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Matt Shao Jun 2019
M. E. Shao

An Ode to the Letter “A”

A picture says a thousand words
At least that’s what they say
Although they can’t describe a thing
As well as the letter “A”
“A” means that there’s others
As if there’s two or three
And if there was just only one
“A” would become “the”
An Ode to the Letter “B”

Behold! A letter that can be
Better than numbers one and three
Because it sits quite neighborly
Between it’s buddies A & C
Boldly standing faithfully
Barely used the same you see
Bugs will spell it differently
But one less E and then it’s be
An Ode to the Letter “C”

Can you guess what letters next
Clocking in at number three?
Careful how you use it now
‘Cause it confuses frequently
Certain times it’s overlooked, like
Chief – the “I” before the “E”
Can’t use “I” that same way though when
Coming after “C”
An Ode to the Letter “D”

Dare I try letter four
Daunting as it may be?
Duly note this verse might prove as
Drab and dull as me
Don’t say there’s other letters of such
Deep complexity
Desire to speak in a past tense?
Dread not! Just add a “D”
And Ode to the Letter “E”

Ere I forget I said I’d commit
Ever mindful I shall be, and
Execute my promise, my Oath
Elegantly thanking thee
Eyes see so much wisdom
Ears hear so much glee
Every single word of love
Ends, with letter “E”
An Ode to the Letter “F”

Finally a letter without a long E
For those are easy to rhyme
Frankly it’s fun to come up with a pun
Fresh from out of the mind
Forever I wonder, over and under
From bottom to top, all the time
For a bold new way to come out and say
F this…but with no moral fine
An Ode to the Letter “G”

Goodness gracious, golly G!
Gifted writers inspire me
Gernsback, Goddard, de Graffigny
Grouped in glory’s category
Guiding words with paper and pen
Grandeur achieved by all of them
God bestowed them minds of gold
Goals to emulate when I’m old
An Ode to the Letter “H”

Heavens hopeful, but all should know
Hell awaits for heathens below
Havoc, hatred, halls of stones
Heated seats on hopeless thrones
Helping mortals foster love
Hoping for the gates above
Hearts are kind for constant fear
Horror and nightmare might be near
An Ode to the Letter “I”

I love the vowels for how they serve
In bridging letters, creating words
Insanity comes, ’cause if not for them
Illegible messes that none comprehend
Idle time attempting to read
It’s pointless were it not for these
Irked by consonants, throw in the towel
If you want a word…just buy a vowel
An Ode to the Letter “J”

Jack and Jill went up the hill
Jogging straight up and down
Joking and playing, having a thrill
Joy till he broke his crown
Jumping in fear, Jill looked around
Jolting across the way
Jeering, she returned and scooped him up
Jill’s stick was shaped like a J
An Ode to the Letter “K”

Knobbed in darkness, twisted wood
Knuckled as can be
Kinks and dead spots all around
Knotted is the tree
Kindling yes, our God will need, as its
Key for making day
Kind, He brightens nights with knights by simply adding
An Ode to the Letter “L”

Little, little, did I know
L is oh so great
Like the time I drank that wine and
Lulled a pretty mate
Lords and ladies, boys and girls
Like all, must pay the well
Lay respect to that which lets us
Love – the letter “L”
An Ode to the Letter “M”

Middle of the alphabet
Molded like a gem
Most will say there’s nothing worth
More than Letter “M”
Maybe M hates W
Malice with a frown
Mercilessly mocked by him when
M is upside down
An Ode to the Letter “N”

Naughty naughty little N
Never helping me
Nothing useful ever comes from
No and never, none and nor
N is oh so rude
Neighbors M and O must want to
Nix that attitude
An Ode to the Letter “O”
Over, under, bottom, top
Odes to letters never stop
On the day I get to Z
Old and wrinkled, I may be
Or young and youthful, hopefully
Only time will tell, you see
Our lives are short, we need to grind
Otherwise we’re wasting time
An Ode to the Letter “P”

Paper, pencil, pen and ink, in
Prose I’ve grown to speak and think
Public platforms, message boards
Poetic guide of rhythmic chords
Poems are pretty, I think it naught
Pretentious such as some have thought
Pious I shan’t think it so
Poetry shall help me grow
An Ode to the Letter “Q”

