"daycare" poems
awakened by the
offsprings cry,
baby powdered
morning dew
showers the room,
coffee stained smiles
shine about
cheerio blanketed
kitchens,
so worrisome
for office tardiness,
the carseat won't lock
into place,
tire marks on
fresh paved driveways,
to daycare tears dry not
she's on time,
fatigued she plants
her seed to the office seat
to grow even less
awaiting to see the smile
of her child and say
her prayers before
falling asleep
-
awaked by the
offsprings cry,
gun powered
morning dew
showeres the village,
rotted teeth smile
amongst the
body-blanketed township,
so worrisome of finding
a slain mother
sister
brother
just like father,
the gun won't lock
into place,
they never will,
tattered couches
paved with the
***** of
slaughtered buildings,
mother's dead
tears dry not,
fatigued,
hands of
grungy drainpipes
plant beside,
holding stagnant
a somber sibling,
tremors ripple
crimson tides,
planted to
grow even less
awaiting to see
the smile of
his mother
his father
his sister
and say his prayers
with brother
before laying down
Aug 26, 2015
Aug 26, 2015 at 8:29 PM UTC
Isela
takes it in
the mouth.
She'd get on her knees,
positioning herself
half-in,
half-out
of focus.
Just enough for Joe,
behind the Cannon,
to capture
the whole thing.
Eric,
the producer,
was on his hands and knees
beside Joe.
'Come on Izzy
work it,
work the dick.'
'That's right,
stroke it,
make him sing.'
'I love it,
Izzy.'
Izzy wanted to bite
down.
She hated each and every ****
she ever saw,
but she had a few things to do.
Her **** had to be new
and renewed
on the daily,
her ***** had to get wet
on command,
and her stroke had to be
so fast
they'd burn the dude
as her mouth
cooled.
After her mouth
was littered,
and her face was a mess
of spinal glitter -- You could make a man
come out of his
brain, Eric would say.
Izzy would get in her car,
wiping her arm
where'd she'd gone
to the clinic
to get pricked
and tested,
and pull a long haul of Virginia Slims
down her throat.
'
It was always the first sweet thing
she tasted.
Izzy would pull into the Terrace View apartments,
all that long black hair,
and wipe all that make-up off,
three napkins-worth,
so she could kiss her baby.
Because Rocco was in for a bid,
and not coming home anytime in
the forseeable future.
Her microbiology degree was somewhere
in her closet underneath those pink stillettos and
more fishnets than fish.
And Izzy knew
that with those double d's;
*** like a backseat,
mouth that could grease
a ****
and her hands
Eric liked to call his own,
that she could pay the light bill
and maybe
put Romeo
into a daycare center
that wasn't full of roaches
and
angry *******
"Someday I'll get out,
but it's illogical
to say
with all the money I'm making,
and it's just a job
when you get down to it,
I've ****** a lot of *****
and never gotten
paid."
Rocco Jr.'s cheeks were always the second
sweet thing
she tasted.
"I know a lot of girls
that got defeated by this game."
Mar 23, 2012
Mar 23, 2012 at 1:08 AM UTC
Mr. Rory Richards
Lived his life,
Taking garbage
Out at night.
He shovelled drives
He swept walks,
He listened intently
While others talked.
Others talked.
When Rory wasn't
Weeding the garden,
He was outside
Hanging laundry.
Moms were jealous,
Dads were shamed,
But whispering neighbours
Never complained.
Rory's good
At the husband game.
He presented well.
The neighbours continued
To tsk and tsk.
On his way home
From work,
He picked up the kids
From daycare,
He'd find time
To volunteer there.
He'd have treats
At home for them,
And their friends.
He volunteered with
Cubs and Scouts,
Always finding
Extra time
For jamborees
And overnights.
One day the cops
Came on the scene,
Rory wasn't
What he seemed:
His computer
Showed a different man,
A lurking, luring
Child **** fan.
And the neighbours'
Tsks cresendoed.
At his trial
He sat abandoned,
But neighbours there
Gave witness to
A man they thought
They surely knew.
A family man
In his pew.
