"humored" poems
Elephant
Wise, good-humored
Loving, playing, existing
Teach me your ways
Larger-than-life
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 6:59 PM UTC
Genial poets, pink-faced
earnest wits—
you have given the world
some choice morsels,
gobbets of language presented
as one presents T-bone steak
and Cherries Jubilee.
Goodbye, goodbye,
I don’t care
if I never taste your fine food again,
neutral fellows, seers of every side.
Tolerance, what crimes
are committed in your name.
And you, good women, bakers of nicest bread,
blood donors. Your crumbs
choke me, I would not want
a drop of your blood in me, it is pumped
by weak hearts, perfect pulses that never
falter: irresponsive
to nightmare reality.
It is my brothers, my sisters,
whose blood spurts out and stops
forever
because you choose to believe it is not your business.
Goodbye, goodbye,
your poems
shut their little mouths,
your loaves grow moldy,
a gulf has split
the ground between us,
and you won’t wave, you’re looking
another way.
We shan’t meet again—
unless you leap it, leaving
behind you the cherished
worms of your dispassion,
your pallid ironies,
your jovial, murderous,
wry-humored balanced judgment,
leap over, un-
balanced? ... then
how our fanatic tears
would flow and mingle
for joy ...
5.3k
How do you do it?
Make my heart beat so?
A rhythmic thump-thump,
speeding and reckless at the thought of you.
You dance in my mind
playing in my memories,
The simple things,
seem like so much.
Remember when you offered my a bite of your food?
I refused;
but what if I hadn't;
would we laugh,
and look into each others eyes.
Remember the time you touched my face?
Almost an accident. Almost.
I wish your hands had grabbed my face and pulled my lips into yours,
but your fingers only grazed my cheek.
Remember when you tried to teach me your job?
I watch your hands shape the pizza dough,
stretching and rotating it.
I have never wanted to be a ball of dough more in my life.
Remember all the laughs we've shared?
I wish I could feel those laughs in your chest.
I want to be the air in your lungs.
Breathe me in and out again.
Hold me in an air bag, and breathe each laugh.
Save those breaths,
and the beautiful fog they make.
Save them for me,
years later I will open the bag and release them.
Only a memory of the person they once belonged to.
A shadow of the life they once sustained
But it is enough.
They kept you alive, and humored me.
And I only wish they could breathe for me.
Into me.
All around me.
Give me life.
Give me existence.
Press your mouth into mine and breathe.
Pump my lungs,
and awaken me.
Save my life with your breath.
Your laugh,
brings me life.
Your laugh,
is all I need.
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 6:13 PM UTC
I hadn't heard from you in a while, so last night I humored the notion of you, intrigued.
You asked me how I was, high off your *** on Vicodin.
Drunk off my *** on red wine, I admitted I wasn't doing
So well.
So, well,
We spoke for a while, and I admitted a lot of
****
Well, ****
More than you bargained for,
I'm sure.
So sure,
You called me out on my mistakes like you always have:
Telling me that I was far too lovely,
To be so ******* lonely
That I would waste such a beautiful side of myself,
In so willingly giving so much of myself
Away.
And in a way,
I know that you're
right;
And I can't just pretend I'm
alright.
I need to buck up and make all things
right.
Holy **** what a night.
Jan 22, 2012
Jan 22, 2012 at 11:48 AM UTC
Depression is an ugly Christmas sweater your mother bought you, but you never want to wear, but never want to get rid of, either. It's not her fault, as much as you tend to blame her for it. It's not anyone's fault, really, but god **** that thing is just ******* atrocious and not very-well humored. You do your best to keep it buried and hidden, no one can know that you have it, it's an embarrassment and now, because of it, so are you. It'll be in the back of your mind, in the back of your drawers, the whole time. Any time someone mentions Christmas, you'll rub the back of your head 'cause it'll come to mind, and flood with it hundreds of other terrible memories. Almost everyone has one. Those that do, understand the importance and the significance of it, but those that don't, will always look at you funny. Wonder what the hell you're doing. Set that Christmas sweater on fire while you're still wearing it. Act casual. This is normal. Everyone stops and stares, but no one offers or tries to help you. Soon you realize that it's no one's job to. The only person in the room with a fire extinguisher is you. Are you gonna put it out? Or are you gonna let the whole house burn down? Suddenly the flames are out, and no one noticed them but you. Funny, the sweater is just fine. You can burn it, stain it, cut it, slash it, destroy it in any way you can think of, but it will still be just fine. Everything will be just fine. Tell yourself "everything will be just fine." Tell everyone around you "Everything will be just fine" This sweater will make you a liar, but even when, and especially when, you don't believe it, tell everyone that everything will be just fine, because it has to be. They can't worry about you. You want them to more than anything, but you can't let them know they should be worried. They should already know. They should already know. When they ask you "what's wrong" or "why the long face," you honest mother ****** you lie to them. You lie to their face. You look up and you tell them "Don't worry, everything's just fine. Can I have some more eggnog?"
