"interpreted" poems
Inspiration, alike joy comes in different types,
It could be as simple as a little wallflower, or as complex as astrophysics, or even more than that, what counts is the source,
Allowing us poets, from a simple emotion, to develop a piece of art,
Allowing the artists, to express themselves within beautiful illustrations, each unique in style and shape, even if some parts may look as if they have been repeating themselves a couple of times,
A word of love can be enough after all, to set a lonely heart ablaze,
Such is the beauty of this earth we are living on, the beauty of being different from one another, but finding what ties us together is truly magnificent, with each difference may come a nice mutality,
Some look up to the sky, shining beyond the scene, the sun brightens up their mood, followed by the dearness of the dazzling white clouds,
Others may find a rainy day wonderful, the raindrops which can be interpreted as tears are but for them falling jewels from the heavens,
These are a few examples of what may birth inspiration, but it can be even smaller, like a small, delicate corn of dust.
~ Umi
May 1, 2018
May 1, 2018 at 6:00 PM UTC
I have been doing a lot of work with my feelings lately. I have avoided them for most of my life because, well the bad ones outweigh the good ones.
The rest of them were f@#ked or beaten out of me.
I have always believed that my feelings only led to trouble and pain. A simple feeling stated as a child sent me tumbling down a rabbit hole of horrific pain. An innocent smile was interpreted to be nothing but filthy desire. A frown was nothing but blatant rebellion that had to be dealt with.
My thinking is extremely black and white. Good or bad. Right or wrong. But what I'm learning is that feelings don't fall easily into any of those categories. The classifications that I have used to reason my life into some semblance of order do not work for feelings.
So walking in this grey area is very difficult for me. I cannot make much sense of what I allow myself to feel and if I do, I get stuck. The detachment I have felt to my memories is slowly being bridged by the missing feelings. And that is terrifying.
I have always been able to share, matter of factly, the details I have chosen to disclose. And I'm very afraid that those details were the easy ones; the ones I could disconnect from and push the feelings onto someone else.
Remember those rabbit holes? When I find the feelings associated with that pain it's like falling down that hole bound, gagged, and blindfolded. My logic was my only means of control and I've lost it amongst the feelings. The only way to climb out of that hole?
Literally feel my way out.
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 5:36 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
The builders of Stonehenge
Were pelvicly challenged
So they erected a monument
In such a way
That it could be interpreted
As a displacement activity.
And the rest as they say
Is pre-history.
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 4:36 PM UTC
Rules:
1.You have to write a poem on the given prompt for each day [in the given order] and then share it with fellow challenge takers (optional but recommended) by posting what you wrote in your blog or on Facebook or wherever. To make sharing and tracking easier, you can use this hashtag: #eleven11poetrychallenge
2. The poem can be of any length and the prompt can be interpreted anyway you want. Poems can be written in English or Nepali.
3. The whole idea is to write, share, grow and have fun! So if you are cool with it, check this space for daily prompt.
Prompts:
Day one: A poem from the perspective of an inanimate object
Day two: A poem in the format of a conversation
Day three: Write a poem that tells a story (with a beginning, middle, end..but not necessarily in that order), which is completely imaginary or is not based on a reality that YOU know of.
Day four: A wishlist, with 11 of your wishes.
Day five: Write a Haiku. Or two.
Day six: Let's talk about *** baby! [Write a poem about *** (not *** and gender, 'sex' if we are unclear.]
Day seven: Only sixteen--a poem about the person you were when you were sixteen [or about the person you want to be, if you are not yet 16]
Day eight: A poem describing a photograph or painting.
Day nine: Write a letter to your murderer.
Day ten: A poem about your worst nightmare.
Day Eleven: Write a poem about yourself, in Nepali. IF you already write in Nepali, that is great. If you don't, then this prompt s your chance
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 6:40 AM UTC
Our lives are a Jenga masterpiece,
a collage of self-interpreted
debauchery that we have been
told is the work of R.F.
Is it necessary to destroy ourselves
for the things that we desire?
