"deduced" poems
I put little stock in counseling, simply because it doesn’t work for
me. That’s reasonable. right?
That’s why I’m not
going back.
Because contrary to the initial irrational paranoid belief held by
not me, I was not
***** by anyone this last July, I am not
an altered boy.
Repression? Obsessions? Depressions?
You’re right, in a sense. I was not
***** by one man this last July, I was
***** by the whole church for the past 18 years.
I learned, or perhaps deduced, from Sunday School
that all *** is sin
that inanimate objects had a goodness or badness about them
that Satan was in my head (by this I was terrified)
that all my friends were going to Hell (by this I rebuked them and was never forgiven)
that its true: my parents would have gotten me ****** to death in biblical times
because they love me
that I could choose who I was attracted to (apparently by watching straight ****
that God needs money
that the Internet is of the devil >mfw intellectual open market
that I could only achieve ****** once in a lifetime >mfw I came
that God’s love is conditional
that electronics are a sin if they make noise and are inside a specific building
that all Muslims are terrorists
that I’m worthless because I’m a sinner
that I’m inherently evil.
And I still miss it sometimes.
I miss the taste of Christ’s ****
Jan 20, 2013
Jan 20, 2013 at 1:56 AM UTC
FIRST
Be it a girl, or one of the boys,
It is scarlet all over its avoirdupois,
It is red, it is boiled; could the obstetrician
Have possibly been a lobstertrician?
His degrees and credentials were hunky-dory,
But how's for an infantile inventory?
Here's the prodigy, here's the miracle!
Whether its head is oval or spherical,
You rejoice to find it has only one,
Having dreaded a two-headed daughter or son;
Here's the phenomenon all complete,
It's got two hands, it's got two feet,
Only natural, but pleasing, because
For months you have dreamed of flippers or claws.
Furthermore, it is fully equipped:
Fingers and toes with nails are tipped;
It's even got eyes, and a mouth clear cut;
When the mouth comes open the eyes go shut,
When the eyes go shut, the breath is loosed
And the presence of lungs can be deduced.
Let the rockets flash and the cannon thunder,
This child is a marvel, a matchless wonder.
A staggering child, a child astounding,
Dazzling, diaperless, dumbfounding,
Stupendous, miraculous, unsurpassed,
A child to stagger and flabbergast,
Bright as a button, sharp as a thorn,
And the only perfect one ever born.
SECOND
Arrived this evening at half-past nine.
Everybody is doing fine.
Is it a boy, or quite the reverse?
You can call in the morning and ask the nurse.
3.4k
-for Zukiswa Mvunguse~
and for
~ Jul,
who once again,
loved each line best~
having already deduced that:
“the unplanned is his plan,
it’s his faceted flaws
that refract his coloratura”^
the titled alliteration teases him into thinking
there, is more to be said,
more to be prayed,
the unplanned lesser lesson is as-of-the-yet unlearned,
and the sunburst of a full fledged
lying-in-bed born from a static spark of kinetic energy,
awaking in an unfamiliar bed
or a too familiar state of mind,
begs for birth and vainglorious death-by-anon/amity
of another poem
I have written poems commissioned,
“write about suicide,” asked a friend,
“take this word and artfully knead it,” once, was once an oft request,
twisty manipulate your scheming resources into
finely assaying a field rock raw,
laboratory mind-mine it into an essay that delve dives
where you fear to treacherous tread,
resultant, an awkward prayer, now, a valued mineral
no poem is truly planned and no prayer ever truly answered,
but as you compose, pushing the last, next word
ever farther to the right,
you self-confess, expecting no absolution, that the poem,
this one as well,
and the next, and the next, and the next
has always been planned since your inception,
always a prayer asked, and in creation conception,
answered even if not directly answered,
for
in the bare minimum asking,
is the answering,
is the planning,
is the poem and the prayer,
is his owned
alliteration
Mar 24, 2019
Mar 24, 2019 at 8:16 AM UTC
~
remnants of
afore night’s grieving
before her on the table lie,
echoes of her sobbing
tears from last night's cry;
boxes of his cards,
handwritten letters,
a schoolboy’s pictures,
the wadded tissues
lie in random crumples,
for his silent laughter,
his fading whispers;
the one remaining lock
of hair she used to rumple;
the invisibly present
drying tearful brine
to table salt reduced;
the how remembered,
the when recalled,
the why that's yet
to be deduced.
each a remnant of
her softened weeping,
each a minder of
a mother of a sorrow,
a son-of-a-gun,
don’t-know-if
i’ll-make-it-to tomorrow,
reminders of
a yesternight’s cry;
the remnants of
afore night’s grieving
that on her table lie;
the six-years-ago,
still-can’t-believe-it,
never-ending-long...
goodbye.
