"instructing" poems
A fueling, flashing fulgent, furnace, fulgurous, frothy, fumes and feathery flakes,
I do not speak of waves of snow, hoary frost, or ice, a cold gelare or even frozen lakes!
Formidable, furrows, fructifying, functioning fruition to foremost fondly found a flaming,
I revel not in such destruction but choices for my naming!
For flowers flow fields forever, forswearing funneling fjords finitely, fire fray’s forests furthermost,
Instructing in the arts of language, for I am your gracious host!
Fakir formulates factious forms fading flummoxed into fury, a fugacious fusible and furtive fleeting feigning furiosity,
A deep ditch dug, tight as pug, wrapped blanket snub though not a flub, all perspicacity!
Finds frosty frore a frozen freezing faction for fusty flaming feasance,
Fomorian fantasy of formidable faggoting, facient up to fancying, fancying, furnaced flesh fluidity finds itself factitivity, facets for fabulists from the faint familiarity,
Relating cold to heat as such, requires but a human touch, apologize I do you see for all my clueless severity!
Fans of all the falconry, who fallow fields of family, falter for a fallacy, falling into infamy as forgone flame frontogenesis, fatigues a Faustian felony, for which fate finds is fastigiated foolery, febrile features featly and yet furiously, favonian fear of fellowship fiendishly, figures foal to fatherly, finally fiddle flinchingly, although not so too furtively;
I finagle in my filigree!
Jun 20, 2016
Jun 20, 2016 at 1:13 PM UTC
Dedicated to my wonderful Father...
My Father, My Guiding Light
Dad, you're like the sun to me, a sure thing,
always there, beaming light and warmth on my life.
Whatever is good in me today,
I owe to your wisdom, your patience,
your strength, your love.
You taught me by example, as a role model,
how to be my own person,
how to believe in myself, instructing me without controlling me.
Even when we disagreed,
you held us together, so our bond was never broken.
I understand what you did for me,
and I am so grateful that I have you as my solid foundation,
my rock. I respect you, I admire you, I love you, my guiding light,
my daddy
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 4:36 AM UTC
A man may usually be known by the books he reads as well as by the company he keeps; for there is a companionship of books as well as of men; and one should always live in the best company, whether it be of books or of men.
A good book may be among the best of friends. It is the same today that it always was, and it will never change. It is the most patient and cheerful of companions. It does not turn its back upon us in times of adversity or distress. It always receives us with the same kindness; amusing and instructing us in youth, and comforting and consoling us in age.
Men often discover their affinity to each other by the mutual love they have for a book just as two persons sometimes discover a friend by the admiration which both entertain for a third. There is an old proverb, ‘Love me, love my dog.” But there is more wisdom in this:” Love me, love my book.” The book is a truer and higher bond of union. Men can think, feel, and sympathize with each other through their favorite author. They live in him together, and he in them.
A good book is often the best urn of a life enshrining the best that life could think out; for the world of a man’s life is, for the most part, but the world of his thoughts. Thus the best books are treasuries of good words, the golden thoughts, which, remembered and cherished, become our constant companions and comforters.
Books possess an essence of immortality. They are by far the most lasting products of human effort. Temples and statues decay, but books survive. Time is of no account with great thoughts, which are as fresh today as when they first passed through their author’s minds, ages ago. What was then said and thought still speaks to us as vividly as ever from the printed page. The only effect of time have been to sift out the bad products; for nothing in literature can long survive e but what is really good.
Books introduce us into the best society; they bring us into the presence of the greatest minds that have ever lived. We hear what they said and did; we see the as if they were really alive; we sympathize with them, enjoy with them, grieve with them; their experience becomes ours, and we feel as if we were in a measure actors with them in the scenes which they describe.
The great and good do not die, even in this world. Embalmed in books, their spirits walk abroad. The book is a living voice. It is an intellect to which on still listens.
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 2:20 AM UTC
Death showed me how to dress.
it says "not that one, these shoes rather, somewhat less dynamic and somewhat more meek, more
modesty, less certainty."