Nov 1, 2015
Nov 1, 2015 at 8:46 AM UTC
the thick frames surrounding
my prescription perspective,
are the curtains to the ceaseless show.
the same charade everyday.
it's a 4-15 minute drive from my apartment to the campus.
4 minutes if the dark-humored, aliens that control stoplights are kind,
15 if they are looking for a laugh.
my feet hit parking concrete outside of classrooms.
it's rhythmic yet mundane.
but it's a game we all play.
i fall into line, the slow parade of apathy,
that leads us to lectures each day.
the professors project views of wicked youth,
we like white, pull-down sheets,
sport whatever image they insist,
so easily.
it's branded boys
and
tanning bed-inspired girls.
it's blind acceptance and
weightless regret.
i want to change lenses.
pull the curtain,
and start all over again.
Jun 1, 2010
Jun 1, 2010 at 10:14 AM UTC
An empath
Just a ProSonderer
Nothing more
But quick to learn
every human’s soul
will be instinctively felt
just as the breeze flows
through that open window
A soul
it’s wandering to your heart’s beat
on rare occasion it deviates from the tune
nothing more
—Because you don’t acknowledge
its existence yet;
Could you truly expect to progress
in finding your soul’s mate
when you don’t even know your spirit’s home?—
A pair of souls is always made from a single star
so when you find another
that renders your talkative self speechless
or leaves your smooth conversing ways to only a stutter
Find another that leaves you in awe and wonder
that makes your chest feel comfort in the ache
when you're longing not only at midnight
but in public midday for that other
if its a flame
that just won't fade
no matter how long you stay
tell yourself to not push this one away
you're not in danger anymore
let that person breach your barricades
allow them a chance to understand your spirit’s ways
you'll soon stop automatically
encouraging them to go
the day will arrive when you won’t be itching to show them the door
chances are you'll find
nothing's worth more
then an empath finding their
lone star soul in their own time
And as a sondering empath
I understand having that
(impenetrably
-fragile only to a certain fine-tuned touch-
translucent but sporadically opaque)
guard with others
Seems like a darkly humored folklore
a normal person’s usual day
is just a daunting notion due to exhaustion from feeling everyone's emotion
but when you meet that one
you won't just understand their soul
you'll have a brand new reading
and it’ll feel horrifyingly confusing
just remember there's a first time for everything
when that someone intuitively understands you.
Jan 23, 2018
Jan 23, 2018 at 7:14 AM UTC
On a bleak and frosty night
Vexed and weary two travelers rode
Along the pathways-craggy and ragged
From Nazareth, trudging miles on end
Full pregnant, was she with child
Mary -the ****** suffused with Spirit Holy
Divinely ordained to bear the Godly Prince
Conceived before, she had known her spouse.
Abiding in Heaven’s Providence n’ care
They had rode past miles behind
Far too fatigued by the trip
Mary, now badly needed a place to rest.
Heading towards the blinking lights
Not far from the city’s guarded gate
Joseph sighted a tavern-small
Perched high on a tiny hill
A sense of relief beamed past
They have come at last to the journey’s end
Finally found a place to rest!
An interim home away from home
Tethering the donkey outside the gate
Joseph helped Mary alight the brute
In eager search, he hurried inside
With Mary, following with faltering steps.
But the couple, to their dismay found
Within the tavern, room, there was none
For many a man had gathered round
To halt there on that freezing night
Sundry folk from surrounding lands
Had reached Bethlehem for the yearly census
Tradesmen selling clothes and cheese
Nomads of varying clans and clime
Petulant camels, braying donkeys
The place was littered with man and beast.
The tavern small, so packed to full
Had no more space to harbor the crowd
Mary and Joseph, though dejected,
Were encamped within a manger- warm
With tender concern, Joseph joked,
To ease the strain on Mary’s face
“Gaze upon this palace of gold
Where a son shall soon be born to us”!
