019
Mar 18, 2019 at 3:44 PM UTC
Songster, not as sinister as they say,
she's no monster, just admittedly
a bit lost in her way.
she caves as I'm walking
down the hall.
I pick her up, off of that flooring,
the rubbery kind, whatever it is,
I guess it's rubber, but the kind that
squeaks when you walk on it after
coming in from the rain; to hell with poetry.
And so anyways I pick her up
and sit her on this bench next to me
and give her about five minutes to come to
terms with breathing and pick shimmering
auburn hair out of the tears smeared across her face,
two, mesmerizing, perfectly blue wells
the source of the streams.
And then I ask her what that
was all about and she blurts out that she
belongs in the Fine Arts Department,
and her car broke down months ago
but her father
doesn't give a **** about it,
because she can't lay up the basketball
or steal the base and so he honorably
lump summed her entire tuition
and sent her to another state
and how ****** she would be
if she had to get a job for the first
time at the age of twenty three
so she wouldn't have to be
dependent on her family and
that she was sick of wondering why
not a single guy had ever given her
a ******* flower
and that if she ever did end up liking one
two weeks later she would find out that he
was exactly the same as the others and
she had a broken look in her eyes
when she said she wondered why we were
all here in the first place, and how we were
made this way, and if people were actually
ever meant to fit together or not;
*what if there was nothing as certain
as two halves making a whole?*
She wanted to know how everyone's
mind had a different game to play,
she wanted to know why Jupiter
had to be so far away and everything in
between.
We had strolled off of the school grounds by
this time but I still looked twice before pulling out my flask.
I unscrewed the cap, handed it to her and said
*follow me to Deadbeat Hollow,
where we've already thrown
our problems out of the window*
and she said
lets go.
May 11, 2012
May 11, 2012 at 9:46 PM UTC
I'm starting to think it's me.
Maybe I ask to much,
though, admittedly,
maybe's it's because
I don't know what I am asking for?
I am starting to think, it's me.
Maybe I am the problem.
Or maybe that's just the voice in my head,
like a vice,
crushing any minor thing,
like an atom,
until it splits with the force of a thousand suns.
Or maybe it's everything else,
me included.
Maybe I just say it's me,
because I am my biggest bully,
and easiest target.
I thought I was asking for simple things,
but nothing seems simple anymore.
I just want these ropes untied from my hands.
Trapped in my own mind like a hostage,
who doesn't care if they make it out.
There is no greener grass on the other side,
I just wish this grass wasn't wet.
Sticking to me like feathers and tar.
I'm starting to think that I am just coasting along,
waiting for someone to help me fix my boat for me, before it sinks.
Aug 6, 2018
Aug 6, 2018 at 9:40 AM UTC
He would declare and could himself believe
That the birds there in all the garden round
From having heard the daylong voice of Eve
Had added to their own an oversound,
Her tone of meaning but without the words.
Admittedly an eloquence so soft
Could only have had an influence on birds
When call or laughter carried it aloft.
Be that as may be, she was in their song.
Moreover her voice upon their voices crossed
Had now persisted in the woods so long
That probably it never would be lost.
Never again would birds’ song be the same.
And to do that to birds was why she came.
5.6k
i am the wiggling worm
writhing on the slippery sidewalk
on a cold, and dreary,
rainy day.
i weave the baleful boots
yield the pernicious puddles
on a cold, and dreary,
rainy day.
i am pelted by relentless rain
pummeled by its wanton weight
on a cold, and dreary,
rainy day.
you may ask, "why wiggling worm?
why take this cursed course
on a cold, and dreary,
rainy day?
have you no humbled home
have you no able abode
on a cold, and dreary,
rainy day?"
"i am the vivacious vagabond," i reply
"i am admittedly ambulant,
on this cold, and dreary,
rainy day.
because i must agnize affliction
i must debase duress
on this cold, and dreary,
rainy day.
if i am to appreciate the bountiful bloom
i must know the duteous doom
such as this cold, and dreary,
rainy day.