Death showed me not to wear hoodies, to keep my head revealed, to wear light hues
rather than dull in light of the fact that I am sufficiently dim as of now
to purchase a belt for some jeans I possess, even better, to not wear pants,
death showed me how to do my hair, it says "less curl, more typical, straighter, longer,
more slender," it consumes my scalp and gives me a brush and says "isn't it decent to run your
fingers through it now,"
Death showed me who to like, what music to tune in to, how to keep individuals agreeable,
instructions to walk; "don't limp, straight shoulders, however remain littler than them,"
it showed me my vocabulary, the majority of the enormous words that gain me honors, for example, 'verbalize,'
'dislike whatever remains of them,' 'a great one,'
Death is continually instructing me to be less, less American, more African , an appreciated expansion, a
token, to reveal myself and strip myself of any weapons, any dangers
Death is a x-beam machine, and says in the event that I do anything incorrectly, it will come
as though I'm not kicking the bucket to myself as of now
Death says "what an opportunity to be alive."
since in this nation, Black is imperceptible
Oct 30, 2017
Oct 30, 2017 at 12:56 PM UTC
Had I ador'd the multitude, and thence
Got an antipathy to wit and sence,
And hug'd that fate, in hope the world would grant
'Twas good -- affection to be ignorant;
Yet the least ray of thy bright fancy seen
I had converted, or excuseless been:
For each birth of thy muse to after-times
Shall expatiate for all this age's crimes.
First shines the Armoret, twice crown'd by thee,
Once by they Love, next by Poetry;
Where thou the best of Unions dost dispence:
Truth cloth'd in wit, and Love in innocence.
So that the muddyest Lovers may learn here,
No fountains can be sweet that are not clear.
Then Juvenall reviv'd by thee declares
How flat man's Joys are, and how mean his cares;
And generously upbraids the world that they
Should such a value for their ruine pay.
But when thy sacred muse diverts her quill,
The Lantskip to design of Zion-Hill;32
As nothing else was worthy her or thee,
So we admire almost t'Idolatry.
What savage brest would not be rapt to find
Such Jewells insuch Cabinets enshrind'?
Thou (fill'd with joys too great to see or count)
Descend'st from thence like Moses from the Mount,
And with a candid, yet unquestioned aw,
Restorlst the Golden Age when Verse was Law.
Instructing us, thou so secur'st thy fame,
That nothing can distrub it but my name;
Nay I have hoped that standing so near thine
'Twill lose its drosse, and by degrees refine ...
"Live, till the disabused world consent
All truths of use, or strength, or ornament,
Are with such harmony by thee displaid,
As the whole world was first by number made
And from the charming rigour thy Muse brings
Learn there's no pleasure but in serious things.
2k
Retro Morn: Re-Reading Jenny (1.) and Her Purple Hat, (2.), Listening to Vonda Shepard
I am a beautiful woman, and reliably informed so,
by handsome. men, lustful fools, and one too many
sideward glances
in a difference place, musical needs call me out to retro smooth me
away from the waves of nausea of news repeats ingested, the lesser
qualities of human beings basic basest nature, I inhale subdued
Jenny’s defiance of life’s expectations and Vonda’s voice
smooth my discordant emotive candles that won’t stay lit,
add in a touch of melting Joni & Divine Ms. Bette,
gets me slow kickstarting
and I have not reached
the lofty plateau of
twenty five years of age
*but my mom, the Queen Regent, reminds me royalty possesses
very old souls, which Is why I’m caught out listening, dancing
awake to the music of her youth* and hear her discreetly humming the tunes, even though the phone connection broken minutes earlier
she signed off with a practised Elizabethan airy disturbance royal wave of her hand, instructing this raining (no, not reigning)
Queen to “darling go write a poem…”
don’t we all listen to our mothers?*
my name is brandychanning
music inhale subdued kickstarting a poem
Dec 13, 2023
Dec 13, 2023 at 12:35 PM UTC
I am Sarah Malcolm -
yes, the one they call the Irish Laundress
and the jury found me guilty of the murders
(the Infamous Murderess)
of Mrs Lydia Duncomb,
Mrs Harrison and the servant Ann Price
in Mrs Lydia’s chamber
at the Inns of Court in the Temple;
and the jury only needed 15 minutes
and there was disbelief when I admitted to robbery
but not ******
and there was disgust
when I said the blood on my clothing was my own menstrual blood
and not the blood of Ann Price:
I had broken a taboo in talking of menstrual blood
for, as they say,
only loose and the not so virtuous women speak that way
and of course even after the judgement
I have been deemed even more guilty
for I am of a different Communion
of the Catholic faith, not Anglican -
just as the Ordinary, James Guthrie described me
in instructing me here at Newgate on the Christian faith;
and I have earned the name now of many
as the evil, barbaric, and stubborn woman
And now Mr Hogarth sketches and paints
that you might have a view of me;
and the appointed date is 7 March 1733
when I will be executed...