All his life
He lived beside them,
A man they let
Their kids rely on.
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 10:38 AM UTC
Four years old.
Four years old is the perfect age
To know enough about yourself
And not enough about the world.
To know everything you absolutely need to know
Before the world strips it away
And replaces it with a fake sort of knowing.
Four years old,
Old enough to recognize something that will drive you
For the rest of your life.
Four years old was I,
And four years old was he,
Mattie,
My Mattie,
When we met in the sticker-burr ridden play yard
Of a daycare,
And at four years old,
We became peaceful companions,
Slower,
Quieter,
And just a bit more odd,
Than the rest.
At four years old,
Mattie had a silliness about him,
And a funny way of talking through his missing teeth.
At four years old,
We avoided the violent, flying swings and sprinting, shrieking children,
And we scoured the outskirts of the yard
For four leaf clovers.
Mattie was a four leaf clover.
Incredible,
Unique,
And found by chance.
Because Mattie’s silliness and funny voice and missing teeth
Were not simply because we were four years old,
But because
Mattie came from a mom
Who couldn’t stop.
Mattie’s mom couldn’t stop doing drugs,
Not for a single day.
Not when her belly swelled with Mattie inside,
Not when he came into the world,
Breathing the air she did,
Drinking the milk she made,
Mattie’s mom couldn’t stop.
He was buried beneath clusters of clovers,
And his four, perfect leaves were nearly withered away,
When his parents found him.
His parents,
Two incredible women,
Who had so much love in their hearts,
They couldn’t help but let it overflow
Into the cup of a small child with bright eyes and dwindling breath.
Mattie,
My four leaf clover,
Is happy today.
Today,
Mattie,
No longer four years old,
But a man,
Is about to be a doctor.
My four leaf clover,
Who looked to his mothers like the most beautiful child that was ever born,
With the sharpest wit
And the most brilliant smile,
At the end of the day,
Is simply another clover.
His beauty and his value,
Are what we give him.
His rarity, his singularity,
Is something we create,
Something we fashion for him
Out of love and acceptance.
To this day,
I lean down and examine patches of clover,
The image of Mattie,
Gently counting leaves with chubby, toddler fingers,
Burnt into my memory.
And to this day,
I hold in my heart the hope,
That I will meet a child,
My own Mattie,
My own rarity,
My own treasure,
My own little four leaf clover.
Mar 1, 2018
Mar 1, 2018 at 10:44 AM UTC
Her fingers were covered in corn.
the corn after chewing, broken
pierced, churned- it could spread as butter
thick on stale toast, if needed
"it's fine, don't you worry, we'll get you all cleaned up"
she stared indifferently
Strings dangled from her mouth, unswept
full of necessary greens ---"mhm there there, this will give
you so much energy" --- drags of breath,
half inhale half choke. nothing to look forward to,
not the next soaking glob, not the cursing woman
in the bathroom, not the spill of light to her eyes
Where are the ladles, Did you check on it? The key? Just moved, most the suitcases aren't there yet. Remember to bring the Did you check on it? pay attention. Have you seen my grand kids?
who are you?
Sunday's are for the active ones
The games down the hall are too far. Why worry with legs, if she could just adjust to the left
the world could sag into an ongoing dream- No demands, no games, no movement.
The nurses hair net had more presence than the splotch of gray against her peeling itchy scalp. Drool leaked from leather lips, dampening the collar of her two month sticky blouse. Arms curled and locked,displaying under the wax skin cranberry patches-
she never wiped them off. Always the soft murmer of
a snore, always the smell of unbrushed teeth and hampers.
"Did you touch those where don't touch me scott scott scott leave my things alone thevenin I need a stop lying I want to go scott, scott? scott. I can't remember any"
I said my name four times before she heard me, knew me
I fixed her pillow and my sister marked off the day on the calendar.
We told her about school, the marching band, each word
filled with forced enthusiasm. She bobbed her head in circles, lazily
rolling her eyes, the curtain shading the empty space. We spent 30 minutes precisely.
She was more than I realized.
I never knew she had horseback riding, violin playing days. She traveled and hiked. We could have been close. Unraveling with the mystery, I felt the lateness of my curiosity.