Quiet! I must concentrate
Q is hard to satiate
Quarrels make me want to quit
Quirks in words which don’t quite fit
Quorum comes when all are here
Quickly now, our quest is near
Quantify a love for two
Q is married, to the U
An Ode to the Letter “R”

Regal existence, loved from afar
Reality dictates we need Letter R
Rigid and rugged it’s straight and it’s curved
Reading is easy when Rs are preserved

Rallying troops or driving a car?
Really won’t work without Letter R
Reason without one, your point is moot
R runs the game, expect the boot
An Ode to the Letter “S”

Supposed vision we are told will
Save the world today
Sorry if I disagree
So many told to stay
Spite and harm are currently
Sawing through the way
Someday hope for peace and love
So hate will go away
An Ode to the Letter “T”

There never was a letter
That can do as much as me
Think about it really hard and
Thank me when you see
The other letters hate me
Though, because of jealousy
They say it’s not fair that I rhyme
That super easily
An Ode to the Letter “U”

Usually I’d try her number
Unfortunately my hearts asunder
Used to love her, used to hold
Useless now, attempts are cold
Until things change for now I’ll be
Under this cloak of melancholy
Urging progress, longing for more
Unable to close the heart wrenching door
An Ode to the Letter “V”

Very strong, vivaciously
Voltage high, tenaciously
Veer this verse, voraciously
Vaulting over prose you see
Violence in these words you read
Viking frame of mind have we
Vibrant in philosophy
Verbiage is our currency
An Ode to the Letter “W”

Well, here we are
Woe is me!
Winding down, finally
Wrapping up this poetry
We’re almost done, from A to Z
Writing alphabetically
Won’t be long, but wait! We’re not free
W was easy….X will not be
An Ode to the Letter “X”

X can mark the spot I see
Xanax needed this entry
Xi is Greek, it’s fourteen
Xeroxed words, all randomly
Xystus too, as I mentioned Greece
Xebecs sailing open seas
Xerosis I suffer cerebrally
Xenial X was not to me
An Ode to the Letter “Y”

You may think these odes of mine
Yawn-inducing, wastes of time
Yet I attest validity
Yes they’re written passionately
Yesterday I couldn’t show it
Younger me was not a poet
Yearn for greatness, one day bestow it
Years from now, I hope you know it
An Ode to the Letter “Z”

Zealots desired to bless my soul
Zilch is my energy left
Zoned out, these odes have taken their toll
Zoo in my mind, though ’twas deft
Zip up this project, my brain can now rest
Zero letters now lie ahead
Zephyrs now soothe me, caressing my chest
Zodiac today – time for bed
O'Reily Jun 2014
Letter from a dead man,
His souls up where is he?
Letter from a dead man,
To Heaven or hell he will see.
Letter from a dead man,
To where at can he be?
Letter from a dead man,
No more food can he feed,
Letter from a dead man,
His life's up as you read.

Scared so scared like the millions heard,
Scared of death and me,
Food for thought like the old man said,
An innings of eighty three,

Letter from a dead man,
Stand up remember thee,
Letter from a dead man,
His hymns sheets of real cacophony,
Letter from a dead man,
Sing up and let it be,
Letter from a dead man,
Switches off his life machine,
Letter from a dead man,
A celebration of his legacy

Buried treasured no mans land
In the hills of this cemetery,
Ashes to ashes dust to dust
Just remember him when he leaves.

Letter from a dead man,
To the point of its will,
Letter from a dead man,
No good when he's lying still,
Letter from a dead man,
No more laughs his body chills,
Letter from a dead man,
After he takes his last sleeping pill,
Letter from a dead man,
In Forever credible.

Disappeared no land frontier,
Tales to wander now,
Tears for fears after all these years,
Distinguished with a crown.

Letter from a dead man,
Shall he spell out to you now,
Letter from a dead man,
More ups than been downs,
Letter from a dead man,
Snarl bites from a vicious hound,
Letter from a dead man,
Safe grace under ground,
Letter from a dead man,
Not safe as it sounds.

Worry, Worry, Super Hurry,
To the day that they bereaved,
Money, Money not so funny,
Something changes as he leaves

Letter from a dead man,
Its with you that he thanks,
Letter from a dead man,
A new change of circumstance,
Letter from a dead man,
Sons&Daughters; admirals,
Letter from a dead man,
As love has a chance,
Letter from a dead man,
He's happy with its deliverance.