Why do I have to be symbolic
of an Irish dome of the rock?
(have you ever touched the rock?)
(has anyone?)
I am tarot prophetic in my
loathing of our distorted level.
I am chronic mime gestures
on the West Banks of the Jordan.
We are rouge lipstick
smeared across blue collars
and twisted pretzels lounging
citrus grove clean and sad.
I am just a man.
We are just people.
The buildings are just Lego's we have
crushed and spent combating azure tides
to stand ourselves straight against that
last wall...
but I love you still,
despite.
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 12:50 AM UTC
He gave a negative comment.
She took it in a positive way.
He called her ' A Model '.
She interpreted ' An exemplar '.
But he meant ' A Copy '.
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 11:28 AM UTC
Why search for an identity?
You can live without one, right?
False.
Living is not synonymous with time moving forward while you
haven’t moved a single muscle.
Time runs even if you have no identity
but life? It can’t start until you’ve found one.
On a day when everyone puts their identities on display
I am left out of the exhibit
“Sorry,” says the museum, “but I only want art that has meaning.”
and I suppose that’s fair…
Yet as fair as it may be, I still want to be a part of the museum
I want to be able to present myself proudly with the other brilliant
works of art
Tick. Tick. Tick.
When Time passes by the museum my heart skips a beat
because one day he could decide to shut the establishment down
before I’ve had my chance.
On a spectrum commonly interpreted as binary
where will I fall?
Am I plummeting towards my identity or my death?
An army of questions are ready to fight
and the little clue I have stands no chance.
so I pull him back and I keep him close
and acquaint him with good ol’ mr. Time.
It’s fine that I’m frozen
Now that I know
that patient time
is helping my little clue grow!
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 10:41 AM UTC
heads turn
and minds churn
as the old white knuckle
brings life to the board
facilitation (and procreation!)
become heavenly fit
for the
paradigm day
jitter men
and podium seniors
sit cocked
in the back row
front runners
bust a brain box
(their lines frayed
and edges portrayed)
truth makers tread
the center stage
(with a new and improved
product portfolio)
an evolution
of human spirit
mobilized
in apparent
perfect form
sound bites
and titillating calls
echo from
the main hall
a wise man
cringes
on a poorly
timed exchange
mind sets moving
quid pro quo
intuitions
and convictions
viewpoints
and revelations
all fun
and fundamental
(or so they say)
depth charts
and zodiac principles
speak to the masses
abbreviations
refreshers
and timeless
lifelines
*we’d like a peak
inside of you*
a glimpse
of your point of view
the turks and talking heads
speak of
grand design
and inclusion
class complete
(interpreted at the 7th sneeze)
please check those thoughts
and insights
the final answers
are coming
(satiric)
Sep 16, 2017
Sep 16, 2017 at 1:54 PM UTC
Somehow I scrounge through these jumbled words in my notebooks and I piece together this puzzle.
When connected it forms some idea of who I am - my brain... my heart...
it personifies my existence, so to speak.
Although, like all puzzles even when put together as a whole to form a landscape or object,
the cracks from the pieces are still present...
Now, from afar people wouldn't notice these cracks -
these blemishes in the photo,
but like a collage when up close, it becomes more evident -
the imperfections become more radiant or profound...
The glue so to speak for this picture of words - this illustration of life would be -
it is those cracks, those blemishes that make a puzzle - a puzzle... and a person - a person.
Each individual, as everyone knows, has different life experiences, different scars to form different pieces to make up their own unique puzzle.
One piece may be interpreted through skills or hobbies and another with goals.
Each and every second of a persons' life could ultimately be a piece of a puzzle.
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 8:56 PM UTC
Verily, Twin Hearts in Friendship conceived
Is the Right Way to have Interpreted
When Shows like these make Public and Perceived
To give a Selfless Like un-expected
These Humans like me have a lot to Learn
To Grow what such Loyalty requires
Arthur in his Regality gave Concern
For Guinevere to foot what she desires
That is how a Follower must behave
When the Squire works best under the Light
Though empty in notice still carries to stave
For his High Lord to shine with all his Might.