Mary smiled a gentle smile,
Humored by her husband’s jest
Under the gaze of tethered hosts
In veiled privacy of the midnight gloom
She gave birth to a radiant child,
The great Redeemer to all Mankind
The star studded sky suddenly glowed
With a rare brilliance never beheld
And a celestial voice trailed along
Delivering ‘tidings of joy’ to the globe around
Dec 22, 2016
Dec 22, 2016 at 7:11 AM UTC
He touched our hands
But unconcernedly this famous man
And would not look us in the eye
For fear of contact or what might be worse, connection
And we could hardly blame him, for after all
He had each day been singled out for close inspection
By ones like us, in awe of his celebrity
Circled in the shade of his perfection
Hoping for the star-dust sprinkle of acuity
Or sparkling eyes, admission to his inner cult and clan
He wore blue jeans
And scuffed sneakers as a badge of proof
Of his coolness and unconcern
While we his audience with concealed attention
Enviously eyed his hairy confidence, unconsciously
Imitating in each phrase that low convention
Made small adjustments to our store-bought suits and ties
And nodded several times in bright pretension
Made small amendments to our smiles and lies
Flicked photo-phones in pursuit of custom and routine
He gave a speech
A flippant interview, this famous creature
A well tossed phrase, a rounded cliche
Poured forth like brandy in a glass, convivial
Or apple cider-ed vinegar in pewter mugs
A sardonically French-accented phrase habitual
Well humored, heavy lidded with testosterone
At interlocutor women with the pens and pads
Delivered in a low and purring monotone
For all the world as lovers, each to each
He stretched a smile
A modulated shift of teeth and beard
"Genius? Not I" with deprecation
"My shallow intellect, so poor and so ephemeral"
Delivered in a tone that mocked inclusion
While we assumed an elegance, unintentional
A nonchalance that shields the wide charades
Unmoving in our breathless, but conventional
Genuflection to the the notion that pervades
Our addictive appetite now sated. For a while.
He kissed their cheeks
And stroked their arms, with sensuous ambivalence
But absently, as if he cared so little
In his farewell. 'A bientot' he said and 'Au revoir'
And slipped away amongst the moving Milan crowds
Creative and creator, irredeemably a star
With, in his wake the smiling scriveners staring
At his retreating back in Stark excitement
In the middle of the circling and squaring, at
The alpha-wolfic effigy. The Shepherd and his sheep.
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 6:46 AM UTC
How could this have happened?
Life took its time and tortured me.
Taunting, malicious, evil.
I lived a melancholy life.
The people weren’t enough.
I desired more.
I desired love.
I desired my other half.
Just when I thought I was forever alone,
Unexpectedly, he appeared.
He cared, gave me his everything.
He took his time with me.
I should’ve recognized the foreboding.
We all want happiness, no one wants pain,
But we can’t have a rainbow without a little rain.
Even then, rainbows don’t last forever.
Life,
You’re wicked.
You want to hurt me.
When I wanted to pick a fight, You started running.
You don’t care about me.
You don’t care about young love.
Ripping my heart out.
Tearing apart his.
When someone thinks of you, life,
They think of you being balanced.
A sprinkle of unfairness,
A sprinkle of happiness.
You surprised all the guileless ones
You are judicious; an ill-humored dowdy.
Maybe you’re just a querulous old women,
Tired of ignorant pests.
Or maybe you were just born with a blackened heart.
But, now when I ask you for a reason why,
You curl up in a ball, roll away and let me cry.
What a coward.
Conniving little *****
What comes around goes around,
You’ll get your share,
Three times worse.
Think you’re so contumacious?
What is it?
You desired more?
You desired love?
You desired someone else?
Are you jealous?
Don’t be tremulous about the topic.
Something will happen to you…
Your soul mate awaits you,
But for now,
Please, be kind to me.
Sep 17, 2012
Sep 17, 2012 at 4:01 AM UTC
It's been a lonely morning, but perhaps, I was in need of one.
After staring at shaded yellow walls, at every hour of the night,
and feeling anger sharpen to some light,
At 7 a.m, I finally fell fast asleep,
my walls were slowly becoming bright.
I woke up 4 hours later to the opening of a door, one that was expected for long ago.
The sides of my head were biting my brain, and my teeth on lip bites gave way for pain,
I got up and got dressed, no coffee, no rest, I went for a walk, in need of a talk,
but sat in a park sipping black alone, and watched the white on which sun softly shone,
and the air slightly breezing, this bone of mine freezing,
a dog interrupting, I headed down the lonely street,
staring at my lonely slow feet,
counting my numerous steps,
and seeing a nest?
I saw a beautiful bird in a tree, and it's true a lot of memories came back to me.