~
post script.
*"her smile...
’tis the thinnest veil o'er a razor's edge,
it can ne’er conceal her bleeding heart..."
like the spiraling whirlpool
like leaves bowing to winter
it's palpable, predictable,
a seasonal forecast...
guess it's just
that time of year.*
***for Becky,
for Tonya,
for Andrea,
for all
grieving mothers
everywhere***
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 2:03 PM UTC
Sherlock is indebted, forever;
To Mike,
For he made it possible for Holmes,
To meet the (only) friend of his life.
Oh look at John,
How baffled he was,
For he had just met a man,
About him, who knew all.
The army doctor thing, the Afghanistan war,
And that his sibling was alcoholic,
About this Sherlock was sure.
Without a word about himself,
Just the name and address,
Holmes went away,
Leaving John, with many questions,
And their answers for him to guess.
A queer flat mate, he was, a bit rude
Sherlock, you know;
Mrs. Hudson was nicer,
But not their housekeeper!
Apparently, SH would play violin to think,
Knew it was DI Lestrade at the door,
And there was another ******
Including this one, counting to four,
Without a hint.
The crime scene was sealed,
Under supervision of Donovan,
And according to Sherlock,
There was something going on,
Between her,
And Anderson.
A woman was dead,
Wore everything in pink,
Holmes deduced her marriage state,
Just by her ring!
He slammed the door at Anderson,
For he (SH) found him irritating.
“Rache is not for revenge”, Holmes said,
“She was writing Rachel, obviously”.
Left-handed she was,
And was carrying a suitcase,
But as Lestrade said,
There was never a case.
Mr. Holmes was so excited then,
He teased others to be stupid,
Watson helped him make a point,
In order to find the criminal,
But Holmes believed,
The pink case was the cupid.
Jan 20, 2016
Jan 20, 2016 at 2:03 AM UTC
*T'is a man's natural bias to ***
as a **** sapiens erectus,
positioned standing up
celebrating the evolutionary advancement
of his genealogy, his ancestors' first
ah ha moment
but as time went on,
and much time did he possess,
in the course of a single life
full of multiple urinations,
to think upon this
deduced that a man peeing,
but a metaphor
for the unpredictably of life
to the right,
to the left,
but never straight ahead,
such is life denatured,
when you think the path is clear,
you *** on yourself unintentionally*
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 12:33 AM UTC
<>
it’s not even 6am, restless night, or wrestled night, ain’t much difference, see the **** geese on the water’s edge, I dutifully slip out of bed, awakening no one, dutifully slide in to my slip-on sneakers, grab the white umbrella next to the front door, dutifully, steadily, my first chore of the day, walk deliberately (and carefully) to make them get them get heck away, into the sound, and to cease polluting the grass where children may play…
standing at the waters edge, task finished, the sky commands examination, there is within the cumulus textured, multi-pastel, thick curdled pastiche cloud banks, overhanging the world as far as one can see, a substantive hole appearing in the sky revealing a blue heaven….what one believes, prefers should be, but what is, in fact,
not a…given and we are a but, partly cloudy day, a partly clouded observant person…
this reminds me that there are holes in all places, everywhere, in my disturbed sleep, where I spend hours of triangulating in dreams, what I cannot pin down:
who I am, what I am, my purpose on earth, though I know where
I am, though not even, most critically, why I am…
is this a poem?