You are that Peaceful; Such I discover
The Heretic in me I must recover.
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 2:01 AM UTC
I want to write something to fix me.
I want to write something to heal my wounds, to hide my scars.
I want to write something to wear that will make me beautiful. I want to sew something from words that will fit me perfectly, something that flows like linen, curves of S's fitting curves of hips, legs like L's and F's soft like lips.
I want to write something to wear like new skin, something to make me interesting to look at, to make me a poem worth reading. I want to be the one you tuck into your notebook and read in class. When you're tired of listening, tired of focusing, tired of everything, you can read a few lines off my shoulder blades, from my palms or knees, and maybe you'll feel better.
I want to write something that will make you laugh. God, I love your laugh, I'd write myself into a joke just to see you smile like that, my shoulders to set it up, collar bone to draw you in, my stomach could be the punch line and I'd have you cracked up for sure. I don't need to be taken seriously, as long as I can see you laugh.
I want to write something strong and heavy. I'll melt the letters together, weld T's to G's and K's to X's until I've written us an anchor. It'll be just light enough for us to carry, just heavy enough to weigh us down. I'll weave J's into ropes, we'll tie ourselves together, and toss our anchor overboard. No matter how the ocean writhes and tosses my words will be heavier, my ropes stronger. The anchor will hold us fast, words weighted by promises, fighting angry seas around us. No matter what, we will always be close enough to read each others' poetry.
I want to write something that will last forever. I want to set words in stone to be discovered long after I'm gone, to paint hieroglyphics on the walls of my house to be interpreted by future civilizations. "This is where I ate cereal." "This is where I showered." (Did I make you laugh? You know how I love your laugh.)
I want to write razor-sharp, white-hot points of infinite logic, and I want to write children's books. I want to write something that means anything but God, all I want is to write anything that means something.
I want to write something to fill pages, to break silence.
I want to write something to fix me.
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 2:55 AM UTC
Save thyself and come down
From the cross
Likewise also the chief priests
Mocking said amongst themselves
With the scribes he saved other's
Himself he cannot save
Let Christ the king of Israel
Descend now from the cross
That we may see and believe
And they that were crucified with him reviled him
And when the sixth hour was come there was darkness
Over the whole of the land until the ninth hour
And at the ninth hour Jesus cried with a loud voice
Saying Eloi Eloi lama sabachthani? Which is being interpreted as
My God My God why hast thou forsaken me?
And entering into the sepulchre they saw a young man
Sitting on the right side clothed in a long white garment
And they were affrighted and he said unto them be not affrighted
Now when Jesus was risen early in the first day of the week
He appeared first to Mary Magdalene out of whom he had cast seven devils and when she told them that he had had been with him as they mourned and wept and they heard he was alive believed not
And he said unto them go ye into all the world and preach the gospel to every creature he that believeth and is baptized shall be saved but he that believeth not shall be ****** and these signs shall follow them that believe and in my name shall thy cast out devils they shall speak with new tongues they shall take up serpents and if they drink deadly things it shall not hurt them they shall lay hands on the sick and they shall recover so then
after the Lord had spoken unto them he was received up into heaven and sat on the right side of God and they went forth and preached every where the Lord working with them and confirming the words with signs following Amen.
Mar 26, 2018
Mar 26, 2018 at 9:23 AM UTC
You won't recognize them I bet,
your secrets, even in broad day light,
if they walk towards you smiling,
wearing dark glasses to hide their eyes
in a humid day.They now wear clothes
of different styles to take you for a ride,
even cross dress and change the accents,
they play games with your hazy mind
--the secrets you once buried deep under.
They stand peeping behind blinded windows
prowl as shadows soliciting behind half open doors,.
Time flies in a hurry like migratory birds left behind,
you have to strain your ears too much
to hear even the faint foot falls of the past!