It hoarsely cawed and gave me attention, another passer-by, just one of the Menschen.
I stood and watched its desired Display, He stood on a roof and gave flight a nay.
Tucked its wings in for the very last second, he dropped beak-first
and I have to admit, I was a little afraid.
When cement was an inch away, his black wings rose, and extended from his small body
the wind pulled him back, his head prostrated backwards, his eyes met my own
and he cawed.
The three of us we belonged to each other, with wordless agreement that said She, the Mother.
"Have trust in me, you will fly and and you will fall, this time is not yours,
However, this here, this is your call. I know it moves slow, and it gives you a shudder, but have trust in me, I am your Mother."
I ignored Her words, and descended the road,
felt the earth flicker, a disrupted candle-
The wind, was to blame for its cruel games.
A door opened after many steps,
the flights were long, and the wind did not help.
I opened my window, gave breath to the tree,
and She crept in,
She humored me,
"One day your shivering bones, will be under those stones, and that bowl will be full with your fleshy Müll.
You'll feel the stillness, see the Flicker for you, this cement all ready and new, awaiting your beak, hopes for your red leak."
"It'll be me with your breath, and your longing thirst, but first,"
She gave me her hand, and I saw wrinkles of ages,
and so that I might repay, or perhaps even Replay
I gave her my hand and said,
"Lead the way."
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 2:33 AM UTC
Honesty, my friend used to say,
Needs to be pushed,
Dishonesty pushes you,
While his words were handsome,
As much as he,
I dared to reject it,
Though it was in my head already
The sink never fills,
For each rejected drop runs away
Like honesty place at bay
By people, who once were humored in life,
And you helped,
Now they are dishonest,
They are to you,
Cannines you treated, that bit
But you to them,
Are a beautiful cause to life
And a product of their art of dishonesty
Oct 8, 2017
Oct 8, 2017 at 4:26 AM UTC
i am certain that i am going to die young and no this isn't one of my cries for help or bargain-ed pleas, you all will-i-am certain- miss that years and years from now. i still have myselves in all of you, every ounce of me does not belong to me. i am in ownership of nothing but the curls of my eyelashes and the frame they allow me to recreate. this is simply my attempt at a lightly humored poem, but I am certain I am going to die young, very young almost too young to remember the day I was born and thus, first deceived and devirginized, even before my first steps on clay coated sand and became a constantly budding plant with razor bladed sides and a thirsty black vaping hole between my legs but Liberia ruined me with it's talk of this ******* thing called womanhood same as they brought me thought and thought again to salvation, i am certain i am going to die just like many thought i've never lived a single day in my life, I am certain,
I am certain, I am certain.
I am. i am. just not tonight
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 11:55 PM UTC
I'm sick of this day at sunrise.
And there’s no cigarette to smoke
within a walkings distance
before i sit across another verbally abusive *******
telling me why i write with the insolence of an asshole.
Insomnia that could wake ****** up
has been rallying for his third evening
and my fingers can't lay still.
these hands like tremors
on the faults of my keys,
this **** screen of tectonic hills,
and the snark and bile
that stands upon them,
with humored donations of authority,
of me tryingto describe the world I see.
But still this will not ease my mind to rest
nor will my eyes roll back into the void
where this calamity is formed.
Because there's still some suited family
at the reigns of the nation
where society is in the eyes not of the beholder,
but of the person that tells the most lies.
So I lock my ears with insanity
to drown out the sound
of souls as they scream
at how they've been betrayed.
and they sing chorus' of those
who scores before
tried to sing the same song.
So again, like every day
I'll sit and curse the dawn
because it is unchanged,
it is still another day of sorrow.,,,,,,,,,
Dec 8, 2011
Dec 8, 2011 at 7:57 PM UTC
Life's a neverending game,
and god is a child that's waiting to be humored.
Humor him with that broken up smile.
Dec 5, 2018
Dec 5, 2018 at 4:49 PM UTC
I loved the schoolbus.
I had friends in the front,
and friends in the back.
But sometimes when I climbed those steps,
I didn't want to have friends.
I didn't want to smile,
I didn't want to laugh.
I just wanted it quiet so
I sat in the middle sometimes,
right in between everything.
And that's where I met Vanessa,
right there in the middle of the bus.
She sat alone every day,
with her eyes always
cast upon the window
and what lay beyond it.
I noticed her right away
even though she was older
and a few grades ahead of me.
See she was seventeen, and much more
experienced than the fourteen-year-old me.