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 3:25 PM UTC
I've done a lot of things I'm not proud of
but I can't be tied to those forever
so people forgive and forget
I try to forget but still feel bad
and I know there are still sore subjects
that I should be sensitive about.
Scrolling through Reddit I see a post
of Māori students at an airport
greeting their returning teacher
with a traditional Māori war dance
which was an admittedly sweet gesture
but something didn't sit right with me.
I wondered why the students greeting their teacher
had to do so through a display of militaristic nationalism
I wondered if that was the last dance the Moriori people saw
before the Māori genocided them for their resources
I wondered if the Māori danced like that
as they ***** murdered, and cannibalized the Moriori.
Wondering all of this made me ask myself:
Why did they have to greet their teacher like that?
The students wanted to make a big gesture
which dancing is perfect for
but dancing can also be vulnerable and embarrassing
because people may mock how you express yourself
but strangers at the airport are less likely to laugh at you
if you're doing a synchronized dance with a group of people
and the dancing is recognizably tied to national identity
because then it's a culturally rich dance
you're a xenophobe for laughing at
and that's what nationalism is:
strength in numbers and a readymade identity
in lieu of an individual personality
oftentimes for the sake of pistanthrophobia.
So as I read the circlejerking comments on the post
I wondered what the difference is between
a Māori war dance and a **** salute
I guess the Māori people have experienced
more oppression than Nazis
but nationalism is nationalism
and those who have oppressed are oppressors
and many who are oppressed would gladly
be oppressors given the chance.
Nationalism isn't healthy for culture
and often isolates people from other cultures
that are all combining due to globalization
which people fight to preserve their little dances and costumes
so we can stay in eternal conflict over delusions of supremacy
when the only nationality should be a global one.
Aug 28, 2022
Aug 28, 2022 at 8:41 PM UTC
Indulge me for I'm sat looking at a scarf
As I transport rather splendid G and T
To its final destination
Not mine I hasten to add, my scarf that is not the gin
Purple not my colour you see
I had issue with burgundy as a child, frightful memories
I digress but it was left behind like a signature
Not intentionally just in a sweet forgetfulness
I can't pick it up, crazy as it sounds
I mean if I did it would be real not imagery
The moment lost, but no real moment as I can't feel it
Do you understand ? Perhaps not
I have admittedly been reminded of its presence
I imagine it's scent, no I imagine her scent
Her presence in the room, her smile lifts me
I mean it's just a scarf I mean it can't exist can it?
Do we leave a little of ourselves behind?
Emotion like lost property
I don't know, I honestly don't
Is there a course for metaphysical disorientation and the re repatriation of lost purple scarfs?
I guess not. I'd probably fail in any case.
It will still be here tomorrow. In plain sight, just hidden from my reality
Goodnight scarf.
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 9:55 PM UTC
You claim a fortress you've built of yourself
To guard you from feeling anything
Why the need?
We've all been hurt, even us two, and yet we still let people in
Let you in
You say the ache creeps in anyway
Until you focus on anything else and it fades
You don't need to salve the ache yourself
Admittedly the tendrils of feeling are seductive indeed
You said yourself, hold on love
Let us sit in the stars with you, and disperse the chill in your bones
Take us to your cabin all alone, together
We are not the malicious, mocking, twisting agony from you
We will never extract from your veins
The poison of your pain
For us to drink later, and make ourselves feel powerful
We only lift, and cradle, and cocoon
We never step aside, laughing at your failure,
Yourself shattered into a thousand pieces on the pavement
Why the fortress?
Be an openness
Reveal to us, your fears, your questions, and dreams and we will give you calm
Fight your demons
Rejoice your triumphs
Not for you, but with you
Are you truly better alone?