Old memories have changed their manners
they try to distract one with invented details
Like the muffled voices in an attic dark,
on a fateful day so long, your old secrets
speak an archaic tongue, that needs to be interpreted.
One has to be artful as the turbaned village elders
who would for your astonishment interpret
the vocabulary of lizard calls, key to nature's intents.
Or the trained eye of an elder who in flashes
of meteor falls, reads the secret messages of universe.
To get a true sense of your own secret
you have to tread the places they hide.
Make them shed their crusted hides
by which they conceal their true color,
which one has been waiting to see,
with a palpitating heart, walking back
to where one walked once, long forgotten.
That is why elders on days of yore
would exhort, embarrassingly repeat too,
not to have any hidden secrets that hurt
even if breathtakingly beautiful like a courtesan.
In some moment one won't expect
dreadful they could turn and become witches,
with fiery eyes, dreadlocks, and long nails.
Mar 25, 2017
Mar 25, 2017 at 4:11 PM UTC
Bound for lands far in the East
Never have our hands touched
Our eyes barely knew each other
Only a couple of us knew another's name
Fewer recognized our voices
In its Land of Power
As we wandered the grounds
Of a city hoping to earn the winter 5 Rings
We knew joy
We knew laughter
We knew beauty
Unlike what our home lands held
But in our final hours in the city of Beijing
A poison seeped into our morning feast
Which quickly took its toll
A few thousand feet in the Air
As we fell into the city of Western Peace
Our plans became shattered
Few of us barely survived
As our own bodies lost control
We were at the mercy of our own insides
Somehow the two state namesakes were the Worst
Taken to the hospital
If it were not for the group mothers and guides
We would have been among the dead
We saw rolled in front of us
As our medicine was entering our blood
Through needles in our hands
In the midst of what we've come to call
The Xi'an Incident
I saw a glimmer of a rare soul
One full of kindness
Intelligence
And freedom
A type of rare Golden Soul I've come to admire
That lied within the body of the other state
My actions may have been interpreted as
The essence of the White Snake
On some level, maybe it was
But in truth
My gift from Shanghai
To whisper an appropriate goodbye
Was to thank her for pushing me along when times were rough
I am thankful for all that were with me on that trip
And I do hope to see her, and everyone again.
Like I told her in a note I left,
Maybe Hoopa will help make sure
We meet again
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 8:51 PM UTC
i still remember the day i met you
it was in the middle of july or sometime around there and from the start i really really liked you but there were always doubts in the back of my head because why on this earth we live on would someone like you ever even merely want to breathe the same air as me let alone kiss me and put the same air into my lungs?
as beautiful as the thoughts of sharing the same air were the doubts were still there and even though they sometimes faded away they always seemed to come back especially when you showed me your favorite songs because i knew there was so much feeling behind the way you interpreted the lyrics and i didn’t understand any of it or maybe i just didn’t think of them the same way but you told me the night you were drunk that there was so much more to them than just silly nostalgia and it was then that i knew you weren’t good for me
the lyrics were a subliminal message to me that the air in our lungs wasn’t air at all it was actually every chemical in the cigarettes you smoke amplified by three thousand times and it only got worse every time you kissed me but i was okay with our lungs both being black because black is our favorite color
that’s the only thing we have in common
the texts during sixth period came to a sudden halt and so did the snapchats even though they were always of the ground and the skype calls at two am and the instagram likes and the you’re beautiful's and the i miss you's
you always said you’d keep your distance but i never thought you’d actually leave and i really didn’t think it would be without saying goodbye but it’s okay because now the fragments i spilled to this page are full sentences and everything is validated
maybe you only wanted to kiss me because you knew it charred the inside of me and turned me into your favorite color
i can breathe my own air now and maybe just maybe my lungs won’t be black anymore
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 8:08 AM UTC
He sings a song
To me
Alone
For ones love for another
Should be known
But words so carefully
Written and sung
Can never be interpreted correctly
By one
What do they all mean?
What is he trying to say?
Or are the words he sings all part of a game...
The motive he has I do not know.