this thoughtful cursed query sits behind my eyes, frontally lobed, perpetually asking, judging me, these words, repetitiously heard,
one is not fooled,
it is a simple self-evaluation test, only an ask,
what are my justifications, ma raison d'être,
(reason for being) which is an amuse, for I discover
in French, ‘reason for being,’
is a feminine word,
(qui en Français,
c'est un mot féminin…)
and that makes me smile,
for I’m a woman-centric man
(I have no gender confusion,
this is not one of the holes
to which I refer)
perhaps it is, or, perhaps it is a rambunctious rambling of no worth, for no answers are obtained, given, deduced, and holes, skyward and inward are deep, none delimited by neither bottom or a top, just widening gaps and gapes in my existence…and answers are not
forthcoming…
<>
5:50am
Thursday July 18
Year Two Thousand and Twenty Four
Jul 18, 2024
Jul 18, 2024 at 6:51 AM UTC
hey there, i’ve got some bad news
it’ll wrap your neck tight with a noose
until your cheeks turn purple-blue
and you can’t feel your feet in your shoes
you’ll want to pick up a bottle of *****
and down it until your body feels abused
you’ll pass out and wake up confused
perhaps with a new drunken tattoo
all of your friends may be amused
but your regret and shame will suffuse
each time they point, laugh and slap the bruise
you’ll hide your pain ‘cos that’s what strong people do
and resentment will ride high through and through
‘til your face turns rock cold and you make the excuse
that everyone is ****** and they’re the ones to accuse
you’ll abandon your home without saying adieu
because you don’t need people that make you feel deduced
you don’t need to feel like you are being used
to the point you turn dark and only want to seclude
from love itself cause you can’t trust that it’s true
you can’t trust that it’s safe or that it won’t lead you askew
you might want to die, though the thought is so taboo
you’ll judge yourself for holding onto society’s views
until it comes to the point where you can’t handle the queue
the waiting for love gets tough but the whole time you grew
and it’s not so bad anymore, it even almost ensues
so you get on a boat, and row your canoe
out in the river, it’s just the water and you
and you’ll realize, finally that you’ve got nothing to lose
Sep 1, 2012
Sep 1, 2012 at 12:43 PM UTC
~
as she poses
for the boys
her irony is
on display.
the naked truth
not easily deduced,
it’s not just they
that's being seduced.
her looks they’ve bought,
no heart nor touch,
a stage, a pole,
for them disrobed;
“just leave your
money please!”
mum says, *“ladies
don't act that way!”*
but mum ain't seen
hard times like these;
*“com’on mum,
let’s get along...
you gotta know,
its juxtaposition!”*
behind bars,
for driving cars;
stolen sweets
were such a treat;
*“com’on Judge,
rich guys got
more cars than sense,
what the difference?
if i take just one,
for just a spin,
the only joy
i'll ever ride...
and besides, he
left his keys inside
my valet shack.
those miles and dents,
that i put on, surely
ain't deserving this.
sweet fruit was
hanging far too low
for my resistance.
not my fault, you know;
it’s juxtaposition!”*
he sits high atop
a silver tower,
set beside the ocean fair;
existence storied for
he climbed every floor.
they call them shares,
it's what he sells,
but this brand of
sharing ain’t
what his mamma told.
it's a shell game by
a different name;
for it's more his soul
that he has sold.
you could say,
*“for a song his soul
sells short sales
down by the seashore.”*
or, you could say
just what he says,
“it's juxtaposition!”
~
*post script.
what prompted this? the city in which i live has the dubious and insidious distinction of having the greatest number of strip clubs per capita in these United States; not exactly something to be proud of. and yet i realize there are many ways to sell one's soul.
truth doesn't have many sides; if something does, then we can't call it truth; for truth, like gravity can be called many things, but under any name we still fall...
and come up short!
but then... that's just-my-position!*
Feb 11, 2017
Feb 11, 2017 at 1:45 PM UTC
Is it indubitably unsuitable
to be suitably incommunicable
on the undeducible deduction
dubitably deduced
to be immovably unmovable
or doably undoable?
Or can a crazy conundrum communicate
the incommunicable indubitabilty
of the undeducibly suitable deduction?
Simply said,
such is doably suitable,
or indubitably deducible
if the doably communicable deduction
deduces down
to the suitably suitable,
Movably reducible reduction
that's indubitably doable.
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 8:29 AM UTC
Too thrilled by the case,
Sherlock just disappears,
To begin with a chase,
John is let alone,
To get a cab, and go to Baker St. .
But wait- wherever he goes,
The telephone booth starts ringing!
He waits for somebody to pick up,
And continues to walk;
The third booth starts ringing,
The caller must be desperate to talk.
A black, shiny car,
Pulls over for John to ride,
The destination seemed far,
In this conversation-less hour.