In days gone by I took to past,
Reflected on happiness as if to last.
So many wondrous days, jolly, quiet, crazily loved been raised.
In many parts chapter arts, like as youngsters we drove our racing carts,
I pinned a bullseye dart with an eye to target the centre of my whole being. Teenage days of bad school days to my first pint with the Trin! Laughter and such worked harder as much for the shackles I threw away!
Up, Up and away my off spring played with hay, did me proud as they made their way! Middle age to this very stage to people I've met. In love, friendship, peace and loyalty to you I will never forget.

Letter from a dead man,
Insane or nice you may think, but with a life time guarantee.
Letter from a dead man,
With r.I.p love from me..

Most important 1 letter word I
Success-driving 2 letter word DO
Miserable 3 letter word BEG
Life-essential 4 letter word FOOD
Peace-destroying 5 letter word STEAL
Omnipotent &omnipresent 6 letter word HUNGER
Nomadic modern 7 letter word MIGRANT
Hypothetical 8 letter word EQUALITY
Amnesia affected 9 letter word SACRIFICE
Exploitation creating 10 letter word BRILLIANCE
World-changing 11 letter word INSPIRATION
Highly absent 12 letter word UNATTAINABLE
World-dominating 13 letter word ADVERTISEMENT
World-dividing 14 letter word DISCRIMINATION
Highly-demanding 15 letter word CONGRATULATIONS
Nature defining 16 letter word UNPREDICTABILITY
Service-destroying 17 letter word COMMERCIALIZATION
Perseverance-driving 18 letter word UNSATISFACTORINESS
Self-destroying 19 letter word STRAIGHTFORWARDNESS
History-determining 20 letter word COUNTER REVOLUTIONARY.
Babygirl Dec 2017
This is a letter to the mother i lost way too soon.
This is for the mother i can only see when i look up to the moon.
I can’t breathe without you, how could you leave me?
I thought i was prepared for the worst case scenario, but this is nothing like i thought it would be
I am dying a little more with every breath i take.
I don’t know how long i can stay alive, i've only lasted this long for your safe.

A letter written to someone hidden in the stars
A letter to a mother who caused me the most scars
A letter i will never be able to send.
A heart so broken i'm not sure it will mend.
I lost my soul when you went into the arms of the angels, leaving me alone.
I didn’t think i could hurt this deep or this much, but i can feel it down to my bone

I am 19 and i don’t know how to live without my mom and dad
I hate it when everyone tells me it is okay to be sad
I am not sad, i am not grieving, i am dying and no one can see it.
I wonder if anyone would even care if i just didn’t fit…
Didn’t fit into this puzzle they call life,
Because when you died i lost my smile, and now all the pain i feel is being stabbed with a knife

A letter i write you will never see
A letter i write because the pain is just too much for me.
A letter baring my soul to anyone who will listen to the pain
A letter to make sure i don’t lose it all and go insane.
This letter is written as tears stream down my puffy red cheeks
Because as i write this letter life slowly leaks…

I am lost in a world full of people who have no idea how close to the edge i am
They think i am surviving, and moving on… then wham!
It hits me again, when i want to dial your number and know there won't be anyone on the line
It hits me hard when i realize i will never be fine
I have tried my best to keep from doing what i know would cause more pain
But it’s too late to keep the thought out of my brain

A letter to anyone who will listen to a broken girls final plea
A letter written, because soon i will give in and no longer be me
A letter to say im sorry for anyone who will be hurt.
A letter to let you know i am okay with being buried in the dirt.
A letter to write my final goodbye,
A letter to write, you have no right to cry.
Nigel Morgan May 2013
He had sat at his desk with intent to write to her. And he had not. He had sat and let his mind wander. He wanted to write if only to capture something of her he had yet to capture. It was as though by trying to find words to describe her everyday self he discovered it was often extraordinary, and it filled him with more tenderness that he could reasonably deal with. The other day he had written her a letter. It was rather ordinary, full of unplanned thoughts and descriptions, a day-to-day letter, but he had written it by hand, taking care with the curl and mark of his pen on the little sheets of laser-copier paper he felt suited him best. Once he wrote expansively (though never to her) on large sheets of thick, fine paper with a calligraphic pen and Indian ink. Now he felt more comfortable with a fine roller-ball nib and a light touch, on paper of a dimension and quality that seemed appropriate to the size of his script.