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 4:09 PM UTC
***** feet
***** of them ache
they're dry
all dried out, moisture to face and digestive tract make little difference
but comfort a little sort of; maybe
subdue to replenishing
skip the pain with a drink fucken, fucken drink fucken
dust lingers in the brain, it swirls
a cloud of ground envelops the shape of u
u become covered
u have a layer,
salty,
and dry
and 'organic'
(surely bio (though im not sure what is or why are))
full city boy, suburban boy, not particularly gritty boy
along side hippies
and volunteers all tripppy
and unwashed, and un plastic
yet forcefully hemped
drunk of micro beer
and burnt brown and blotchy red
and wire-y
and dry
and matted
as if nothing really matters except for principles
misguided and randomly enforced
feel like a husk; peanut shell
insides swallowed by the mouth of the party embodied
a monsterous sweaty man tanned and thickly bearded
and beered
fat dreads fall around and surround u; a forest of hair
a circle encroaching of fuzzy pillars in fibres
entrapped inside them; feel their lingering time matted hold
a wealth of effort to become unkempt; they are bars
they are walls
and the FACE!
……………………… ………………………………… oh
looming down, wafts of armpit vapour cloud; a looming puft that surrounds
engorged by the scent as it circles u, the mouth that lowered onto u
chews u and spills bits of u
chomp chomp
protein for vegetarians; u; ur rigour ur vigour ur guts
eaten in a flurry of chomps and slurps and it crunches
and it grates
like the rocks on the ***** of ur feet it grates
u are digested
and reused
as they would like
but for them; for a collective u dived into
for fun
2 days to peddle ur wares
to progress ( admittedly through some days of regression…)
for all humans, and Humans; for fun
on monday we will repent
for the damages waged on the inside of the body
and the outsides too
for some gain
i guess on this which we settle
for always for display for fun
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 2:10 AM UTC
So here we are, just you and me. On the edge of everything and nothing, we sit staring out into the ocean of things we wish we’d done.
We hold hands, it’s a formality. I’m scared. You soothed my anxiety, because even though I was scared of you, I knew everyone else was too.
I miss making you coffee in the morning, I wish I’d loved YOU more. You always had that massive mug with two teabags or two tablespoons of coffee.
I wish your family and I could have worked. Please don’t think for a second I didn’t try. Most of my time spent at yours was on eggshells, the ones they had placed.
I miss our first year, your second. Remember that? We were so silly and full of joy. Gimmick Puppets, Plants. You and your stupid trenchcoat that ended up smelling awful no matter how much you washed it. Your long hair was nice. I liked it. It framed your smile that was as bright as the Sun that set in the West over Zephyr’s strawberry field.
The light sank in your eyes the more you were with me. I drained you, I knew that. I stayed. I lied. You didn’t trust me anymore.
I’m happy, admittedly lonely. But I know you’re happy, scared but happy. It’s always been my job to appear, do what I must (whether I know what that is or not) and watch over. The bear finds another like him, and as I remember mentioning a few times, as we lounged lazily on the sofa with our cereal, playing every bit the monsters others cast us out to be;
What on Earth is a bear doing with an angel?
Jun 25, 2016
Jun 25, 2016 at 5:05 PM UTC
My father's long fingers smooth
over the aged scratchy pleats.
The Kilt is magnificent. It has the
fleeting beauty that only a well
kept antique has, that warm
firelight glow of the past.
It has a few scuffs and holes,
but the somber reds and greens of
clan Mackintoish have settled into
the cloth and darkened pleasantly.
The kilt is always the most important detail,
it has passed from grandfather down,
and it looks as handsome now
as in the sepia photographs on our shelves.
The dirks black ornate hilt rests
heavily against his hip, and the
belt is cinched tightly to hold it up.
you can practically hear bagpipes
My grandfather's dark green cotton socks
sit near the top of my father's calf
and he leans over to adjust the frills.
And as his tan wrinkled brow furrows
in concentration, and his admittedly
attractive white whiskers scrape
across his collar, and the image
nears completion, the drum beats louder.
Reaching up from the ancient past
and grasping the future in tradition,
the ghosts of ancestors enter his poise,
and he suddenly appears less like
my father and takes on the swagger
of a cocky fisherman, of pirate.
He is swinging swords
and playing pipes, and cobbling, and
setting stones upright in ancient
forgotten ritual, and tossing cabers.
I know looking at him now,
what my own ghosts will be
when my time comes.