But I approached her anyway,
working my way into the seat
adjacent to her.
Eventually working up the *****
to actually say something.
We talked for a few weeks,
and she humored me.
Even when I went to sit in the back
and was loud and obnoxious, I would
catch her glancing.
She would look and sneer at me.
So when the day finally came
that she said my name
and told me to sit in her seat,
I dropped everything
and joined her.
Want to see something?
she asked, without so
much as a blink.
Sure, I mean, of course.
I replied, trying my best
not to sound too eager
She kept her eyes on me as
her hands lifted up her skirt,
one inch at a time showing me
more and more of her.
My eyes were locked on
her crotch, I could almost hear
the shutter clicking as I documented
the whole thing mentally.
But she stopped when she revealed
a crescent-shaped scab on her upper thigh.
It was shot through with red lines,
swollen and inflamed and
I swear that it moved and pulsed
right before my eyes.
I couldn't look away
as she picked the scab off
in one big piece, and I saw
a white caterpillar unfold from
her wound in a squelching
symphony of sickening sound
and roll it's way down
her leg, covered with blood and
leaving ***** streaks.
Then it hit the seat and I gasped
when she grabbed it before it could
crawl away and shoved the
macabre thing into her mouth,
still crawling,
killing it with her teeth.
I never sat with Vanessa again.
Apr 17, 2015
Apr 17, 2015 at 10:03 PM UTC
Now that we are lungs of our own,
no longer governed by each other
or good-humored light,
angled to make us beautiful;
I leave, tightly grappled within,
as if still in genuflect
still spinning
inside our billowing confessions,
two bodies conquered by cool
curious, cunning damnation...
A friend,
in her venues of Valentines,
a countess of stones thrown
proffers me the hangman's colloquial
"You still feel him...?"
nodding, I recall
the contours & colors of love's collision
*"You just keep feeling it,
however much you wish it stop.
Feel it--feel it all,
there's no prompt drug
to make it go away..."*
She coddles my sloth of shoulders
with ginger wisdom of grandmothers.
Nodding, I give in
to the germinating futility...
I still remember him
blowing out the candles
at our small table
with our unfinished meal;
how we thatched anger-strangled hearts
with saffron sauces of exasperation...
each etching kiss
close to a divine cure,
each curve of our crude pose
close-captioned
for the appetite-impaired...
Each saline scurrying tear,
each lonely-wilderness of day,
I force a sort of Nut-cracker's strength
not to feel
that barrel-hollow loss
that gallery of Use-To-Be's
and my friend,
in her Carmen wisdom,
is surgeon savant
stitches me up,
I am less in swarms of his tangibility;
I breathe less of his fetch
flooding
I am slowly becoming
just a single prefix,
my own word and crutch
no matter how often I recall
the music of his touch
or all the colors
we felt so much...
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 8:51 PM UTC
I liked capturing the perfect moments. For example: When leaves fall, but
sway left or right and pause for that perfect moment. Where
the shade compliments the dark spots of a dying tree, yet the caterpillars become
humored in the fact that knowing that that tree is full of new leaves and
all the old half bitten tampered leaves are dead. "What a beautiful meal".
They think to themself, yet we as humans see it as just, a tree.
And for that reason. If being just that reason. I chose photography.
Nature has its ups and downs, but with photography even the worst
moments taken as a picture can be beautiful. From tornadoes rambling fields to cracked
roads from an earthquake. Photography puts me in an imagination. It gives me a
different life. And for that reason, I love capturing moments.
Human lives can be complicated. And I hate it, but then there are those moments.
Those moments that you remember and you laugh or smile at the thought of them. Reminiscing on
that specific day or time. Wishing you can go back there or just relive that moment, but I can't.
And it saddens me. So, I take pictures and call them life.
Nov 18, 2020
Nov 18, 2020 at 1:05 AM UTC
They took me away from it all..
Made me start over
Took me to the hospital again and called me "Crazy"
Told me to take my medication
Told me to sleep without any worries
Told me that everything was going to be okay, if I **** my... pills
Forced me into therapy
Made me talk about my "Problems"
P r e t e n d e d ..
Like I was going to get better
Or at least humored it
Now I sit alone
Like usual
I told you I needed you..
That
I needed a place to stay
S o m e o n e
S o m e t h I n g..
But no..
You told me you had to much "Anxiety"
That I needed to "figure things out"
That you wouldn't "let me in your door" if I ran to you
Because I needed you..?..
Who says that, when someone needs them?
What kind of a person..
And then you go and write a poem about me the same me you wouldn't even open your door for..