But tomorrow again I will go
And talk with my sweet finch
Trying to unravel his feelings.
Without scaring him away.
Jan 9, 2013
Jan 9, 2013 at 8:06 PM UTC
Could there be any truth in the prophecies
that the Mayans had written?
Over five thousand years ago about 2012
foretelling a spiritual awakening!
And the possibility of the end of mankind
is it fiction that's outlined?
Prophecies written have come and long gone
scholars say they've happened.
Were these disasters predicted as it was told
or how they were interpreted?
Whether vague and their meanings calculated
their accuracy debated!
Many are sceptical of those who say they foresee
from past times to present.
Though a lot of predictions of the natural type
what of mankind's folly?
If there's a way that the future can be seen
to know seems obscene!
Usually nothing can be done to prevent it
causing fear and uncertainty.
Prophecies of the past make no difference
those of the future no comfort!
Whether the Mayans is true it's a short wait
if not next year let's have a debate!
The Foureyd Poet.
Jul 7, 2012
Jul 7, 2012 at 10:38 PM UTC
I fear that my insight
will be interpreted as "deep"
and in a sense it may be true
since I can feel the loose dirt
being shoveled over my head
by critics and hypocrites
who passively preach
while staring down:
that to be a normal person,
one must close their mind
and rather than retaining
creative ideas,
they should bury them.
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 1:28 AM UTC
Brightly lit screens,
in the midst of my clutter and chaos.
I’m half man half machine,
my soul pours itself through these electronic windows.
Other streams reflect back at me,
from other souls raging on their own seas.
No wisdom only knowledge,
I still sit and study in a followers college.
A constant balance of quantity and quality,
measuring the weight of those who follow me.
and await the words of my interpreted prophecy.
kinyopoetry.com
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 11:54 AM UTC
The Land of Nod (Hebrew: ארץ נוד, eretz-Nod)
is a place mentioned in the Book of Genesis
of the Hebrew Bible, located "on the east of Eden"
(qidmat-‘Eden), where Cain was exiled
by God after Cain had murdered his brother Abel;
According to Genesis 4:16:
_And Cain went out from the presence of the LORD,
and dwelt in the land of Nod, on the east of Eden._
(וַיֵּ֥צֵא קַ֖יִן מִלִּפְנֵ֣י יְהוָ֑ה וַיֵּ֥שֶׁב בְּאֶֽרֶץ־נֹ֖וד קִדְמַת־עֵֽדֶן)
"Nod" (נוד) is the Hebrew root of the verb
"to wander" (לנדוד). Therefore, to dwell
in the land of Nod is usually taken to mean
that one takes up a wandering life. Genesis 4:17
relates that after arriving in the Land of Nod,
Cain's wife bore him a son, _Enoch_,
in whose name he built the first city;
"Nod" (נוד) is the Hebrew root of the verb
"to wander" (לנדוד). Therefore, to dwell
in the land of Nod can mean to live
a wandering life; Gesenius defines (נוּד) as follows:
_TO BE MOVED, TO BE AGITATED_
(Arab. ناد Med. Waw id.), used of a reed
shaken by the wind, 1Ki.14:15; hence to wander,
to be a fugitive, Jer. 4:1; Gen. 4:12, 14; Ps.56:9;
to flee, Ps. 11:1; Jer. 49:30. Figuratively, Isa. 17:11,
נֵד קָצִיר "the harvest has fled" ["but see נֵד ,"
which some take in this place as the subst.]