It was 30 minutes precisely, always.
We acted as strangers, reciting routine and wishing each other a happy day and a quiet love you
Sep 9, 2012
Sep 9, 2012 at 5:21 PM UTC
When I was younger
I snuck kisses to a kid
during nap time.
The teacher had to
separate us since
I wouldn't stop
kissing them.
Now eight years later
and I hate recalling the
ever so burning
memories.
People don't believe the
story.
Seeing that I'm not
attractive
and that I'm so
awkward.
They say I make it up,
but no I'm not.
I was going to marry
the kid.
I really thought I loved them.
I loved how they smelt.
Or the way they laughed.
The way they said my name made me smile.
I was a little seven year old
who fell in love.
I wonder where they are now.
But I would never know
since they shut me out of their
life.
After I left the daycare I saw them
once.
They ignored me as our mothers
spoke.
My mom got onto me for not
talking to the kid.
I couldn't bear to tell her
that I had kissed that kid
that I really had liked them.
I couldn't tell her because that kid
was a girl and I'm a girl as well.
"She'll hate me" I told myself
So I've never told her about
the shared kisses and moments
between me and that other
little seven year old.
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 1:21 AM UTC
Joel's ten month old only child, a son, had just started walking as Joel was sentenced to jail for three to six months for fighting, after charges had been filed against him. Each time a court hearing was set Joel went, but the dates were always post phoned. Joel meet Sena a tall dark skinned buxom twenty nine old French speaking woman, just off the coast of Ghana. They married and through mutual friends came to America,and settled in Germantown. Sena spoke French to her dacca. She was a devoted mother and wife. Each time that Sena dropped her child off at daycare, she covered dacca's face with kisses,before heading for the indoor fruit stand that employed her. Joel always cocky and prideful,all of his life,drove a black Lincoln with his girlfriend closer than a flea on a dog, and met sales quotas when required. Granted one phone call from jail, Joel spoke with his rejected wife Sena, asking for bail money, his once proud and sarcastic voice breaking. A lawyer informed Sena that since charges had been filed ,the conviction had to stand. Joel now sits in a shared cell occasionally looking through the steel bars in lock down, gazing up at stars that he once rode and walked under freely.
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 10:08 PM UTC
dirt under the nails a little blood on the lips a little sunshine in the pit a little shadow in the room a little coffeee in the cup a little echo in the chamber a little buzzing from the fridge a little leaning in the stick man a little understanding in the chalkboard flower a little missing from the brain
a little missing from the jet stream
a little missing from the patched up
valve
a little missing from thesentence
a little missing from the period
a little missing from the bleach jug
a little missing from the puzzle alittle missing from the moon
a little missing
from the tree branch
a little missing from the fire fly
a little missing from the teacher and nun
a little missing from the daycare kid
a little missing from the afternoon sandwich
a little missing from the strawberry in the dawn
a little missing
from the terminal-cancer prayer
a little missing
from the
dog in the grocery store
a little missing from
the shade in the heat
a little missing from the crying in the ward
a little missing from everything
but nothing was ever whole to begin with
Nov 24, 2017
Nov 24, 2017 at 2:41 PM UTC
Tales from the subway
When you think about it the subway is the best way to observe human life
You see people from all walks and skin tones getting to their destination
If you're like me occasionally you'll encounter the homeless and the visibly forsaken to that mentally ill lady in the last car, we love you dear just keep it down please
And the ***** hippies feeding bread to their dogs, you teach me to value clean
To the Chinese woman reading English aloud haltingly, you show us the reality of immigration
There's the young man with the daycare T-shirt, dispelling stereotypes, one stand at a time
Everyone is here, and everyone has a place
Here on the subway
Just make sure to grab a seat, because you're going on a mental journey
So many ideas, so many places to see, so many new things to learn and experience,
much thanks to that girl who brought out a new confidence in me,
It's plain to see I love the subway
Aug 2, 2015
Aug 2, 2015 at 2:21 AM UTC
Old churches smell of Camphor
New churches get febreezed
New churches have soft benches
Old churches wreck your knees
Old churches have stained windows
New churches have foam walls
Old churches fill you up with dread
New churches look like malls
New churches have young pastors
Old churches, not so much
New churches have no feeling
Old churches hurt to touch
Old churches scream religion
New churches whisper "Hi"
New churches aren't forboding
Old churches make you cry
New churches full of speakers
Old churches you just yell
New churches all have daycare
Old churches threaten hell
Old churches full of people
New churches full of young
New churches and new hymnals
Old churches,,bells are rung
Old churches make you wonder
New churches keep you cool
New churches...air conditioned
Old churches are a jewel
Old churches...God is power
New churches...God's a friend
New churches....rules are broken
Old churches do not bend
Old churches are my background
New churches I don't know
Old churches full of stories
New churches full of show
Old churches there's confession
New churches there is not
New churches you say sorry
Old churches...it gets hot
New churches have no devil
Old churches he is there
New churches full of comfort
Old churches just to scare
No matter what religion
Be it new or be it old
Faith is one commitment
Forever,you should hold
Old churces are my favorite
New churches quench a thirst
But if I had a choice of one
I'd pick the old church first.