"Anthea", answered the accompanying secretary,
When asked her name,
Fake it was,
Absolutely.
The anxiety was over,
John was confronted by a well-dressed man,
Who offered him money, to spy,
The guy, who deduced Watson's army background,
By his tan.
The "arch-enemy" of Sherlock,
As he introduced himself,
Told John about his psychosomatic disorder,
"You are back in the game,
You don't fear danger,
You've missed this lifestyle."
True it was,
Pretty much,
"Could be dangerous", wrote Sherlock,
And there he was dashing into 221B.
Sherlock was quite disappointed,
When he got to know about the declination,
Of that tempting offer,
"Pity, we could've split the fee",
He suggested John for the next time.
Isn't Mr. Holmes quite irksome,
Calling John from the other end of London,
Just to send a text?
No, this was not an ordinary text,
An SMS was just sent,
By Mr. Watson's phone,
To the murderer.
The murderer?
But why?!
Elementary for SH.
Found the case within an hour,
Which was now in front him.
His mind, is truly above par!
One thing missing from the suitcase:
Her organizer, her phone.
"Nah, she's is a clever woman,
A serial adulterer,
Would never leave her phone at hotel",
This Holmes said, backed by balance of probability.
They waited at a restaurant,
And the wait was long,
But worth it.
Had to chase a taxi,
which was done successfully,
Thanks to Sherlock's excellent memory.
Hence proved it was,
The psychosomatic limb of Doctor.
A drugs bust had occurred at their place,
Seriously, this man, a deduction ****** would have drugs?
"I'm not a psychopath Anderson,
I'm a high functioning sociopath,
Do your research!"
Snapped Mr. Punchline.
Just a couple of minutes later,
This brilliant sleuth realized-
"Rachel! Yes, Rachel!
This woman in pink, Jennifer,
Is clever,
And she's dead!",
much to Mr. Holmes's displeasure.
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 12:24 PM UTC
You are present
you are present
you are science, philosophy, nature and hate
you are the tempest and conduit
you are the energy forming and reforming
you have the power
to choose, to do, you do
Then why am I losing faith?
Then why has it come to this
juncture, where light I found
is lost
Puncture my lungs, go ahead
because
You won't let me back inside
from the slippery precipice
Abyssal black night tide draws
closer
You won't lend to me the confidence
to enter, once again, the single
place I stand
Sep 25, 2015
Sep 25, 2015 at 11:55 PM UTC
My ex-girlfriend used to wake up scared,
More than often it had happened.
She used to tell about her nightmares,
She was really explicit about the dreams.
Oh yes, I remember each and every thing.
I remember when she told me about one,
I often sensed her strong interest in it.
More I deduced so after it is over,
My ex-girlfriend was a nymphomaniac.
Sep 19, 2016
Sep 19, 2016 at 12:58 AM UTC
I foster an incremental relation to the cosmos, enticed regularly by its indefiniteness and appeal.
Its evolutions, innate behaviors, and formidable sciences are recompense for earth’s meager discrepancies.
I often engage in the caprice to dismount much dissatisfaction by the constancy of riveting celestial events.
These beings possess no artificiality.
Its prophetic order, ornate and stupendous architectural facets have allowed a crescendo of dispositional hysteria.
Prosaic imprecations are deduced from its auxiliary wherewithal.
There is no contrition in immersing in enthrallment nor is there fickleness in trust.
Magnificent bodies orbit in finesse and probability, achieving universality and control.
Though these incitements are exponentially cheering, my origin is but connoted in despondency.
Usurpers and ill-suited vandals proliferated by the intemperance of the Ptolemaic discipline.
Rustics, miscreants and idle minds misdirected by less virtuous planetary derision.
My cognitive severity asserted by ominous consummation.
Oh how these preponderant truths confine me unfortunate.
Soliloquy is but an affliction amidst this era of anachronistic reign.
Grandiose passivity is intolerable at this time.
I plan to dichotomize my adamant fate from precepts and conditions anew.
The deposition of malfeasant kings will be sought.
Ploys I have already configured; propagation is near to instigation.
I will exhort my ascent to prime eminence.
The stars will sanction me to a rightful end.