Much as Cain's name is connected
to the verb meaning "to get" in Genesis 4:1,
the name "Nod" closely resembles the word
"nad" (נָ֖ד), usually translated as "vagabond",
in Genesis 4:12. (In the Septuagint's rendering
of the same verse, God curses Cain
to τρέμων, "trembling")
A Greek version of Nod written as Ναίν
appearing in the _Onomastica Vaticana_
possibly derives from the plural נחים,
which relates to resting and sleeping;
This derivation, coincidentally or not,
connects with the English pun on "nod";
Josephus wrote in Antiquities of the Jews
(c. AD 93) that Cain continued his wickedness
in Nod: resorting to violence and robbery;
establishing weights and measures;
transforming human culture from innocence
into craftiness and deceit; establishing
property lines; and building a fortified city;
Nod is said to be outside of the presence
or face of God: Origen defined Nod
as the land of trembling and wrote
that it symbolized the condition of all
who forsake God; Early commentators
treated it as the opposite of Eden
(worse still than the land of exile
for the rest of humanity); In the English tradition
Nod was sometimes described as a desert
inhabited only by ferocious beasts or monsters;
Others interpreted Nod as dark or even
underground—away from the face of God—
Augustine described unconverted Jews as
dwellers in the land of Nod, which he defined
as commotion and "carnal disquietude"
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 12:16 PM UTC
I took a rest on a ruddy bench
Aside the lady with the looking glass
Till a little blessing came tapping
With an outstretched hand telling
Begging change in exchange the floras
The lady, amused with the child
Showed him a wise saying
That was mundanely swaying
As the words came out
The water of life pouring
As the true meaning he learned
From the lady's interpreted word
That moment the personas shared
With time who couldn't stay
Could determine the fate
As it wasn't too late
I took a rest on the ruddy bench
Flowers, words and lives were traded
Familiarity grew on the streets
Where strangers pass or meet
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 10:44 AM UTC
Life is a writhing swirl who's information is meaningful but the information does not exist for the purpose of being comprehended so it is only taken in and interpreted as well or as usefully as the perceptive devices.
Nothing significant has a vendetta against the individual beings' happiness or success, though beings may appear as food or some other form of fulfillment to other beings. Beings will view other beings as their appetites would view any other thing. No one can exist in the view of another. Don't expect others to view you as you do. You are NOT their center, only your own.
Everybody thinks everybody else is insufferably selfish and everybody is right.
Love is interesting though. More on that after more data is collected.
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 12:24 PM UTC
I.
This is just another bad poem
Just vomited-thoughts-left-on-paper poem
This is a collection of grammatical errors
This would surely make my English teacher cringe
But no worries, I didn’t write this for her
II.
This bad poem is for you
May my subject and verb disagreement
remind you of all those misunderstandings that lead to raised voices
and nights where I cried myself to sleep
Sentence construction was never my strength, it still isn’t, maybe that’s why you never truly understood me—
called me difficult and bipolar
You said that I was too much
Did it ever occur to you that you might just misread me, like homonyms,
same words but with different meanings
misread my jealousy with accusations,
my concern for excessive affection
You said that I loved you too much
but darling, did you even love me at all?
Did I put too much meaning on your words,
turned them into similes and metaphors?
Turned your literal statements into figures of speech
You told me that you liked me,
so I blissfully interpreted it as a hyperbolic expression— called it love when obviously it wasn’t
III.
I was never good at using punctuations
I put too much commas,
unnecessary, misused, I kept trying to hold on
Afraid of the inevitable end,
Switched to semi-colons in an attempt to make it a few words longer
Because despite all our grammatical errors
no matter how shameful our piece of literature was to the English language
It was beautiful to the untrained eye,
To those who read poetry as it is
To those who don’t dig deep in search of true meaning behind the metaphors
It was beautiful to me
But I eventually learned that infinitives and infinities are different,
in spite of sharing infinite as the root word
Like our love,
started with something so promising
but unlike most novels,
there’s no happy ending
So I accepted defeat,
accepted the inevitable and bitter end
No more committing the same mistakes over and over again,
the same words over and over again,
Accepted the fact that synonyms existed,
words with the same meaning but also entirely different
new and unfamiliar, foreign and peculiar
IV.
I accepted defeat
No more commas or semi-colons
We have reached the couplet of our free formed sonnet—
I was never good with endings, I don’t think I’ll ever be,
So darling I hand you the pen, set us both free.
Dec 5, 2016
Dec 5, 2016 at 7:31 AM UTC