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 8:16 PM UTC
You are my man my chosen companion
the decades now seem just a flash
living desires dreams working and children
decisions admittedly rash
distance and merging the laughter and anger
have taken full space in their turn
most times I feel ageless with graceful awareness
know it is for now that I yearn
what a surprise your fine chest has grown ******* now
and I pluck the hairs from my chin
I never thought we would morph into this stage
my partner my lover my friend
Aug 2, 2012
Aug 2, 2012 at 10:04 PM UTC
the coffee's too bitter
and i'm losing sight
of a rose-colored dream
that tethers me to actuality.
i wish i could sleep but
the acridness permeates,
feeding my mind with a thought
that runs, and falls,
and caves in—
like a dying star,
devouring any hope of
a good morning's delight.
the unwelcome has now stirred awake,
so i hide between these words
and wait for salvation to
take me under its wing.
alas, the clock keeps on ticking.
maybe peace never visits at night.
Jul 11, 2019
Jul 11, 2019 at 1:23 AM UTC
I've spent the last 3 months in rehab
rebuilding myself after you tore me down
and admittedly there's still pieces of me I haven't found
little pieces at the bottom of your sea, drowned
It's a struggle everyday to get by
yet as time passes, nanoseconds at a time
I remember less how great you felt,
how without you I though I'd die
And like every ****** and great addiction
I relapse, back into my rose coloured world of fiction
as much as I long to be clean, I guess I subconsciously
like it better when you're mean, ruthless
and equate me to dirt, as though I like it better
when it hurts
or else why, what keeps me falling back
with every unintentional relapse
and though I may not physically let you in
your venom that I crave seeps into my skin
that every time I acknowledge your existence
you win
Now, I know this isn't a game, win or lose
it's that dark, shadowed, familiar path I choose
because pain is always better shared between two
And, thus I'm back to rehab today
so that I might find a better way
to hold myself up and to myself say
It was never love,
just a drug induced hallucination
my chemical flooded brain caused adoration
and the constant feeling of fascination
that you're immune to it all
and it's my favorite addiction
but I can't last as a ******
cause this is real life, fact not fiction.
Jan 29, 2011
Jan 29, 2011 at 10:44 AM UTC
The last time I saw you, you were standing there at the gate, watching me walk away
I was trying to look cool, like nostalgia in motion
That’s a difficult thing to pull off when you’re constantly looking back
You were smiling and waving, like it was all gonna be alright
I secretly hated you for that
Everything in my being screamed at me to turn around, to run back to you
I wanted to take your hand in mine and pull you out of there like Wayne did to Cassandra…
Only I didn’t
I did my duty
I turned around one last time at the end of the longest hallway in the world and stole one last look
Blinking back the burning sensation in my eyeballs and the tightness in my throat
And then I plodded on
Just like I was supposed to
I had a stabbing pain in my gut like things would never be the same again
Like the WE we were was dying and going away forever
At the time I dismissed that sharp unbearable thought as sentimental weakness
The sloshy musings of an admittedly overdramatic youth
Never would’ve guessed my gut knew so much more than my thirsty brain
With its linear logic and high powered deductive reasoning
I told myself we’d be together again soon
I told myself to focus on the task at hand, and you’d be the reward waiting for me at the end of it all
The bright white light at the end of my long dark tunnel
I told myself you’d be the sunshine on the other side of the mountain
Knowing somewhere deep down it wasn’t true
Knowing somewhere deep down, that the WE we were
Now existed only in my fondest memories
Only in the dark moments I would occasionally indulge on the cool side of my pillow
I turned around
And walked out of your life
Jun 26, 2013
Jun 26, 2013 at 12:50 PM UTC
Look behind everything you’ve been told, and see the lies unfold
Not everything is as it seems, as though we may try to avoid plots and schemes
A world awaits where we be zipped up and laying inside a cage
Perhaps infinite fires of the souls delight, might pry forbidden truth’s to sight
We’ve only read of hell, but what indeed if we be internally brought to the plate, the brim, the fiery pits of dark sin
I’ll sing hymns of anarchy and bleed my lips bare dry
I’m a woman made of fury
With eye’s that seek means of a way to purity
This is who I am
Though the world seems to try and shut me down
Fury... builds into rage, not always staged
Shalt you be enraged?