and these lines I add to the picture
that you might remember me
Jan 28, 2012
Jan 28, 2012 at 5:29 AM UTC
Time will tell if we come back together again
Time will tell if we reunite too excel
Time will tell if I strive & make it out alive
Time will tell when I freeze a moment in time
Time will tell if I sellout to a life of crime
Time will tell when I lose balance & fall off my feet
Time will tell if I prosper victorious or meet my defeat
Time will tell holdin weight servin late in aburnin lake
Time will tell when all my enemies turn too ashes
Time will tell the day they are doom crippled to hell
Time will tell when I rise to the sky like a phoenix
Time will tell the worlds terror soon comes to an end
Time will tell when angels & demons come into battle
Time will tell trangressors condemned for impartials
Time will tell true colors reveal fake lovers appeal
Time will tell the day everyone face judgements day
Time will tell when my Lord finally begins inducting
Time will tell instructing where all ships set sail
Time will tell products sold to the mark of the beast
Time will tell demons on fire casted straight to hell
Time will tell when we prevail gathering to depart
Time will tell the trumpets sound off the final call
Time will tell witness sufferings by insects & locust
Time will tell when the plagues come in effect
Time will tell when the earth begins to quake
Time will tell if I ever see your pretty face again
Only time will tell, Only time can tell, pick heaven or hell?
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 5:28 PM UTC
Do dust bunnies have consciousness?
Does instinct guide them?
Instructing their best chance of survival
Is to hunker down,
Go out of sight,
Hide under a piece of furniture?
Will they survive & thrive in Dust Land,
Dust Land Planet Earth
Where cat hair is
“A sizeable constituency,”
So would say some latter day Machiavel’.
When spring comes, at last,
Will the minority Party
The Politburo in absentia,
Pick up on,
Comprehend the fact?
The red-red boffin
Goes beaucoup mnemonic, again.
“Wake up, wake up you sleepy head!
Get up, get out o' bed!
Cheer up! Cheer up!
The sun is red.
Live, love, laugh and be happy!”
The red-red-Redbird comes
Hammer & Sickle cell, again.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 6:11 PM UTC
1431
With Pinions of Disdain
The soul can farther fly
Than any feather specified
in Ornithology—
It wafts this sordid Flesh
Beyond its dull—control
And during its electric gale—
The body is a soul—
instructing by the same—
How little work it be—
To put off filaments like this
for immortality
1.5k
I've come to realize the fragility of life itself as of late; a delicate dance of psychological and physiological elements, converging in the process of sustaining a human life.
These components become so complexly intertwined; wrapping themselves around each other whilst expanding and contracting.
My biological systems may keep humming along, subconsciously—yet it is in my mental environment that I choose to allow them to continue. A fascinating concept.
Neurons fire in my brain, telling my arm to extend itself outwards in front of me as if to point at something interesting. More signals are sent, instructing my arm to bend at the elbow; I am now staring at the palm of my hand that rests a few inches from my face.
Neurons continue to spark and my hand slowly twists for me to examine its backside, and then it returns to its original position. My eyes are entranced as they explore the landscape of my palm; its creases and folds resemble a map of sorts.
Fingers methodically open and close—fist, open palm, fist, open palm. My grey matter is aglow as a colorful lighting storm of activity pulses throughout.
Eyes close for a moment.
Thoughts.
Memories.
Thoughts.
They open up again to glare at this dead hand. That’s the fascinating part, the fact that the very signals that are sent to trigger these hand movements—or to trigger my lips to form a pucker or toes to tap, tap, tap to a beat—can also instruct those fleshy appendages to move in such a way to extinguish my own life.
No safeguards? No life-preserving big red button that my subconscious can press in order to save itself?
Nope.
A choice.
A dance.
And I’ve decided tonight…I’m staying alive.
Because somewhere buried deep in my psyche is a little wrinkled-up piece of notepaper with the following words scribbled upon it:
“The sunrise is just over that hill. The worst is over.”
Aug 22, 2022
Aug 22, 2022 at 12:31 PM UTC
How strange
That this inedible feast
Should be arranged with such care:
Place one greenandorange gourd here,
No here! And –- oh!
But there are so many
miniature vegetables to be sorted.
**** The pumpkin could not hold its position.
Well, we’ll have to see to that, presently.
This ceremony lingers for hours
Beneath the well-placed coffee poster instructing
“Éviter les Contrefaçons”
Avoid the Counterfeits.
And all the while Mother arranges a
cornucopia of assorted indigestables.
