"frankly" poems
Touch me
With the tips of your fingers
Gently
Across the small of my back
Touch me
With both hands
Securely
Fastened to my hips
Touch me
With the rise of your chest
Intimately
Pressing against mine
Touch me
With your lips, your tongue
Hungrily
Tasting the salt on my neck
Touch me
With the rest of you
Finally
Becoming who you touch
Those little electric currents
That pass from your skin to mine
Frankly
Keep me alive
That's why I'm dying
Nov 16, 2018
Nov 16, 2018 at 9:34 AM UTC
I want to hit it hard, not romanticize about the blood ya feel me?
As you read that first line,
when you cross over to the second,
your nose will start to bleed just before my fist connects with your face.
I often dream about it, being feared.
The only reason that you're on the ground is because I put you there.
Quite frankly I'm fearful of myself.
My throat still holds the ache of the alcohol going down.
I swear to you I'm doing better.
I swear.
I can't swear in this house hold so I will talk so quickly creating run on sentences without punctuation or breath because I'm panicking over nothing in particular.
******
Add some shakes to your vocabulary and you've got it right.
My medication puts stray dogs under my finger nails, that's ok because dogs are happiness.
That's supposed to mean I'm happy.
I made myself write this, its horrifyingly scattered just like my head.
That's not right.
That's wrong.
Something is terribly wrong so I must fix it.
That's what I do,
I fix.
I'll just look at this as art.
Some persons trash is another ones treasure.
I'm too scared to write anymore.
This is garbage.
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 12:58 AM UTC
Sleepmonger,
deathmonger,
with capsules in my palms each night,
eight at a time from sweet pharmaceutical bottles
I make arrangements for a pint-sized journey.
I'm the queen of this condition.
I'm an expert on making the trip
and now they say I'm an addict.
Now they ask why.
WHY!
Don't they know that I promised to die!
I'm keeping in practice.
I'm merely staying in shape.
The pills are a mother, but better,
every color and as good as sour *****
I'm on a diet from death.
Yes, I admit
it has gotten to be a bit of a habit-
blows eight at a time, socked in the eye,
hauled away by the pink, the orange,
the green and the white goodnights.
I'm becoming something of a chemical
mixture.
that's it!
My supply
of tablets
has got to last for years and years.
I like them more than I like me.
It's a kind of marriage.
It's a kind of war where I plant bombs inside
of myself.
Yes
I try
to **** myself in small amounts,
an innocuous occupatin.
Actually I'm hung up on it.
But remember I don't make too much noise.
And frankly no one has to lug me out
and I don't stand there in my winding sheet.
I'm a little buttercup in my yellow nightie
eating my eight loaves in a row
and in a certain order as in
the laying on of hands
or the black sacrament.
It's a ceremony
but like any other sport
it's full of rules.
It's like a musical tennis match where
my mouth keeps catching the ball.
Then I lie on; my altar
elevated by the eight chemical kisses.
What a lay me down this is
with two pink, two orange,
two green, two white goodnights.
Fee-fi-fo-fum-
Now I'm borrowed.
Now I'm numb.
12.3k
You scribble down the name of a drug I can't pronounce
Is that an A or an O?
And send me on my way
It seems like that's how you send all of us off these days
Do you really know my life?
Would you even take the time to listen?
I have my doubts
and I'm sticking with them
Because frankly,
all you're concerned about
is the paycheck you'll be getting.
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 1:35 AM UTC
O Distinct
Lady of my unkempt adoration
if I have made
a fragile curtain
song under the window of your soul
it is not like any songs
(the singers the others
they have been faithful
to many things and which
die
i have been sometimes true
to Nothing and which lives
they were fond of the handsome
moon never spoke ill of the
pretty stars and to
the serene the complicated
and the obvious
they were faithful
and which i despise,
frankly
admitting i have been true
only to the noise of worms
in the eligible day
under the unaccountable sun)
Distinct Lady
swiftly take
my fragile certain song
that we may watch together
how behind the doomed
exact smile of life’s
placid obscure palpable
carnival where to a normal
melody of probable violins dance
the square virtues with the oblong sins
perfectly
gesticulate the accurate
strenuous lips of incorruptible
Nothing under the ample
sun, under the insufficient
day under the noise of worms
11.8k
If I'm a plumber then she's my princess peach,
if she's Zelda, then I'm her Link.
If my life was Contra, then she's my Konami Code.
Can't you tell ny Lady is the subject of this ode?