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 8:49 AM UTC
The first lesson in being here is inherent to be here and that is breathe, yet the second is that we are (can be often) separated by willingness. Others are not an extension of our own. It can be a self pitying and even painful experience especially if our needs are woefully neglected. By the time it is deduced others willingness comes with other awareness than our own a form of self responsibility has set in, albeit active/reactive. We are spawning fractal-ly from here, the new from there.
All is selectively derived and subset from the greater with regard to identity, memory and consciousness. All flows perfectly from such accordance...
Aug 28, 2012
Aug 28, 2012 at 12:51 PM UTC
I haven’t been able to sleep for the past couple of nights,
something I wish that could just be classified as a typical case of insomnia.
But I know the reason for my wandering, rambling mind
extends far beyond a simple medical diagnosis.
As I lay awake tossing and turning I've deduced that I have two possibilities to explain
my current misfortune.
My first option is that I’m nearing the brink of insanity -
which I’m trying to convince myself is true-
because I don’t think I could come to terms with the other reason.
And yet there’s no evading it.
Every time I close my eyes, I see her face and inadvertently find myself submerged in her perfection. This is then accompanied by a pitiful pang of longing.
The truth is, I didn’t come for her.
It was never about her.
In fact, right before I got myself into this mess I had constructed a mental compilation of things I wouldn’t allow myself to do.
I had reassured myself with a definitive firmness that if I broke her heart, I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it.
Of course, that was when I still could sleep.
That was before I developed a stupid conscience.
That was before everything changed.
And now I’m running out of options and running out of time.
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 10:20 PM UTC
They thought that wall is hard to break,
And all their might shall go to waste
As he never showed affection,
As if he never felt the pain
But deep down he knew the secrets;
That all of them had been hiding from themselves
He with his brilliant observations,
Deduced the most onerous cases
But when he met a man of pure heart
A man whom he called his partner, his right arm
He finally found his missing pieces
His life became much more than riddles and mazes
The man whom he called his best friend
Made him see the hero he was
And that's how their adventures begun
The stories of the two wisest men in London,will never end.
Mar 12, 2017
Mar 12, 2017 at 3:26 AM UTC
My muse diffused
A love abused
The news infused
My dream refused.
Your life deduced
My life reduced
Our lives seduced
In the end confused.
Words effused
Our lines reused
My passion disused
Together, bemused.
Our game overused
Our emotions excused
Our love perused
But really misused.
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 9:43 AM UTC
In my schoolboy bedroom it is a completely different world
Brings me in confluence with my shadow
The meeting of two merging anticipated tributaries
Like cold blue morning and dark sprinkled night
Where my mirror has become the ritualised
Expression of my isolation of my individual consciousness
Fused as one at the edge, where all else becomes blurred
An abstraction, indefinably lost like the mixing of shadows
That cannot be deduced on any mental map
I hear my shadow beckoning me
In its uncoordinated marginality
In isolation I receive his thoughts, his considered reflections
Something has now united us through joint experience a totality
An idea a notion conceived, to abrogate the restraint on liberty
An erosion of all guilt, advancement to a notion
Of profound imagination, where invariably
Our congress will be complete there can be no latitude for digression.
Apr 11, 2012
Apr 11, 2012 at 5:04 PM UTC
***Thoughts
Aren't
Malleable and Ductile
Forced
Drawn into Sheets
Conductivity Futile
Empirically Deduced
Words
Are
Malleable and Ductile
Artistically Moulded
Strung up Embellished Pearls
Drawn into Sheets
A Pearlescent Sheen
Empirically Deduced***
Oct 31, 2017
Oct 31, 2017 at 8:01 AM UTC
There was a time
Though I can hardly remember
When I was your August
And you my December
When I'd hold you with ying
As you'd kiss me with yang
Then we'd rest a top Alpha
While listening to omega
And sing to you sweetly
All the while sounding salty
At the time I shadowed sun
To the moon was your back
We laughed bitter tears
About crying joyous faith
So we lived ever loving
In an equilibrium state
But change is a constant
New variables introduced
I was never good at math
Somehow break was deduced
Nov 28, 2011
Nov 28, 2011 at 4:50 PM UTC
I struggle to remain indefatigable,
I ravage my mind my for hours on end,
My yearning is insatiable,
Flexuous with the concepts to send.
Laboriously sewn, tentatively spoken,
Nonchalantly cast off devastation because it’s broken.