Aug 10, 2010
Aug 10, 2010 at 1:11 PM UTC
Know not lest ye be known thyself,
A phrase followed from some strange, onyx, snake placenta and spittle covered book,
From which phrases are chanted and sewn inwardly, perversely backed into the bladders of demons and spewed from the nostrils,
Solids and seeds of dollars and oil.
Know not lest ye be known thyself,
That evil phrase not written as we have been taught, shown in action
By those blocking fruits, pinching fingers at the ends of urethras
To keep children from being born.
Know not lest ye be known thyself,
That evil phrase preventing man and woman from marrying,
Withholding, slothfully, idling, waiting,
Placing plugs in all our orifices.
Know not lest ye be known thyself,
That evil phrase stopping perception: touch, sight, hearing, smell, taste, And any others if there are others,
Saying it alone will fill your mind.
Know not lest ye be known thyself,
That evil phrase keeping us working with the unidentified,
The unfamiliar, the unknown,
Keeping us discriminating, nepotizing, judging.
Know not lest ye be known thyself,
The summation of rejection,
Instructing us to reject those things around us except what we already know.
And what do we know?
The Cover-up.
One tarp can be pulled from off this particular hidden item in the garage,
That can be assured,
(though the rest may be inveigled away by filibustering and hidden, but hopefully not):
"Judge Not Lest Ye Be Judged Thyself" is The Holy Bible verse to be followed.
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 8:51 PM UTC
strange to be surrounded by the heroism of the careful edit of Thespians, who can wage win or lose wars with a careful edit and the use of steroids to show the hardship of our former life now made easier - being surrounded by the staged heroism of careful edit, Thespian expression breeds in all a dissatisfaction with menial labours we could be better off to encourage as a non-victimising share of labour, and yet among such numbers of fellows we find our labours too menial, robbing us of the comfort of being as one among so many, only because we're being fed fake courage of Thespians and the subsequent fake adventures of the same profession, to only turn askance into the world and instead of adventure only seeing prospects of tourism, and former hardships of our forefathers as only menial banality.
recitation of religous mantras
seem all the more important
with the blocked toilet
of darwin's **** keeping
the foremost populist adhesive
among people reciting no other
scientific theories -
like that one about a pea-sized
dollop of toothpaste
and any more actually causing
nicotine colouring on your teeth -
dentists & money
& each other
trade (tried and tested, agreeable paradox).
well currently darwin and einstein
are instructing societies in terms
of respectable talk, talk so respectable
that no counter opinion can enter,
because too few scientific facts
are given mantra status...
cite me a theory from chemistry,
cite me at least one thing
about thermodynamics...
exactly, you can't!
we might as well endear a harking laugh
of a fox and the howling bark of dog -
because the western dogma mantra is so
limited - maxims replace poems
and poems are hid whether under the
debasing blanket of lyrics that are simple
due to excess instrumentation
and no hope of singing in duo presence
of both singer and the one expecting song -
or under blankets of fictive corpses
of bored readers - as once noted and spotted:
a funeral service corporate "shop"
and in it too st. francis' hospice selling charity books.
should shiva's attainment of vishnu's peace of mind be attained and subsequently lost, shiva's third eye opens and turns the mind toward the only subsequent definition of former attainment of peace, the third eye opens and turns to warring and destruction; toward the east, Asia's Thespians are known as Avatars - if not thieving from men, then at least enriching gods.
Mar 9, 2016
Mar 9, 2016 at 3:35 PM UTC
They call me Jack! A Jack the Lad
a man who likes to go out late.
I must confess that I'm a cad
and often seen in Aldegate.
Whitechapel and Spittlefield
are other locations I frequent.
Tis where I often draw my yield
and nay for that I'll not lament.
Inspired by my ill repute,
repugnant chanting of my name,
I'll seek and find a **********
commencing to secure my fame.
Reference books cannot advise
what two skilled hands can show.
Exacting cuts when I excise,
instructing where my blade doth flow.
My first, Miss Nichols, I recall,
whom blinded by the lure of coin,
into my clutches she did fall
and she, I did indeed refine.
Chapman then I did impress
with incision so demanding.
Nothing taken to excess
an ***** now made outstanding.
Stride and Eddowes in one night
but fortune demanded I should race.
Though well presented to the light,
embarrassment is my disgrace.
My final lady played the game,
Miss Kelly whom at my insistence.
She alone recoiled my fame,
my very own Piece de Resistance.