If she's Curly Brace then I'm her counterpart Quote,
Seriously, I'm in love with her if you didn't catch it I left a few notes,
If I'm the Belmonts, then she's the vampire killer,
if I'm Michael, she's my thriller.
If I'm Pac-Man, then she's my Miss
If I'm Alucard, then she's my transformation into mist
If I'm Kirby then she's waddle Dee,
quite frankly this is getting sappy so I'll get to the point.
I love this girl more than a stoner loves a joint.
(bonus points if you can name all the games referenced, and the Konami Code)
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 10:35 PM UTC
Today I told someone I loved them, and I ment it more than I could ever describe in words.
But there was a niggling thought in the back of my head.
"It's too soon," it whispered.
"You should have waited. It's too soon."
People will judge me. They will think I'm foolish.
But who is anyone else to tell me about how I love someone?
And since when does falling in love have a set rules?
Why should I let society decide that my love isn't real, because they don't belive someone can feel this strongly for somone so soon?
It took me eight months to say it to my X.
And I can honestly say that feeling was like a drop in the ocean, compared to how I feel now.
So yes you can say it's too soon.
Frankly I don't give a ****
Jun 13, 2016
Jun 13, 2016 at 4:07 PM UTC
my brother-in-law’s really fit
I admire him for it
He spends much time
in exercise, in energetic thrusts
He’s a whole aerobics center;
gets all the exercise he needs:
He constantly jumps to conclusions
runs down friends, back-stabs whenever he can
side-steps responsibility
and you could say, is constantly pushing his luck
And pushing it too far too…
and goes round and round in circles
with many false arguments
But one kind thing I can say of him
he’s mindful of my health
for he must have observed how I hardly exercise
and he invites me often to his fitness program
“You scratch my back, I scratch yours,” he says…
But I’m just too lazy even for such effortless exercise
and meanwhile, he continues with his fitness program
namely, as I have said before,
jumping to conclusions and constantly pushing his luck…
while the only thing I can manage
in response to his fitness program
(darned lazy as I am, as he complains to his sis)
is to lift my middle finger
but frankly, my brother-in-law’s really fit
I admire him for it
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 9:08 AM UTC
I speak in praise of the ******** yes,
and as a male, I decline to be clandestine about this.
The reason I so admire the ******** is that it's the female's key
to being multiply ******** and frankly, I'm in awe of this.
You see, the male ***** can't compare
because, of course, it has a dual purpose.
It wasn't put there just for bliss,
which is the only purpose of the ********
Males must just resign
themselves to their dangling ganglia, the ****
which is so easy to malign compared to the delicate paradigm
of the **** and its remarkable economy of design.
Now I realize that females may be suspicious
of my focus on their ********
but actually, I think it’s ingenious.
My own discovery of this was serendipitous and propitious.
You see? Really, I’m envious of the ********
because it's indefatigable and delectable,
(I think she likes a little nibble),
and anyway, there’s not much point in trying to distinguish
between *********** and the ********
So there's my poem to the little ****
with admiration and respect.
I speak in praise of the ********
Truly. A gift for all of us.
Oct 30, 2012
Oct 30, 2012 at 4:47 PM UTC
Muster up the words, "I beg you."
Form some kind of apology, please
This isn't you and you know it
Your heart is too warm to treat someone so cold
The breezy winds flow through your hair just as well as they do your emotions and you're making her feel like a helpless feather with no other choice but to get blown away
Even a simple goodbye would be better than this
Trust me, I know closure isn't really your thing, but she deserves at least something
Anything would do this situation justice, just please talk to her
This isn't you, please snap out of it
I know you've been hurt too many times to count and you're looking everywhere for something or someone to fill your voids but do not use innocent hearts as vices, they don't work like that
Don't rob someone of their feelings just because you have a hard time coping with yours
I know sometimes certain situations and feelings can be interpreted differently, but don't kid yourself, you know exactly what you're doing and quite frankly it's making me sick
You aren't perfect and neither is she, but the least you could do is offer her a bandaid when she needs one instead of drinking her blood and leaving a mess for her to cleanup afterwards without even calling her back
All of this is running like a train through my head when I look into my mirror and see myself start to tear up
The bags under my eyes hold all of the emotions that I try my best not to let out
It should be easier than this
Maybe it really is easy, and I'm just not used to change
I'm not sure about a lot of the things that are happening in my life
However, I am sure that I need to stop becoming a bad memory to others
It keeps me awake at night to think about all of the wrong I've done
That there are people whose only memory of me is how I was the worst for them and I don't want that
To my past friends and lovers, I can't say sorry enough
To my present friends and lovers, please don't give up on me; you are the reason I'm still trying
To my future friends and lovers, I hope by the time we meet, I am nothing less than perfect to you
I'm not used to change, but I could get used to being a good memory
May 23, 2016
May 23, 2016 at 1:33 AM UTC
i.
i told my mother the other day that i
have decided to be kind,
to love those
who love me (for no good reason)....
and because of, i want to take you in my arms
and hold you so tight
that the world cannot get in.