Today, as he thought about the letter he might write, he had imagined her finding his most recent letter as she came home, a letter with his careful handwriting on the envelope. It would be lying on the doormat with the brown envelopes, the circulars, the bank statement and one of the many journals she subscribed to. There was a letter too from her ‘pen friend’, someone who had invited her to correspond having been so touched to find a late relative’s letters full of the minutiae of life, but properly described and not the ad hoc jottings of what now passes for communication on social media. So this friend, who was not then a friend but an acquaintance, had set out to recruit a group of like-minded people she might write to properly, in proper sentences – and had, it seemed, fixed on her. He had been a little jealous at first that she should write, and write properly to this ‘friend’ she hardly knew, and since then she had so very rarely written to him. He had so wanted her words, on paper and not just her end-of-the-day thoughts on the telephone. But he had soon got over this jealousy realising how valuable this letter, written once a fortnight, would be for her. An opportunity no less, of the kind and value he could no longer provide.

It had changed the way he had continued to write to her. He stopped the hand-written caress of a letter on paper and took up what he called the Ten-Minute Letter composed at the computer. Not an e-mail, but a proper letter as an attachment she could print out. Written each day just before he stopped for lunch, he set an alarm on his phone and wrote for ten minutes only until the sampled chimes of Big Ben struck. It was a challenge, and to meet it he would prepare his ‘daily subject’ in those transient moments between the demands of work and other people’s needs, as he walked to work or cooked supper. He felt that by doing this he would eradicate that falling into passionate contemplation, the downloading of his memory’s thoughts, his often-intense feelings and emotions. He thought she would prefer such brevity, as she now had so little time for reflection, except when travelling.

In imagining that picking up of his letter he sought to imagine further. Would she open it straight away? Would she put it at the bottom of the stairs on a pile of things to take up to her bedroom, and read before bed?  Occasionally there was  a little time stolen during the day when, before the necessity to go at her desk and ‘get on’, she would sit on her bed with her cats and be conscious of her physical self. She would think of him beside her, kneeling on the floor in one of those occasional preludes to their passionate moments she knew he so loved, when he was full of tenderness, and he would kiss and stroke her, their quiet voices caressing each other in the lamplight. He thought of her carefully pulling the envelope flap open without a tear (whereas he could hardly contain himself, when a letter did arrive, from pulling the envelope apart). And she would read his careful writing, his late afternoon thoughts written after a long day’s work, before returning to more time at his desk.

She would read quickly, rather impatiently sometimes. She had to ‘get on’, attack the list, get things done. But just occasionally he surprised her. He would catch her attention. There was some phrase, some reflection that made her feel warm and loved. He would make an observation about her, and she would feel treasured and honoured by his words and be grateful for the time he had put aside to write them. And then the letter would be returned to its envelope, placed on the bookshelf beside her bed, and she would feel secure that she was loved, and could then put all that away for now and ‘get on’. But just once in a while she would recall the pit-in-the-stomach thrill of his first letters, as letter by letter he declared himself, saying what he thought of her, what he felt for her. She was often overcome with his play of words and would touch herself to sustain those rich feelings that would gradually envelop her; that someone could care about her that much. And for a while she was transformed . . .

Today, as he continued to hold his pen away from composing that first sentence, he had wanted to return to writing of her and for her. It was his small gift, his almost once a day gift. With words he knew he was on safer ground. He struggled somewhat in his *******; he worried that he disappointed her with his awkwardness and never being sure if he was doing the right thing at the right time in the right way. Perhaps in reading his thoughts rather than responding to the messages of his physical self, she felt safer too. He wanted her to know something of the intensity that she brought to his ‘being aliveness’. He remembered a recent phone call when for once he seemed able to say pretty much what he meant. ‘I hope I don’t presume in saying,’ he had said, overtly formal as so often, ‘ that one of the reasons I think we are the companions we are is that we have so much in common; we love the same things, we share the same joys and pleasures.’ And she had agreed. He felt this was true, and he wanted to celebrate this somehow; but they were apart, being on the phone, and he could not. There was less and less time for the joy of coming together, of that celebration of being-together that had once seemed beyond magic and the stuff of dreams and fantasy. There was now the ever-present awareness of the clock, of having to do this, needing to do that, and at a certain time. Their life together was changing and he needed to rise to the challenge that this change would bring, no matter how busy and preoccupied she became. He would write, he thought, and tell her that he knew this would be so, that she should never be concerned for him if there wasn’t time. Hadn’t she said she loved him, this young woman who had once been so diffident about speaking such endearments? She had already given him so much that he never imagined he would ever receive. Perhaps not for always, he was so much older than her, but for a long time to come. He must acknowledge the receipt of such gifts, and let her know he loved her all the more for her industry, her ambition, her preoccupation, and the beautiful, gracious person she was.
SweetChaos Apr 2015
Letters A and B were supposed to meet that night,
But letter C got in the way.
Letter C knew what he was doing,
With that twisted smile of his.
As did letter B,
Who watched them with jealousy,
Knowing that letter A should've been his.
Letter A fell in love with C,
As the story goes.
However, they weren't meant to last,
As everybody now knows.
Letter C didn't quite feel the same,
And soon backtracked,
To his rightful place in the alphabet.
Which isn't next to letter A,
But after letter B,
And directly next to his sweet letter D.