May 4, 2015
May 4, 2015 at 12:57 PM UTC
The first day we met they called me fairy,
I was unsure why the name was given but it suited me just fine,
I assumed it had to do with this inner light my soul tends to carry,
Or the childlike sparkle in my eyes people tend to find,
I wonder and dance about the crowd unable to fine any encounter offered scary,
I charmed and seduced the hordes of judges with my humor heart and mind,
I laughed with great exclamation instructing all to spread this name fairy,
I've decided I'd rather liked to please be called this all the time.
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 8:46 PM UTC
I want to see my muscles and bones
I want to see the tissues that make up
this fractured body
I want to write my favorite
poems on the insides of my eyelids
so I see beauty when I blink
I want to unzip my skin and shake off the dust
gathered from years of being
unused and untouched
I want to inspect myself on the inside
to see my body work together when my brain sleeps
coauthoring my breath
instructing me to keep living.
I want to see the make up of me
and try to retrace my muscle memory into something new
string my tendons into bows
wrap my veins into vines around my mothers' garden
so she sees the tattered reasons why I can't help her bloom.
I want to see if there's more to me
or less of me
most importantly I want to see if you're still carved into my stomach
knots leaving scars.
I'm curious
if my insides are more beautiful than my outside
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 5:48 PM UTC
Prove me a fool, then
I shall dine at your table.
But my mind has not
been as oppressed by
the heavy weight of
sanity's absence,
as you would have liked.
I can see through your
windows, there are no
silk curtains like you
desire and crave, a guise
to hide what really
goes on in the darkness
of your deeply worrying mind.
You think of me as a
wounded deer, who dared
to stare for too long,
helplessly strewn across the side
of your road, carrying vehicles
quickly along to better places.
That long instructing finger
of yours, points to billboards
who say that I can be someone,
live the lives of those I see
behind a glass shield, so much
more fragile than you think.
I am content atop my fort,
while my foundations may
be small, they are stronger
than ignorance and folly,
and I do not preach to ants
to reach heights only to fall
back down into a dust of your dirt.
I will never dine with you,
and I will never come knocking
at your door, as I am sure that
one day your idiot soldiers
will see behind the canvas of
mistrust.
Feb 5, 2014
Feb 5, 2014 at 6:00 AM UTC
Feeble-minded brains begin at youth,
Starting across bridges of developmental growth.
Family teaches us the norms and values,
Instructing kids to walk the proper line through discipline.
Educators preach the knowledge from books,
Lecturing the learned skills needed to reach logical paths.
Living is a continuous cycle of discovery that never ends,
Due to an overpass that leads to unlimited information.
Share your wisdom with the younger generation,
So they can evolve into wise people while minimizing mistakes.
Sep 18, 2016
Sep 18, 2016 at 6:50 PM UTC
You all think that I am doing okay,
All thanks to the smile on my face,
But it's been thirty years of this fake ****
You'd think by now you'd see through it,
But no, 3 decades and I can still put on a show,
Better than an actor, and I don't need all that blow,
I can get by on anything I can find,
And if I don't have anything to scavange on hand,
Well there's always the internet,
Because I will put my life on the line for a fix,
If I'm really in need, and it should scare you,
It should freak me out, but I'm calm here alone,
Don't tell me it'll get better,
That line doesn't get easier,
It doesn't age like fine wine,
Just rots like a coffin full of bones,
Instructing me to take my meds, like that will help?
When it hasn't done **** in the past,
Isn't gonna score you points when I'm looking down the barrel,
Of a gun of my own making,
And yes, I'll still be faking,
That 10 watt smile tomorrow when I see you,
Cause that's just what I ******* do,
Oh, please don't be mad when you find out it's all a lie,
Because honestly you should've been able to find,
The cracks in my mask, they're bigger than China,
And the nightmares in there will seep out and find ya,
After I've had a bottle of wine or tequila or two,
I'll let you know every bad deed I've ever let them do,
Don't tell me it'll get better,
That line doesn't get easier,
It doesn't age like fine wine,
Just rots like a coffin full of bones.
Feb 1, 2019
Feb 1, 2019 at 11:17 PM UTC
It's funny how I actually love how you reason with me, instructing me and turning me back where I belong.
(sonnet #MMMMMMDXLIV)
Friends. While soft blue skies gently fade, peach thence
Upon the heels of all we knew t'avail,
Ne wind now but a whisper that'd exhale
Twixt silent leaves ah, search the keener sense
Of: that. From Jonathan and David whence
We see lives traded cuz of that detail,
To what I knew with Mum, to in betrayl
My darling brothers, to yes, you, come hence.