I mean seriously can I not... trust anyone..
And I love how after all of this I'm still considered the "Crazy one"
After what you did
Did you even take the time.?.
Did you know that I was going to **** myself?
Maybe you did..
But you still wouldn't open your door
You
Didn't listen...
And now..
Now..
Well, I think I'm going "Crazy"..
Jul 12, 2013
Jul 12, 2013 at 1:32 AM UTC
I miss you
The way you wrapped your tender arms around me
The way you looked at me when I was mad trying to find the answer in my eyes
The cold December nights where we laid cuddled up under blankets
The sunny spring days where we'd fall asleep under the shelter of the dark green trees
The humored voice you'd always use when telling me to not be scared of your mother
The way your eyes would settle on me as if I was the only one there
Jan 20, 2022
Jan 20, 2022 at 2:49 PM UTC
Touch me sweet, God, you gave me nine lives and
I would waste one to say something to
someone from three and a half years ago when
I still humored my pastor
and got guys hard past midnight, at every midnight.
Could meet them again, two by two
and forget he would love some part of me in the future.
She called me a loving **********
I wasted three of my lives
loving him in silence. I could have shouted
that I deserved better than someone who never did
call me baby just because I am young.
I deserved to have God caress my shoulders like angel
wings, pick my feet off the floor, glide on tile
like soap bars on skin
I will use to wash his slow escape away from me.
Jul 6, 2013
Jul 6, 2013 at 2:29 AM UTC
To the opera house the happy youths went
Two pretties, each strolled with a handsome gent
Four friends with every good intent
Of having a grand old time
Fair Marjorie dressed in sapphire blue
Her Alfred was wearing the same color, too
While Charles and Francine matched a crimson-y hue
The ambiance was feeling sublime
The lights of the theater were bright, but romantic
A large chandelier straight above made the ladies feel frantic
Violins started tuning, like strange waves of Atlantic
The grandeur of curtains opened, as the stage was undressed
But what humored the bunch was the old lady in peplum skirt
Two seats over from Alfred with birds embroidered on her shirt
She was peculiar, came alone and looked hardly alert
As the actors took position, she yawned, unimpressed
The old lady's antics continued for over an hour
She snorted at the singing, with boisterous power
By intermission her nose-blowing had turned each love scene sour
Our four were straining, containing their laughter
And during the intermission everyone got up, bought a drink
But the old lady just sat there, like she wanted to think
Beginning to stroke the dark fur of her wraparound mink
She nodded, falling asleep shortly after
Charles saw it first--"the old girl's dozed right off!"
Alfred chuckled and Francine, beginning to scoff
Proposed they prank the lady, but Marjorie coughed
Saying, "shame on you, wicked child!"
So they all sat back down and awaited the second unveiling
Two seats over from Alfred, the gray one's slumber unfailing
Act two and act three ended, the hero prevailing
At the final bow, the audience was wild
Everyone clapped and cheered loudly, some whistled or threw roses
Everyone but the one in the third seat over, under all the guests noses
Who slept though each applause and the actor's last poses
The theater was clearing out quickly
Four waited--Alfred, Marjorie, Charles and Francine
To see if she would wake and depart from the scene
The last five in the balcony, the gray one serene
The fun was over and they decided to help her get up
When Charles tapped her shoulder, they all finally knew
How tonight's show had smothered a moment so true
The old lady was found dead in the presence of those few
Still in the same seat, they never helped her get up
Feb 20, 2017
Feb 20, 2017 at 2:25 AM UTC
In the jungle of your mind
I bedded with the clichés
We sat round a campfire
And talked about foreign trade
You're favorite one stood up
and begged to play charades
We humored him only
because we knew he had had a bad day
Then the oldest and wisest
asked me to sing
I told him my voice was
reminiscent of a bad dream
He responded with laughter
slapping his sides
Then he pulled out a snake from the grass
and held it while it slithered and writhed
That night around midnight
We lay under the stars
We tried to use our imagination
But it didn't take us very far
You showed me constellations
That didn't exist
I told you I knew them
had studied them when I was a kid
You then took my hand
and kissed me on the mouth
I was shocked and bewildered
But accepted it without
The knowledge that your father
Was watching from afar
He took an axe and proceeded
to chop my courage apart
I ran further and deeper
into the jungle of your mind
I found the clichés still siting
enjoying their time
I begged them to let me
play charades
The agreed politely
They could see I had had a bad day
Sep 15, 2013
Sep 15, 2013 at 4:30 PM UTC