So, what became of letter B, you ask?
Well, letter A and B finally met up.
Can you believe it?
A perfect match!
And so, now everything is in order.
Letter A is with letter B,
Letter B is best friends with C,
And C is with his true love, letter D.
Isn't it funny how everything works out?
Now everyone is happy,
Without a doubt.
But every now and then,
Letter A wonders if there's any chance that the alphabet may get mixed up again.
Dom Apr 2018
Dear You,
My mind is white, almost like a blank canvas waiting for one to paint such art on it. I do not know how to think, what to say, or how to even breathe. I've noticed the harshness of life pass directly through me and my blank reaction almost as if it was nothing, almost as if i've never been hurt.
This isn't a poem, but a letter to my parents telling them that yes i might be young but i know the feeling of numb, yes i might be young but i know what the want feels like when all you want to do is drown your sorrows in a drink, a smoke, a person.
This isn't a poem, but a letter to my family, telling them that what i've taken interest in, isn't wrong. This is not something that i've just learned from television or the thin air, this is my heart and the way i feel, i've figured i can love him the same way i could love her, forgetting their different looks and parts, they both work the same so why can't i love and treat them the same?
This isn't a poem but a letter to my first love saying that i know what intentions i have and i know the tender heart that lies inside of me for you. I know that you may not believe me or ever see me with you again but the love that i feel for you remain in every word i've written to you because only when i write, my real feelings come out.
This isn't a poem but a letter to my mind saying that it's okay to overthink but it's never okay to forget to breathe. You can't live without the adventures and the love you earned. You can't live without fights and hate, you can't live without crying and breaking. This all makes you, you. So why change it?
This is not a poem but a letter to my heart saying why are you acting as if you don't care? too afraid to come out of the shadows, too afraid to be hurt. Why are you acting as if you can't love and as if you cannot change the world and follow those dreams that move behind your closed lids.
This is a letter to them asking why worry about who to love so young? why not wait till it comes? and once it goes, why do you break? hurting and acting as if you won't make it today.
This is a letter to society wondering why do we have to fit a certain image to be beautiful? why shouldn't love win and hate die deep within? why shouldn't one race be the same as the other? and why when we try to change the world, to change the ways of life, we die?
This isn't a poem but a letter, a letter to you and your heart and mind. A letter to everyone who's thinks as they lie, their cries drifting off into the night.
This is a letter from someone full of hope and change.
Sincerely, Dom.
I hope this letter makes you think.
JJ Hutton Dec 2011
Letter, letter born to return to sender--
extra-marital, maritime, marine, mercy, mercy mine--
two drinks in; four from home,
letter, letter born to return to sender--
.38 special, sexless, spiteful, spitting, spitting rites--
three drinks in; three from home,
letter, letter born to return to sender--
double-decker, drugged, dangerous, daggers, daggers dried--
four drinks in; two from home,
letter, letter born to return to sender--
clusterfucked, fancy-free, foreign, fine, fine unwind,
five drinks in; one from home,
letter, letter born to return to sender--
ether cloud, Evelyn, earthware, everyday, everyday signs--
six drinks in; on the carpeted floor,
letter, letter born to return to sender,
whitewashed, weakly, wounded, wishing, wishing for home.
Jack Taylor Dec 2015
4 letters.
one word.
a lifelong impact.
we’ve heard this poem before,
but for some reason we all have to write it
because it binds us to a person for all of time.
it shows my connection to you
from the moment we met
until death do we part.
because of a 4 letter word.
you came into my life and showed me emotions I had never felt before,
feelings I had never even heard of.
did you know that you were doing that to me?
making me think of you every single day
for the past 3 years?
there isn’t a moment that passes where I don’t think of you and that 4 letter word.
I came to you as a babe,
shiny and new and unused.
but now that you found me,
I’m broken in, softer, a little more pliable.
but I can’t be with anyone without thinking of you.
maybe thats a good thing.
see that 4 letter word messed me up a little bit,
handcuffing me to your wrist.
maybe that’s why I can’t hold someone’s hand without feeling your rough palm against mine.
I was drunk in that 4 letter word,
expecting to sober up the next morning.
but now I’m wasted, smashed, and completely ****** up.
all because of a little 4 letter word that you brought into my vocabulary.
a 4 letter word that’s anything but temporary.
a 4 letter word that left me in solitary.
a 4 letter word that threw me into a world that could only possibly be imaginary.
a 4 letter word that goes down in my lifetime’s obituary.
a 4 letter word that you copy and pasted into my personal dictionary.
a 4 letter word with meaning tied to it that is so intense, its scary.
4 letters.
one word.
a lifelong impact.
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2019
and in my "hiatus" period of absence, circa 15th of April and 15th of December (minutes from a yesterday)... i've come to regret the Russians not having any... no... rather the bare minimum of orthography... surprise surprise! there's plenty to choose from! i had to return to a time when i was drilling greek into my head... naturally: a time for cyrillic was on the horizon... but... i couldn't do it with english alone... i need my mother tongue, a tongue that employs diacritical markers... again and again: english can do away with its j... it goes missing when raised to stand from a sitting position ȷ(J)... and it can cut the head off its I(standing)... ı(sitting)... to make an emphasis... i have been busy... drinking aside, have a look where i have been for the past... april, may, june, july, august, september, october, november, december:

