"cashback" poems
In a room full of his art,
He stood as strangers admired.
There was only one subject -
The one woman on his mind.
He'd stopped time to draw her,
Living in that one second for hours or days.
He'd done it so many times
He filled the gallery with paintings of her face.
Iridescent eyes in black and white,
Blonde hair filling the canvas.
He'd seen her from every angle
And what a beautiful sight she was.
Then she was walking through the door,
Moving like air in her red dress.
She exuded the beauty and grace
That his artwork couldn't quite express.
If ever a person came out of a painting,
She was not the one.
No amount of talent and brushwork
Could captivate him like she'd done.
And his eyes did not stray now
As she bridged the space between them.
This meant he had a chance
To try and make things right again.
But he need not have apologized.
She sshed and told him, "It's okay.
This tells me so much more
Than you could ever say."
His paintings of her and only her
Were wherever they landed their eyes,
Save the window where she looked
And said, "It's snowing outside."
"Do you trust me?" he implored.
Curious, she asked, "Why?"
He said, "I need to show you something."
Then he made her close her eyes.
She trusted him - and then froze.
For he'd once again stopped time.
But then he let her into his secret world
And she couldn't believe her eyes.
Everyone they could see was still.
Even the snow floated in midair.
Everything was stopped in that second
And they were the only ones there.
They ran out in the not-falling snow,
Creating outlines with held hands.
He kissed her then, the snow like stars
And they'll decide when that second will end.
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 1:26 PM UTC
Flashbacks and personifications of appearance,
Cashback is the fornication of adherence
Shut! with your big mouth proverbial fantasies,
Can’t you see this big mountain is just Virtual Reality?
If this mud is all matter, then my blood can cure cancer
My peers say I’m crazy, but it’s just a chemical reaction,
Or perhaps my fears are lately just less than the decimal fraction
Ethereal imagery dazzling to the secular eye,
But still banes and trifles to what tomorrow holds
Either deal with idolatry or the baffling homunculi,
than fail stifling on the hallow roads…
Hold, should I materialize further than this?
No, I’d meteorite farther than this…
Aug 30, 2018
Aug 30, 2018 at 3:01 AM UTC
It’s 15:08 and I don’t want to go to work.
I don’t want to stand behind a counter that separates me from them,
Passing a false smile and I pretend to like it there.
Asking the same questions, customer after customer:
Would you like a bag? When it’s obvious.
Is that everything? When it is.
Would you like any cashback? When they don’t.
It’s not so much the job, or the people, it’s what they remind me of.
They remind me of what I have and what I don’t.
I have a job, but I don’t have a career; my career is lost somewhere.
I have more acquaintances than friends and that is lonely.
I have a friend, but I don’t have a best friend.
There is not a single soul that I confide in with every single last ounce of thought, no matter how much I want that.
No matter how generous a person is, I cannot tell them everything.
And I do. I want to tell them everything. I want them to know me and let me know that I am not all that strange; I am not wrong.
What does it feel like to feel right?
I’d like to know what that feels like most of all.
So as I place products on shelves for the consumers to consume, as I serve them with a smile and show them where the coffee is, as I watch the hours pass just wishing to be asleep again I always wonder:
What does it feel like to be loved?
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 11:00 PM UTC