I will never seek acceptance again,
Emancipated from the shackles of denial,
As long as I live I will regain,
And refrain from a judgemental trial.
Perspicaciously drawn, ultimately deduced,
To the gallows with all of my sins, tightly noosed.
They want blood and pain and agony,
All of which I have to give,
I’d rather than expressions of tragedy,
Show what it means to live.
And ponder the spiritual diadems,
Glistening, repetitive, fractals and gems.
My supplications ever so earnest,
Are outweighed by my insubordination.
It’s myself, my own intentions I must harness,
And live beyond my failings and degradation.
Ecstasy is my fruitful, forgiving friend,
Fear my enemy, unrelenting to the end.
Erumpent rampant vociferation,
Endeavouring to end all thoughts iniquitous,
And reclaim my rumination,
Dare I say nefarious?
Well if it is so, than I shall make it not be,
For I have lost all and now I must live for me.
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 1:35 PM UTC
I've done and am doing
everything I can to avoid you
and save you from feeling uncomfortable
standing in line for drills, I'll give you
almost a ten-foot berth
it surprises and shocks me
when I still see your face
looking slightly disgusted
or when you and your sister make eye contact
I can't help but wonder if you've deduced it,
figured out, that though
I have no right to be jealous and hurt
I still am
and though
you do not belong to me
I love you like someone suffocating in the heat
who only occasionally gets a breath of cold air
and even then, it is just a trickle
for I am dying to stay away from you
dying when I keep you close
my heart is struggling, limply pounding
frail against my ribs, there's nothing left of me
because its all for you, I changed myself
a named bullet
or a placard on a seat at a table
saying 'here, this one's for you'
my mannerisms have changed
my dance, my walk, my voice, my sense of humor
consciously or subconsciously,
I have branded my soul
molded it into a you-shaped whole
but then
you never liked being told what to do,
did you?
so I turn away, I walk on the opposite side
I never want you to feel pressured or like you have to hide
I dance far away from you
It's not a matter of 'time to bide'
it's about you and your decisions
that you have your alone time,
despise being labeled,
your wants are completely yours,
defy my understanding;
I'll never serve them out loud to you, you'd hate that
all I can do is quietly avoid, conceal
because I'd give my life to make you happy
and fill your needs, objectively
for I've come to terms with the stark reality of love
and your plans, blueprints of what and whom you're going to be
and how they don't ever include me.
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 1:14 AM UTC
he was 65, his wife was 66, had
Alzheimer's disease.
he had cancer of the
mouth.
there were
operations, radiation
treatments
which decayed the bones in his
jaw
which then had to be
wired.
daily he put his wife in
rubber diapers
like a
baby.
unable to drive in his
condition
he had to take a taxi to
the medical
center,
had difficulty speaking,
had to
write the directions
down.
on his last visit
they informed him
there would be another
operation: a bit more
left
cheek and a bit more
tongue.
when he returned
he changed his wife's
diapers
put on the tv
dinners, watched the
evening news
then went to the bedroom, got the
gun, put it to her
temple, fired.
she fell to the
left, he sat upon the
couch
put the gun into his
mouth, pulled the
trigger.
the shots didn't arouse
the neighbors.
later
the burning tv dinners
did.
somebody arrived, pushed
the door open, saw
it.
soon
the police arrived and
went through their
routine, found
some items:
a closed savings
account and
a checkbook with a
balance of
$1.14
suicide, they
deduced.
in three weeks
there were two
new tenants:
a computer engineer
named
Ross
and his wife
Anatana
who studied
ballet.
they looked like another
upwardly mobile
pair.
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 2:46 PM UTC
*She didn't have to say she loved you
You should have deduced it from her eyes
She didn't have to cry for you
To open your eyes and realize
That she died every time she saw you with another
That she thought you're the warmth in her bed
That she was afraid letting you know might have complicated it further
But you were a constant thought vibrating in her head
You shouldn't have waited for her to leave to think
Wasn't it so obvious how she stuttered in your presence
How she faltered in speech and how her innocent eyes did blink
You didn't have to wait for the sting of solitude in her absence
She didn't have to feign affection and get played by a stranger
All you had to do was recognize her yearn and be the game changer*
Aug 15, 2015
Aug 15, 2015 at 5:10 AM UTC