.
ii.
you are dressed in white, like
an angel, and
when you sleep, you murmur and
when
i watch, you smile
instead of howling, and i wish
that you were that peaceful when
awake.
iii.
you are growing up, and i
watch the way you forsake your mother
and i watch the way
you puff up your chest with lies and then
cower when you see me ....
you are not innocent anymore, and i cannot
hold you to as such when
you hide behind a hood of your parents
protection.
iv.
your brother does not love me anymore,
and frankly, i do not care.
but you cannot see the stab wound, so
still, i am angry.
v.
i don’t think she loves her best friend anymore,
i don’t think she even loves me.
but how can you tell someone to cut a
piece of themselves off when
you won’t do it for them?
when you don’t even have the right.
vi.
i read a poem today, it was about war
and it was about foxes,
and
i thought of you again...
my fox,
you are a violence...
and a lover.
and when i remember how you cut me,
i remember why i have to cherish what i have.
Oct 30, 2018
Oct 30, 2018 at 5:30 PM UTC
Eternally no word is spoken,
See it through your vision, this deserted shrine hidden within hellfire,
The dreams are fading into the slipping stream of time, vanishing,
In silence waiting seems to be alike an eternity, lonesome and sad,
If you believed you could try, all the same it's both the truth and a lie,
Silence, is what is called for in this abandoned, forgotten, rotten place
But if you were to spread your wings and were to fly,
Maybe then, you could reach high, rise from the fire and call through a voiceless barrier for help, but will the deaf understand you ?
This is, where all hope is lost to cause, where all words have come to pause, no message is delivered and prayers are sent by reticence,
So what makes you still look up to the burning sky the flames are controlling with pure rage and overwhelming fury beyond reason ?
Perhaps hope is something one can only lose last or frankly, never.
The feathers of your wings have burnt to dust and were scattered into the wind of the rampaging purgatory since a long gone past,
All you do is listening to your own voice in your head, over and over.
Bound to the ground, with no wings to fly.
Bound to silence, with no voice to cry.
~ Umi
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 6:06 PM UTC
Been piecing things together lately,
And frankly,
I'm puzzled.
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 3:17 PM UTC
Oct. 25
Everything is different and I don't want to explain things.
Nov. 1
I crave the glittering, garish city lights, the loud raw music, the feeling of being completely and dangerously free.
Nov. 16
My heart hurts.
Nov. 17
I want to love you. I want to love you so much that I can't stop writing beautiful lyrical poems about the stars and my heart beat and your skin and I just want you to love me too.
Nov. 18
I think that if he knew me, really knew me, at all times of the day and night, he wouldn't love me.
Nov. 20
It's really funny how people can change.
Nov. 24
This is not paradise; this is hell.
Nov. 24 (later)
I'm materialistic and shallow, but frankly I don't give a ****
Dec. 14
My heart is literally pounding so hard I can feel it moving up and down in my chest. I'm blushing.
Dec. 20
And the butterflies live on, perpetually fluttering around in little circles in the pit of my stomach.
Dec. 21
He says I'm like a daisy.
Jan. 1
I downed a bottle of sparkles and sang like a drunk man would and he told me he loved me.
Jan. 25
He's so sweet and I think I love him.
Feb. 8
Long, content sigh.
Feb. 14
I'm going to blurt it out all at once because I'm feeling giggly so he stopped at the side of the road and kissed me and I feel like I'm floating.
Feb. 22
I feel trapped.
Feb. 28
He's always on my mind. Always.
March 13
I broke up with him. I'm not upset, and I'm worried about that. I don't feel anything at all. Are feelings supposed to just walk away and disappear like that?
March 29
His voice is irritating. I'm not a damsel in distress.
April 2
I think young love is only a glittering, fleeting illusion. I'm not sad about it.
Dec 31, 2014
Dec 31, 2014 at 7:30 PM UTC
To the people who think education majors have it easy,
Nothing, and I truly mean nothing, gets under my skin more than people who have the same mindset as you.
People like you think that my 3.8 GPA isn’t as worthy as someone else’s in a different major.