Write a comment...
..
Apr 28, 2012
Apr 28, 2012 at 12:43 PM UTC
When I was young my mother painted the ceiling with every color there was.
She made the falling stucco and sealant into clouds and rainbows and horses;
horses of blue and purple and green.
One time I left my room and stared all night at the stars,
they were so much more vivid.
You couldn't deny their presence,
they were like little beings coming straight toward you.
Didn't need to look up, you could stare straight forward out of the window and it's like they were looking at you too.
But cautious, they never came close enough for me to grab them and trap them in my hand like a rolli-polly.
There were fireflies that loved to gather like tiny self supporting oil lamps by the tree next to our house.
They would swim around me because they knew they were far too clever for me.
There were toadstools that I would kick out of principal and river rocks that were never smooth enough for the current hadn't the will.
Caves where the ivy would circle for no reason but to give me the best hiding place of all time.
We ate snow that one time, when it had snowed for the one time it would in 7 years.
There was a single stoplight in a square of one tiny block where I would get dizzy riding my bike.
Then the Crawfords would let me ride their horse.
That's where I got stung by a bee for the first time and I fell on the red dirt road and cried and cried.
One time a tornado almost swallowed me whole while my trailer baby-sitter wasn't looking.
I remember asking with all sincerity for the third time how to spell cat.
Lolly-pops adorned the daycare where I watched trolls singing Kokomo.
These are all the good things I can remember,
so I cherish them.
Jul 23, 2013
Jul 23, 2013 at 1:56 AM UTC
Mom doesn’t like poetry
since it’s not clear like how things should be.
Until you write her one,
and beaming she’ll put it on the fridge with a magnet.
Mom likes things sorted and clean, papers off
the table or in the bin, dishes in the sink or the cupboard.
What is this? Why is this here?
If it’s clutter, it’s just stuff. Don’t save it.
In her room she has 37 years of photos
and sometimes tears up when she thinks of her parents
but she would never admit it.
So, she laughs and means it
when her grandchildren dump the box of toys across the living room
and the dogs slide down the hall past the family photos
and bang open doors after a bouncing ball.
Most of the lines on her face come from laughing, crows’ feet dotting her crinkling eyes.
Her birdcall laugh hangs high above any room
like a day-warbler or a hooting night-owl over the treetops.
So much of her is rocks and earth and order,
but every bit of her speaks of beating wings and blue skies.
Mom’s favorite color is blue, deep like the ocean, bright like the sky.
Don’t tell her blue’s a sad color;
she dressed her baby boy in the ocean and then his sister
when she could fit his hand-me-downs,
and then laughed when the disapproving daycare lady sent her daughter home in pink.
She lives with her husband of 36 years in a light blue house
and relished painting skies on her kitchen and living room walls
after 10 years of white and little time
and laughed again when her children protested at the blue walls, rugs, and curtains.
Time may pass,
and the blue curtains, rugs, and walls may have disappeared
and her children may have had children,
but blue is still her favorite color and her children are still her children,
and she still doesn’t like poetry.