ź = зь and ż = зъ

i'm drinking - and i am my most content - the world burns and goes about its usual wordly theatre... i'm huddling with a cameo role in the background... i am drinking content... my 3rd or 4th rejection letter! this time from : austin macauley publishers (london, cambridge, new york - sharjah - where the **** is sharjah?!) - i remember sending them a "manuscript" and a book already printed, bound... they said it would take them 6 weeks to reply... i didn't enclose an email address... i had to wait for the snailmail... my my... what lovely handwritting of my name and address... in the letter i did state: it's e(sch)lert... she omitted the (sch)... a rebecca crib admin assistant, of the editorial... 6 weeks though... hmm... i posted the letter and manuscript and the book way back prior to visiting my grandparents... circa 8th of september... it's a rejection letter... that much is true... but i'm drinking in celebration! i was making dinner in the afternoon and was asked: why are you so angry? i wasn't... i tried to figure out what i'd feel when enough of ms. amber was in me... i replied: i'm being apathetic... but now it's clear: i'm jovial! there's even a signature! an authentic signature... in all honesty... a rejection letter means something... if it is physically mailed... of course i'm celebrating! i exist! i exist outside the realm of getting spam snail-mail! of course i will reply... i'll tell them: destroy and recycle the manuscript - it really wasn't a manuscript to begin with... i pour my "efforts" on the manuscript canvas that's the html... but the already printed book? can you please not burn in... rather... keep it? i'd appreciate no 1933 Säuberung... and you know (kind reader) - i'll send this introspection to the same publisher... like it is... pop / pulp or whatever mongerel of style this has had to be... but a reply! i want to see how one might escape formal language, formal affairs, social affairs, esp. in letters - a dear ms. X / to whomever it might concern Y... kind regards / yours faithfuly Mr. Z... this has to be celebrated... given what's on the horizon... the norwegian novel viking a'comin'! the buldozer autobiography... the demand for a "death" of fiction... otherwise i'm still "here"... a "here" that truly is so distant that its distance allows my petty leeching and the world's grand fiasco theater of fire and smoke and mirrors! - after all... i'm not mad enough to be welcome to a cage if i'm a sparrow... a cage of rhyme, form and all those shackle devices / identifiers of "poetry"... the future is narrative... and the current narrative says? if you asked me to dress proper, for an opera... to don the shirt the tux and the bow (tie)... the well ironed trousers... perhaps... beside the point: air's in the head and i just wish i could heat it up... for a baloon of quasi-egoism effect... otherwise what is there... a former journalist becomes an isolationist essay-scribbler? all the best journalists retire from the profession and become essayists... polemicists... whatever... this "poet" says: no poet ever writes a novel... the real life is too fictive already... and most certain this "poet" adds: begone! lyricism and rhyme! i'll sing like the humming drone cleric of the hive of ambient refrigerator sounds at 2am when everything is sleeping...