People like you think education majors can’t possibly be as stressful as other majors.
People like you think that my 40-page unit plan doesn’t even begin to compare to your 40-page report.
People like you think that teaching is easy.
it's ********
I’m not going to sit here and go into detail about all of the difficult assignments I’ve had over the past four years as a middle school math major because frankly you’re just not worth my time. Also, because that would mean that I have something to prove to you, and I don’t. You can’t begin to judge a major until you have sat in on their classes, done their assignments, took their tests, etc. So, for you to judge my major based solely on the fact that I’m teaching children makes you arrogant and ignorant.
Imagine the excitement you feel when you get an A on an exam you spent days studying for. Now imagine that same excitement being stripped away from you in a second because someone tells you that your major is easy and that that’s the reason you got such a good grade.
Imagine working your **** off to earn Dean’s List every semester you’ve been at school, for someone to turn around and tell you that the only reason you’ve achieved that is because of your easy major.
It’s hurtful.
I chose to become a teacher because I want to take part in shaping children’s minds. I want to take part in making students grow up enjoying math. I want to take part in making learning fun.
I don’t think that is something I’ll ever regret, no matter how many times you try to bring me down.
Please just focus on your own major. Focus on your own difficult assignments, your own difficult tests, and your own difficult projects, that way you can truly strive for success.
And I’ll still be here, an education major, cheering you on.
Sincerely,
A future teacher.
Dec 5, 2017
Dec 5, 2017 at 6:06 PM UTC
Death doesn't discriminate
Quite frankly, He doesn't care
Once He's out of the barrel
Whizzing through midair.
Gay, straight, Lesbian or Bi
You have no control if you die.
But the finger that pulled the trigger
Now that's a different story.
But motives mean nothing to the family in mourning
This morning.
There's nothing you could say
or explain away that would bring comfort today.
If you told them it was religion or a hate crime
that doesn't give them any more time.
And it's the outpouring of speechless faces
Awestruck gazes
That should shake us awake
in every state from our state of denial.
These cold steel devices have become our vices
becoming our own rod of judgement in bringing "justice".
A disagreement in lifestyle does not warrant a life.
If you feel offended, just turn the other cheek
And prevent tears from streaming down cheeks.
Death might not discriminate, but those who discriminate bring death.
Whether it's in the form of a gun
Or a loved one being shunned.
Life is precious and sacred
And if someone has it, you shouldn't take it.
Jun 12, 2016
Jun 12, 2016 at 1:30 PM UTC
You share your words, I cup my ears.
You shed your shell, I catch your tears.
When life goes awry, wisdom gives bliss.
I hold your face, forehead graced with kiss.
My words are calm, warm, and tranquil.
I'm gentle, understanding; tell me how you feel.
You're unburdened, cumbersome no more.
Uplifted you thank me and say your peace.
I'm alone again, but it's better now. I'm sure.
Wings flap; I close my eyes and feel the breeze.
Their once storms, now but a gust.
Shepard their dragons, I must.
Their dragons are slain, the fire is gone.
I shoulder their pain, my words drawn.
As they sleep, I sit and gaze at the stars.
I'm arrested, their beauty. Oh, how they glisten.
Frankly, I weep as I'm fighting their wars.
As dark as the night may fall, I'll always listen.
To whose ears may I profess?
Am I not too, simply a mess?
No one to be me, for the father.
Everyday, the man seems closer yet farther.
Who is there when it all seems so bad?
I know who I am, the man, my own dad.
Mar 7, 2019
Mar 7, 2019 at 5:01 PM UTC
70 years of supposed independence
Yet no real freedom for women
In a society dominated by men
Drowned, is a woman's voice
We need Azadi from Patriarchy
Money and power aren't everything
Without love, life is nothing
Above all, are relationships and life quality
Is there no end to ****
Why is marital **** legal?
Our system is so feudal
Marriage is such a shame
Marred by domestic violence
Divorce, a traumatic experience
No freedom to choose her career
Family is supposed to be better
No freedom for inter-religious marriage
If she does, it's labelled Love Jihad
Frankly, we are tired
Demand an end to this carnage
She can dress as she pleases
She can roam at night
She can marry anyone she loves
To question her, you have no right
Aug 17, 2017
Aug 17, 2017 at 10:15 AM UTC
Once upon a time in a land not so far away,
There lived a young girl who wished she'd never stayed.
Not because of the roughness of the trees,
Or because of the fear of a simple sting of a bee,
But because of her life she longer wished to live.