Mar 15, 2017
Mar 15, 2017 at 5:05 PM UTC
We are the fathers that couldn’t pay the rent,
the single mothers that can’t afford daycare,
the cancer patients that die instead of drown in debt,
the college drop-outs that couldn’t find loans,
the fry cooks that are overworked and underpaid,
the graduates that become homeless,
the musicians that want to be happy,
the daughters that sell themselves to eat,
the alcoholics that couldn’t find work,
the atheists that stopped believing,
the ex-husbands that were left for the CEO,
the minority that will never get a green card,
the sons that enlist to avoid the streets,
the homosexuals that can’t marry,
the intellectuals that know better.
We are the loves with broken hopes,
and the dreamers with no more faith.
We are the ninety-nine percent.
Nov 25, 2011
Nov 25, 2011 at 11:02 AM UTC
Right, left, full circles-
*He was just ***** trained!*
Negotiating
Only how long it will take
To get back to the start.
Deaf open minds,
"I'll do it if he does."
Would a lollipop make you feel better?
Science and progress
Vying with unchanging
Human nature
For position of
Kindergarten teacher.
Everyone know's they're right for sure.
They tell their friends,
"Go on, shut him up before he speaks!"
*"You both say he started it? Time- out,
Both of you go talk it out
Over my teacher's table*,
And if you **** each other
On your way there,
I'll look the other way."
After all, death in the name
Of righteousness is sacred,
And not to be mocked.
To teachers with 6/6 vision, sometimes
Blindness is a gift-
*"There's no wrong, and no right.
Hug it out, avoid a fight."
(Kicking under the table.)*
Hopefully, the explosion will miss her.
Where there are people,
There will be the same stories-
The world is a huge daycare center.
Dec 5, 2012
Dec 5, 2012 at 3:11 AM UTC
first alarm
feet to floor
empty bladder
feed the cat
walking gear on
out the door
greet the day
tunes in the ears
wave to early morning peers complete the requisite k's back thru the door
hit the shower
wake the boys
fill the bowls
muesli,wheeties,rice bubbles
juice to glass
coffee to cups
lunch in sacks,
icebars too
help dress the toddler
second alarm
kiss the husband
wave him off
tv on for cartoon relief
dress the office worker check the bags
feed the cat again
set him free
make up applied
pack the napsack
time for another coffee
and a look at poetry spots
write a bit
third and final alarm
wash boy's face
shoes on
tv off and out the door
off to daycare and to work weekend over
new semester begun
of the weekday routine reruns
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 4:27 PM UTC
When I was very young, I started to develop an eating disorder.
I was a toddler. My parent's first child and I went mental when they tried to serve me vegetables.
I would discard them in the radiator and sooner than later a technician was called.
And my parent's were appalled when they realized the reason was that their child refused to eat what she was served.
This continued into early childhood.
I lived with my grandmother who I've called Grandy forever.
She made the same three dishes every week. Macaroni Pie, Rice, or Potatoes.
On the odd occasion, I would get pizza or pasta.
Macaroni and Cheese, or something else that pleased my taste buds.
I quickly tired of this pattern and a disgust for these meals arose.
I could no longer eat them without wanting to *****
When I was no older that four years old, my parents tried to feed me a few days or a week old alphageti. That was the first time I ever gaged on a meal.
But those moments came more often than I would like as I grew.
I filled up on chocolates and candy, slices of pepperoni so I wouldn't have to eat the **** I din't like.
This distaste of my Grandy's food turned into a fear of food itself.
I couldn't be experimental, I hated having to eat.
I wished I could just take a pill and defeat the hunger that haunted me.
For years I became anorexic. And not because I wanted too, but because for all that time food was my enemy.
When I was in daycare, I hated sweets of any kind and had never had a sip of soda. But once night when my parents were late to pick me up.
All Dee had was marshmellows and seven up.
I hated the sweet treats that would burn my teeth and the soda that would burn my tongue.
But I was young and no one cared.
I didn't allow myself to eat for several years until I ended up falling in love with a girl who cares.