capital: oh... so that's what it was... back circa 1990 - when inflation of currency was rife all over Poland? that's when foreign capital was flowing in: foreign money... the economy was flooded with pounds and dollars... and given the exchange rate: i remember a time when you could get circa 7zł for every 1 £ sterling... so why would a nation start to print its own money? well... because more foreign money is coming in - at the given exchange rate: apologies: i was born yesterday - i need to explain certain things, from scratch... as was once stated - there's only a finite amount of money in circulation... physical money... "apparently"... and no... if you were to materialise all the wealth in this world into either fiat or gold: there wouldn't be enough of it... but how else would inflation happen in a country like Poland circa 1992? foreign investement: the wild west of eastern europe when the soviet barricade fell... i do remember being asked a question as a child: which is more... these copper coins... or this piece of paper? on the piece of paper was written 5, 000, 000zł - i said the copper coins... i wasn't either right or wrong - the person asking the question laughed... i don't think it was a question of: there are more copper coins in the hand... than a single piece of paper... after all... perhaps i acted all trans-****-sapiens and became chimp and saw less zeros on the copper coins than on the piece of paper? how else does does a currency inflate - when foreign currency is poured into it... it's the opposite of foreign aid... you put £1 into an economy - with an exchange rate: currently you'd get circa 4, 50zł out of... so where is all this "excess" money to come from? the moment when foreign money is invested... is the moment you have to start printing your own money... imagine... if the word BLACK was worth more than CZERŃ (чернь): oh, we'd readily translate BLACK = CZERŃ... but we also need a sentence for that "to make sense"... and there i was... thinking that russian doesn't apply diacritical markers... oh... right... they're not as discrete with accents like some of us... notably? нь = ń... and so and likewise... wait wait... źródło (source)... in russian it would look, look: oh so ugly... зьрoьд-ł-ł-o... (wh)en (wh(en) but now i know this (w)oe: the soft sign (acute)... and the hard sign for... e.g. życzenia (wishes)... зъыченя (perhaps зъычениa) - point being: ź = зь and ż = зъ... now does language come to never left me... but now ai appreciate the minor details... i see the english and their language and how they speak it... how they churn out metaphysics and how they call forthe help of **** similis to give history the rusty coating of: nothing between a today and tomorrow: there's only the hanging off a tree from a a tail that the chimpanze doesn't thave... everything is so very metaphysical: it's never orthographic! тe два: tak - тe: оба (there's a wikipedia mistake... U+0411 / U+0431... not o'bah... oo'b'ah...): щекaць: szczekać! to bark... eh... greek became too rigid... i could remember all the letters... always buckling on ζ (zETA) and ξ (11), upsilon (υ) and nu-nu-nu (ν)... and this is, practically nonsense to anyone with a base literacy knowledge... to exagerrate... who does mind such pedantic pleasures... when they could be somewhere else: skiing! but it's worthwhile to know how a nation's currency can be inflated... foreign money flows into the country - and whatever the exchange rate is... there is no such thing as a "grafitti compensation": then again, there is... perhaps literacy has been inflated... inflated for a second literacy of coding to be assured? otherwise? bypassing the orthodox print... bypassing orthodox editorial scrutiny... was... "nice"... until the moment when the mediator sought to see fit that the reader had more authority over the written word: having re(a)d it - over the person who had / has: written it! we do part our ways with the russians on the "debate" concerning the "cedilla" involving A(ą) and E(ę)... cedilla: yes yes... akin to garçon - waiter! waiter! please - that greek sigma at the end of a word: and all its ασπεκτς... aσpectς - that really is an orthographic statement... only Ssssssss'igma is a letter with "three dimensions" suited for it... a handwritten element... otherwise in the news this week? the apostrophe society is no more... like when you don't put a possessive article if the thing in "question" ends with an S, in english? e.g.? the colours' (sez sirs - alt. colours's sez sirs... ses-esses) imbued harmony... and that is a possesive article, isn't it? with an apostrophe: 's? it's not a plural identification - there would be no need for the apostrophe to begin with! pounds' worth: no... not a pound's worth - the worth of a pound... pounds' worth: the worth of pounds! - what's that german word... glücke! nein nein... etymological root: glück 'luck' (etymology is the new history... it bypasses journalism and serves some journalistic cousin that's powdered in dust of cremated bookworms) - and yes, a hypen can come to the fore: after a full-stop and the opening of a new sentence with a conjugation: - with disbelief / - and!