No her childhood was not a complete bore.
No it was more of the trials her teen years stored.
Never did she think that one goodbye would be the last,
Or that time would go bye so **** fast.
Her teen years are the moments she no longer wished to live.
This story does not have a happy ending.
It's not like other stories parents are telling.
No because this story is about a girl who gave up.
She desired to take just one sip out of the bitter cup.
Because she no longer wished to live.
Now one night she felt lower than low.
She tied a noose rather than a bow.
But this time around her neck not on the back of her head.
She had the desire to wake up dead.
Because she no longer wished to live.
But one day she met a little boy,
And he offered her his toy.
The kind soul she was she began to play.
And thought maybe, just for a while she'll stay.
Beginning to have the desire to live.
The days flew by and so did the year.
Eventually the day came when she didn't shed a tear.
But rather she played with the children and pets,
And began to deal with her problems in sets.
Not often having the thought that she no longer wished to live.
Time has gone by and her teen years are gone.
As well as the children who grew so long.
She found a place in this land.
She found a place she could stand.
She had the desire to continue to live.
Now this comes as a surprise to many of you,
Because frankly you didn't know what she would do.
But one day she fell in love with a man.
They prepared to marry and made the plan.
She want to be with him and live.
But tragedy struck and she died a sad death.
With only others memories of her left.
And now she is standing up by a star.
With her life below her seeming so far.
But now she no longer had to live.
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 4:46 AM UTC
There's a private, invisible flock of comedians chanting soapbox knock-knocks in my parking lot
Noisy, clang, boom thingy aloft and clipping the air around the slimy snow
And why does ajax keep butting its nose into everything I’ve got?
They’re all just boom-lost facades in a canonical, sly-faced rant.
So slanted, frankly, and poised toward a milder pace that the clang clipped the frosty branches beneath a drunken frat-house party.
Ah, the dandy-clang : native to the sandy graves and morose olive branches.
But only on the night of the dandy-clang, candy dances
for the branches are not partial to missed solid caches
of want and woe
of tongue and toe
and seldom shaken beneath the overbearing heat of a white-faced predator
for times it was that here and now, because
the wind had bitten harder
What am I saying?
That if the dandy-clang came. And if it produced the branches of the dancing eve fame...
with but not together. The clouds up in the ether
that lake and earth should wither
May 31, 2012
May 31, 2012 at 7:10 PM UTC
I want to be your chocolate chips.
Frankly, you are the cookie.
You are plain and sweet,
Perfect really.
You accept any topping or ingredient.
She is a box of raisins.
You two could mix
Be a great team
But she doesn't make you pop.
She can't accentuate your true sweetness
Your beautiful simplicity
Your strength. I want to be your chocolate chips
I want to go through the fire with you
Melt into you
Like she never could.
And I want to make you shine
Because the sweetness in me might just bring out the perfection in you.
So I guess what I am trying to say
Is that if you want to have raisins
I could have that cookie too
But I'm really craving chocolate chip.
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 8:39 PM UTC
The whole concept
of adulthood
is one that seems to
trespass
from the ever-anticipated world
of the theoretical,
just to barge into your life
one night
like an uninvited drunken friend.
It will never really “hit you,”
but it’ll come **** close
the first time your aunt
offers you a glass of wine
as she and your mother
gossip frankly about
your father’s mistress—
you sip on cheap Chardonnay
and pretend to be used to the taste,
as they talk with
a middle-aged bitterness
of the man you were raised
to believe was too virtuous
to be in debt for some glitzy
engagement ring that he
bought to restart his life
with a woman he left your mother for
shortly after the pandemonium
of a guiltless affair.
The man
whose brutishness
you were told to overlook, cradling
the sparse memories
of when he’d tuck you
too tightly into bed, or
when he’d tell you that he loved you
even though half the time
you really didn’t believe him—
The man whose love confused you,
whose clumsy attempts
of fatherhood
kept the heart of a young girl
perpetually guarded
by a cautious skepticism—
The man who brought you into
a world he found absurd
as carelessly
as he raised you to face it,
torn apart
like every illusion that makes a child,
the ashes of which
that slip through your fingers
inevitably declare you
another bitter adult.
More wine will reveal
that your beloved father
is a controlling ******
and his relationship
with that *****
the whole family hates
only appears to be functioning
because she lets him have
all the control
he couldn’t exert on your mother,
even though you’ve had dinner
with the two of them a couple of times
and if you had met her
under any other circumstance (though
you’d feel like a traitor
if you said it aloud)
you wouldn’t think
she was all that bad.