But some nights when I am drunk and to lazy too cook,
I find myself in the kitchen eating an uncooked hot dog,
and I remember where it all came from.
I still hate sweets and soda to this day.
But at least now,
I eat.
Mar 5, 2019
Mar 5, 2019 at 11:14 PM UTC
School is dreadful.
Like a gobbling monster eating up my bedtime.
A world of dark and crisp.
Cold and cruel.
We are like slaves.
Oh, how long.
Hours drag along.
It seems it would never end.
From bus rides to daycare,
School is dreadful- until,
my mother picks me up- as I snuggle against her,
and school is not dreadful anymore.
Sep 25, 2010
Sep 25, 2010 at 8:25 AM UTC
It was called
Noah's Ark
It was a place with
Slides
Sand
Bikes
Smiles
Friends
Fun
It was the place
Mom trusted
To leave her little girl
Daycare
It was the place where
We held hands
And prayed
Before lunch
And before
Nap time
When
Tiny
Beautiful
Innocent
Pure
Children of God
Were
Irreversibly
Violated
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 1:14 PM UTC
i know this place
it's called home.
everyone here, all their faces
are ones that i'm surrounded by.
here is the place
it feels safe
all those around me,
they know me well.
i go to this place
here - i know its home
i'm not afraid to fall
because someone will
always
be there to catch me.
this place i know,
it's my home.
i have a room there
just for me
people i love are
always
there with & for me.
this is the home i know
take the elevator
9 stories up.
past the clinic
past peds
past radiology
past the ORs
past the ICU
past the daycare
past the ER
past the delivery rooms
all the way to ward B.
this is my home
my home, that i know.
this is where i am.
this is where i go.
because the house
i was raised in
burned down
except the only thing
destroyed was me.
this is my home.
my home, ward B.
Aug 4, 2013
Aug 4, 2013 at 8:46 AM UTC
My boy told me the other day
That he didn’t have a mother
He only had a babysitter
I say my boy--
The boy at my daycare
The boy with seven siblings
Ripped from five of them
Gained another in the process
Losing mothers like pencils
The mother he has now is a teacher,
No summer job,
But four foster kids to her name
Her summers are free
Her pockets are full
But my boys
They’re still in daycare
Six to six
Or longer
They come with bagged eyes
one in pull ups at the age of five
My boys
Their sister's in the other room
Their mother sits at home
Alone
Doing nothing
Probably drinking
Or anything but mothering
Right now
She’s out of town
There’s a babysitter at home
She picks them up late and drops them off early
They're cranky
And tired
They're getting six hours of sleep
Plus one at naptime
My boys never sleep at nap time
None of them but Isaiah
Isaiah
He loves to talk about his home
Not where they sleep at night
But at home
In Africa
He’ll tell you if you ask
It’s beautiful to hear
The joy filling his face is fixating
But then you see his legs
How they wobble in at the knees
When you see how he sleeps
He rocks himself the whole time
Rocking even through his dreams
It’s all from the orphanage.
The workers couldn’t help him to sleep.
He just turned five.
He starts kindergarten soon,
And he just learned how to spell his name
Everyone else here can read all the names
His and theirs
My boys
I love them with everything I have
And they know that,
But I leave soon.
In a few weeks we all go to school
I’ve been doing this for years, but them,
They haven’t
It’s their first
And I’ll pray
But I hate that all I can do is pray
They deserve more than that.
They deserve attention and love
They deserve hope and security
I can only hope that the next teacher will give that to them
To my boys
To my wonderful boys...
Dec 13, 2017
Dec 13, 2017 at 4:48 PM UTC
Give me a god who is Love
not like pink cutout butterflies
on the sad cinder block walls of
a Sunday school daycare
but like how you can’t sleep at 2 a.m.
remembering the first time you
tasted your girlfriend
or how you run inside during a
thunderstorm because you don’t
want to get struck by lightning or
when your foot can no longer
touch the bottom of the ocean
and you panic because
it’s all Just Too Big
don’t offer me your supermarket
god picked out to match your
buttercup kitchen curtains
give me a god who dances
naked and scandalously
in the rain
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 12:19 AM UTC
I play the same song,
set that beat on repeat
so, I can write and think
or think and write
about my strange life.