The LORD called us His friends if we'd ah, fer
All that, keep His commands, yea told us too
What He shall do within this world as twere,
And love, forsooth, is crucial in that cue.
So then? We love, and yield our lives in tour:
For friends, as skies turn now a deeper blue.
07Aug17b
Aug 9, 2017
Aug 9, 2017 at 10:28 PM UTC
The apple of one's eye.
The creme de la creme.
The buffet at the wedding.
Where it's us and them.
The glow of the neon.
Instructing us to buy.
The latest moisturiser
For wrinkles round the eye.
The canvassers cold selling.
The need of starving cats.
The aforementioned wedding.
The shopping for the hats.
So come give us your money.
Your precious hard earned cash.
We'll offer you perfection.
In your supermarket dash.
The things you'll buy tomorrow.
Are better than today.
The new improved conditioner.
The advertisements say.
Consumers to be nourished.
Big spenders treated well.
You'll need a coat for winter.
And scarves and coats as well.
Your funeral arrangements.
A monthly simple plan.
Your loved ones fear when you're not here.
You've left them all you can.
So now our claws are in you.
Please kindly move along.
The facts and claims are always true.
We're seldom told we're wrong.
We're business types converting.
Your little wants to needs.
We'll squeeze you dry until you die.
From birth we plant the seeds.
May 16, 2017
May 16, 2017 at 4:34 PM UTC
Sentient street,
As we walk through the gates of sentience,
Like a child,I quirked my head,
Left~right and back with innocence,
To glimpse at their seemly slums;a nimble haul of dread,
Tucked me,as I gander the miscellany artistry,
The winsome combs on their chambers,
By builders and framers,
For all;but the aesthetics I knew belonged to the affluent,
An erudition I needed not to imbibe as a student,
Oblivious of myself;I spotted their melancholic eyes in their inscriptions,
And read the histories and encryptions,
The stares they gave tremored my heart,
And tore the arteries apart,
My soul wept for their bereavement but tears was deficit in my eyes,
As I march to the yard of his repose;I said"A journey we shall all embark"
Gawking at the annexation of other chambers,as grief berserks,
I got there,
I stood meters afar and stared,
As the priest blessed the yard;And prayed for his soul,
Conferring him into the bossom of his maker,
And instructing the digger afterwards;to dump him into the hole,
His folks quaker,
And bade him their farewell with flowers,
In their last hour,
But as they fetch sands and stones to wrap him,
In their faces I saw grim,
When the diggers spat and slapped;his coffin with stones and shovels,
For this has been their long awaited muscle,
And in deligence;they deliver,
"This journey I will embark too"I said,
As I stood in my shiver,
And withdrew and left in mopes.
Sentient Street
©Historian E.Lexano
Apr 11, 2015
Apr 11, 2015 at 9:48 AM UTC
I am a lover.
Falling in love every day.
The stars are the flirtiest, constellations constantly reeling me in,
and the people on Earth who prove me wrong with their inviting charm.
I am a teacher.
Erasing the corrupt.
Making attempts to prevent my mothers ways
and instructing never to think of tomorrow.
I am an artist.
Either that or I have no taste.
For I find beauty in almost everything,
and would be lost without a pen and paper.
I am a dreamer.
Even awake, my reality is stretched.
I rattle the sane thoughts out of my head
and replace them with the unknown.
I could tell you my thoughts, yet you would be confused at best.
I would paint you, but you are alluring even without this test.
I could inform you to what I've discovered, yet to you it might be bad.
I would love you un preventably, much to my dismay, I already have.
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 3:48 PM UTC
My parents have been together for just shy of twenty-five years—just shy of how long I've been alive. A favorite photo of mine is their wedding party. My dad is stepping forward, smiling, and instructing a pause. I am cradled in the next photo.
They're still together in a relationship that's not at all like storybook love, but they downright could not function without the other. Where one goes, the other annoyedly follows. My mom puts out the fires and my dad takes out the trash.
Being the ******* child that tied them together is funny. As soon as I learned how it is that they love, I realized just how much they love me. But to watch them fight is so funny. Being half of each of them is so funny. To see and feel solutions and to internally diffuse their clamor before explaining how or why is so funny a feeling. I think they are surprised when I know things about them that they don't realize or share. After twenty-five years I am surprised that there are things that they don't know about each other or themselves. They bred it, and it's me. Then again, I am surprised each time I learn a thing about myself I did not know. But it's dad's birthday so stop being difficult and let's go to Red Lobster.
Jul 29, 2016
Jul 29, 2016 at 1:37 PM UTC