In red, declarative letters
I want to write to any children I may ever bear
into this bittersweet game of ********
we play that we’ve since called ‘life,’
that when they first gaze with awe
at the unattainable grace
with which every grown-up seems to navigate
the world they created,
with all the pain of tax-paying and womanhood,
I want to scream
that we don’t know what the hell we’re doing either
and if at any point I try to convince you otherwise
you should tell your mother
that she’s full of ****
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 3:25 PM UTC
Dear,
My vision is clouded by two green eyes, alike emeralds gazing at me,
A delicate body, frankly short yet mature and smart, but so warm,
This is what you are for me, you feel human, you smell human yet all the others see you as something else, a monster is what they call you,
But this is not true, even if you should be some kind of eldritch abomination, for me you're a gal of grace, of elegance and kindness,
Even if they talk ill of you, saying you are twisted and weird,
And even if they call me naive, for not seeing what you really are,
I will not give up, for the both of us are not like them, we can't be.
I love you. For a world we see is true, what we manifest, what I'll build you is a mansion of crystal and of course pure, starlight.
The beauty rising by your own hand is a blinding light in the dark,
Bloom, as the world around us fades away, blossom, we become one.
But all that remains just a dream, the cruel reality is,
I can only meet you there.
~ Umi
May 12, 2018
May 12, 2018 at 9:07 PM UTC
So there’s this woodpecker
He pecks all day
Peck Peck Peck
Peck Peck Peck
Pecks his life away
Ever seen him stop and wonder?
At the glories of the world and beyond?
Did you ever see?
Him staring at a tree
And thinking about Joyce Kilmer?
Nope, can’t recall
Any such incident
So why should I stop
And smell the flowers I don’t see
Why should I write a poem
As beautiful as a tree
When no one else gives a ****
I should be hanging around friends
Rolling joints with the money for my rent
I should be the eternal narcissist
Like the one who sits above
But we’ll come to him later
Right now what I wanna know
Is what gives me the right to control
Everything I see
And everything I don’t
Coz frankly speaking
There’s a lot I don’t know
What gives me the right
To play with someone’s life
And blame it on ignorance?
I thought someone could tell me
Someone could answer
The stupidest question in the world
But if I ask someone
Why they’re doing something
They all say the same thing
Coz everyone else is.
Good.
So now we’ve got that cleared.
I’m doing what I’m doing
Because everyone else is doing what they’re doing
And everyone else is doing what they’re doing
Because I’m doing what I’m doing
To sum it up,
None of us know what any of us is doing
Or why they’re doing it.
Looks like we evolved backwards.
At least the apes knew what they were doing.
Sleep. Eat. **** Have *** Sleep.
That simple collection of words got what the people
Who call themselves the brainiest guys in the world didn’t:
Logic.
And I’ll tell you why they didn’t get it
Because they were the birdbrains
Who came up with the idea of a nuclear bomb
Which has really set the bar for human stupidity
No one can surpass that.
Because the ‘logic’ behind the nuclear bomb is
“You give me what I want
Or I’ll blow up your country”
People in the highest position of their respective countries
Spent money exceeding ten times the number of their population
On such nuclear bombs.
Which, in fact, they’ll never use.
True story.
Tell you the truth, I’d rather be a woodpecker.
Jun 6, 2012
Jun 6, 2012 at 1:37 PM UTC
I had over prepared the event,
that much was ominous.
With middle-ageing care
I had laid out just the right books.
I had almost turned down the pages.
Beauty is so rare a thing.
So few drink of my fountain.
So much barren regret,
So many hours wasted!
And now I watch, from the window,
the rain, the wandering busses.
“Their little cosmos is shaken”—
the air is alive with that fact.
In their parts of the city
they are played on by diverse forces.
How do I know?
Oh, I know well enough.
For them there is something afoot.
As for me;
I had over-prepared the event—
Beauty is so rare a thing.
So few drink of my fountain.
Two friends: a breath of the forest…
Friends? Are people less friends
because one has just, at last, found them?
Twice they promised to come.
“Between the night and the morning?”
Beauty would drink of my mind.
Youth would awhile forget
my youth is gone from me.
(Speak up! You have danced so stiffly?
Someone admired your works,
And said so frankly.
“Did you talk like a fool,
The first night?
The second evening?”
“But they promised again:
‘To-morrow at tea-time’.”)
Now the third day is here—
no word from either;
No word from her nor him,
Only another man’s note:
“Dear Pound, I am leaving England.”
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