Though meant for a stage
Admittedly so, you’ll be witness of my show
That just like the snow will fall on the heads of those who don’t know
©Jessica Stull
Dec 14, 2018
Dec 14, 2018 at 12:15 AM UTC
I was waiting for a simple message from you that
we both know was never to come. I sat impatiently
atop the cities tallest building and watched the coming
storm. I witnessed the water beat the feeble earth
into submission and it looked alright to me. But then
the raging sinless sea swallowed the shore. The end
of our hometown (est. 1919) took about a minute
and a half. A man leapt out of his chair and said it
was amazing as the punishing, purifying wave tore
into his home of 20 years. The coin laundromats and
malls became the shallows and downtown by the Top 40
radio station became the deep. Clown fish swam amongst
the stop lights, trash cans and satellite dishes. And a
coral reef began to grow deeply into the brick of the tasty
Greek restaurant at the corner of MLK and Main. Eels and
rays swam up the sidewalks and hammerheads patroled
the submerged skyscrapers. Admittedly, a lot of the
busy people who didn’t take the time to look out their
smudged windows and watch the water devour the flood
walls and seafront property didn’t make it out of their
homes and cars and schools and businesses. And those
people that didn’t make it to the outskirts of the metro in
time were quickly drowned and integrated breathlessly into
the oceanic food chain. The deep began to kiss my ankles
and I thought I would surely drown. I surmised that you
probably weren’t thinking about us at that moment and that
it was for the best. You had other matters on your mind.
I watched a miniature apocalypse take place and
I thought I should probably call and quickly tell you
that everything you ever loved was gone or going.
I decided against it.
Anything I say to you is gonna come out wrong anyway.
Aug 25, 2012
Aug 25, 2012 at 2:11 AM UTC
Back in January seeds started flowing
From the balcony.
On Sunday we read
The poems of the deaf and
Watched the matches stumble
Drunkenly through the darkness.
In March my hips began to
Fill out like my mother’s.
A monsoon of bullet ants
Waged war along the perimeter of the bath.
I squashed three under my thumb.
Hide, I told them. I have dropped mercy off the edge of the hanging bridge.
In May the stars were soft,
The ants came back to bite me in my sleep.
I tried to clasp your nose to keep you warm
But all the heat had flown from our bodies.
Sacrifices were made along the way.
The ants, admittedly, least among them.
May 25, 2020
May 25, 2020 at 6:53 PM UTC
What steps he took, after losing his edge
Cocky **** running wild in days, never slept
Took drugs, took women, took men
Never slept again
What cliffs she admired, after seeing the edge
Tormented in fuzzy daydream childhood afternoons
She came down and stayed for days
An obsession with time to the point of stasis
I think I'm losing my edge
He thinks he's dead again
She lost the bed again
A faceless man was sat on a bench by the seafront
Hood high, said goodbye
Told me his missed the old style, wants more
Told him I was tired and this is whorish
What vines are these, that bound my ankles
and I was screaming into vacuums, grand clocks, strange houses
Safe houses that become embers
Magic men, shaman, shaggy hair, danced there
To use words in multiple places, placing clues
A whole story, absolute, read it backwards, forewords
iTunes shuffle function, on the poetry of the soul
(if it exists)
But he lost his edge again
Yes he went to Africa, saw the face of God and the Devil, unification
Iboga, uneasy stomach, vomited and killed them all
Watched the world burn, and children dance
Bluebell Lucy on arrival, back home
Taunted the skies, saved the proletariat
Grew wild roots and sang, some seraph
Admittedly not an architect, or a poet or **********
How many people have made these allusions
Sold drugs, killed men, ran home, all there, ghost of government
Hedgerows grew wild, were noticed and cut down
Still praise beatitude, Ginsberg, love-made, Kerouac, still plays
She was Hannah and she was Malcolm, also Marvin
He was them too, all the same, transcendental self-infatuation
Peach trees, coloured blinds, ashy scattered floorboards
Burnt home, music playing, popular culture
All free-form even with formality
A stream of conscious way of life
Outlook unsure
He thought he lost his edge
Turns out s/he never had it
Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 12:26 PM UTC
It's better I give
While life's within;
The situation's
Sin-win-win-sin.