A glass complexion,
distorted reflection
filled with old and new
shades and hues
of my personal truths.
Like a mirror I exist in
the dark hallways
from old schooldays
as I crept quietly
to get whatever ology
book I needed
to do my homework.
Like late Friday nights
working with my mom
at the daycare center
cleaning up
to save her a couple bucks
as I listen to the cheers
an see the searing stadium lights
from the high school
less than a block away.
Like red flesh swelling up
though not quite bruising,
from the anger of a parent
who felt some unknown rage
that I cannot decode;
Silent stares in contemplation
facing the man in the mirror
with a queer confused face,
My memory is
like a baby bird
that sat straddling
the thin brown branches
barely balancing
precariously
close to falling.
Oct 21, 2018
Oct 21, 2018 at 10:11 AM UTC
for all the things labeled
in the exterior mirages
of turpentine reeking layers
worn lavishly by red lipstick
and silver tailored suits,
light illuminating marble counter tops
dusted by the next-thousand-block immigrant
the mother of four beautiful children
she clashes with the detriment of money
which filters back to champagne of that red lipstick,
the silver tailored suit a million floors above
encased within their own skeleton
they peel their skin so not to feel a thing
stuffed in a daycare tabooed because of its door handle
touched by mothers working wage to meet end's meet
children skipping their shoes
on the stains of the concrete underneath their feet
and not realizing a thing
the mother bustles through
alone but surrounded by grease
seething into the cracks of her heels
while her children grows by the tick
into the template configured by society
the smear of red lipstick
the wrinkle in the silver tailored suit
the system of trickle down economy
have gone down the throats of so many lives
as a diluted joker waving a flag sewn with white
this age of decadence
chooses to blind its kin
reality has been remodeled
into a Hollywood basement
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 7:16 PM UTC
I'm a feminist because I deserve to walk down the street to the grocery store without getting the **** scared out of me by a honking car. I'm a feminist because although I may have short hair that doesn't make me a lesbian. And if I am a lesbian or bisexual or straight that's all okay. And it's all my business, not yours. I'm a feminist because when I go to look up a **** to watch, it takes so long to find one that isn't demeaning. I'm a feminist because I shouldn't have to make jokes about sleeping around to make it okay. Other people shouldn't judge me on my amount of ****** partners. I'm a feminist because everyone deserves a comprehensive *** education that teaches about all sorts of choices, not just abstinence and not just heterosexual experiences. I'm a feminist because I want to wear a bandeau in public and not be thought of as a **** I'm a feminist because I hate shaving my legs and that's okay. I'm a feminist because women still make less then men and it's 2014. I'm a feminist because boys are still not supposed to cry, because a girl said that she think trans people shouldn't be on T.V. I'm a feminist because I believe that people should be judged by the way they act and how they treat others, not by their genitalia, something that wasn't even their choice. I'm a feminist because every time a little girl is liberated so is a little boy. I'm a feminist for that little boy in daycare who dresses up as a fairy and for my friends who aren't "straight", for the guy who I know is gay but has to hide because even he believes it's wrong. I'm a feminist for all the children out there being told who they have to be before they even know who they want to be. I'm a feminist because I can't not be.
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 12:26 AM UTC
He stands 3 feet high
Tears in his eyes
Using every trick to make me stay
It always hurts
To leave him for work
I'll miss him each step of the way
I know by his hug
He needs all my love
It almost makes both of us cry
But I must resist him
Abide by the system
So I kiss him and tell him goodbye
He needs to be heard
When he tries a new word
I wish I could be there some way
No work means no pay
So I'm on my way
But I wish I could watch him today
Just once in his life
He'll stand 3 feet high
I guess there's no one to blame
Every hour he goes thru
He learns something new
If I miss it it would be a shame
Cause I miss a lot when I leave him
Once I took him to daycare and left
When I called in at three
They reported to me
Good news....he took his first step
Feb 18, 2012
Feb 18, 2012 at 10:16 AM UTC