I must appear as an altruist,
But scratch, you'll find a hedonist.
And so I give more than receive,
The pleasure's in giving,
I'm not deceived.
Been one all along;
It feels right to be wrong.
Admittedly so.
I'm a hedonist.
I amass such joy
Reaping the benefits.
Jan 3, 2017
Jan 3, 2017 at 7:54 PM UTC
Beethoven's Ninth;
Mozart's Thirty-Eighth;
What do they lack
Artistically speaking?
They lack the music of the buttocks,
The celestial odourous ****
Which charmeth all who hear it.
Although admittedly Schubert
Left an unfinished movement
On the floor near his piano
And the whiff was something horrid.
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 10:03 AM UTC
This was a handwritten letter that wasn’t patient enough to wait in the mail. I am a supporter of writing letters.
Our world is drifting from the simplicity of pen and paper. We love to complicate things in life.
I hope this letter can be a simple reminder that there is happiness and hope, even in darkness that reminds you of ink.
The first time I saw you my mind raced to memories of summer days at the beach; campfires; the sound of the ocean.
I thought, “She has no idea how beautiful she is. It doesn't cross her mind that girls envy her and men desire her. She is too concerned with the sound of laughter, and how it makes the darkness step back.”
I make a lot of assumptions, mostly unjustified, about people I cross paths with. But I am sure you are justified in feeling like royalty. You look like happiness.
A fort in the living room that looks like a castle, and cookie dough that tastes like heaven. If the opportunity crosses my path, I would give anything to meet you.
If you walked in front of me, I would think you were a shooting star and make a wish.
Don’t change. Shine unapologetically. You illuminate the humans around you.
Admittedly, the desire to write this letter is still unknown. The desire is there and so here are the words.
Aug 4, 2014
Aug 4, 2014 at 12:43 AM UTC
this is a fine morning and the man in the bathroom mirror smiles
though he admittedly isn't the friendliest person but honestly
he seemed genuinely glad to be awake and alive on such an Autumn day
with the birds chirping and the window near the kitchen slightly ajar
allowing safe passage to a nice chill breeze. he finds the cat up as well
meowing "Good morning!" cheerfully and innocently in its tiny cat voice
and he chuckles and meows back in the most accurate manner available.
on the kitchen table there's a mug of coffee, the newspaper rolled like a cigar,
a plate of waffles, bacon, scrambled eggs and powdered happiness which
the man gobbles wholeheartedly while reading the day's fresh headlines:
President Declares Peace on Earth, Local Man Defeats Dog - Gives Too Many Treats,
Cop Buys Medical Lemonade From Child's Lemonade Stand, World Hunger Exterminated...
permitting the felines to rule our existence was truly the best of ideas!
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 2:37 PM UTC
.
“You’re the one that I lean on”
Emotions
Emotions
Emotions.
How do I expose my ulterior when I had shut down my interior.
My motives remain different but still plastered with the same smile I put out on my exterior.
But this.
Slightly different.
Wholly honest.
Well I would hope so.
After all this is a piece with the heat of the moment.
Black and white.
White paper, black ink.
Nothing more, hopefully nothing less of the truth.
Within, without your pain or mine.
I want you to have your specific happy ending.
If you do believe that happiness is non existent and your toxic fully carries you and makes you feel.
Nothing to do with being alive. It just makes you feel.
Then let your toxic consume till the day your soul tells you otherwise and pleads for you to settle.
Let what you want and dream of happen now.
I wish you nothing but all that you desire.
There’s never ever any negativity that I would wish for you.
But admittedly my pain will always be written and if you take it as a jab to your chest.
Truly do not.
I only express my truth to poetry.
Don’t let it make you think negative of yourself.
Allow it to show that I’m human, I hurt, I feel, I love and laugh.
Just find your own Happy ending.
I’m radiating positivity to you.
Jun 2, 2019
Jun 2, 2019 at 1:23 PM UTC