i'm not buying how the media narrative will turn Cymru into a "K-affair"... sim sim: similie or else... but these have been my greek buckles: ξ (oh... that's why i wrote 11... XI - ksi...) - it's rare to see ξ sometimes: esp. in philosophy books... rubric!

- ζ
- ν
- υ (i can be forgiven, these two letters
are not suited for print... unless working
with a microscope) - unlike a roman Vv...
- ξ

but this is just the greek... if you ever read some modern... you'd think: and i just don't know, where they get their ideas from - with all those diacritical excesses that heidegger notes...

but now... for my cyrillic mini-adventure:

from Miньsk (Mazowieцki): with love

it might be said, that if i just the bare minimum -
if i even do not write anything at all -
but i have too many petty griefs during the day
to much else than the odd, occasional chore;
at the same time i do not want to sound
amused, bewildered, bored or un-used...
it's just that i find writing and drinking before
falling to my 343rd death -
my 343rd labour for mask and then exfoliated
in a dream: that might come...
or might not come...
unless a known audience... a wake sized nieche
privy... i find either unconscious or subconscious
struggles to warm up to an anonymous crowrd...
unless it was me being propped up on stage...
flooded by light... and the audience in the din:
with barely a shadow to scratch...
perhaps: then and only then...
but i've found that: it would be best that i sentence
the 2hs spare i have for merely drinking
and loitering from one video to another:
perchance something new in music is to emerge...
"coquettish" with a "something" that will never
have any realism-focus for me to undertake
a second's day carnality of the banal...
perhaps all this: "going out of my own way"
has been too much - or just enough...
to make me drink more and take more pharma
knock-out enzymes...
a naproxen and an amitriptyline...
perhaps the focus was elsewhere...
to stand frozen in awe...
when someone might "add": from one big void:
ex nihil a priori to... nihil a posteriori...
and all this cameo theatre in between!
mein gott... i can also convene to praise those
brutal breeders of sorts...
enough time to occupy two decades...
perhaps even three...
and then the grim reality of: should my child
die... or... some other worse:
the mortal should not be inflicted by...
"not reading into the genetic clues": properly:
"all at once"...
oh i would be so much happier to take this mind to sleep:
to not make some idle focus -
to entertain some eyes while i turn aside all things
hyper-inflated in purpose...
to die of a heart-attack in one's sleep...
but otherwise to simply focus on a welcome tomorrow...
that would be...
a gracious beginning to posit the day's slouching
zenith... or... i'm not sure whether this be a coming
zenith or a nadir...
but there's still that clear-cutting focus
regarding russian orthography...
cutting it with two tongues... slit at the tip...
with english the "placebo": no diacritical markers evident...
well: a TILDE over a ȷ is no more necessary...
than a "tittle" (not thai-tle... ty'ttle) over an ı...
to borrow the greek phrase: cut one head of hydra -
two emerge... cut the two heads...
i come toward the russian mish-mash of diacritical
it's not be-au-ti-ful... it's messy... it's what it is...
but already i can see what this: cutting off the heads
of the english j-i hydra looks like...
it's not enough to simply enlarge them to state: CAP(I)TAL-(J)...
the knitty-gritty... why then the tilde atop of 'em?
prior "corrections": łen and when...
is not akin to... wrak or wreck... although these two words
have the same meaning...
unless: "partisan" V comes in...
very - weary... Cracow or Krakov?
a W = a Ł = a W = a V ≠ a Ł...
Ęwa and Ądam (e nosinė) are not covered by
Russian orthography...
the list is as follows:
ż (зъ) and... ć (ць), ń (нь), ó (oь), ś (сь), ź (зь)...
the graphemes? i'll call them graphemes for simplicity...
even though: they're not the smallests units...
as are vowels... or the syllables of consonants
in the latin choir of B'ee, C'ee... e'M... etc.
ж alternatively RZ (Ż) or Ž... otherwise the fwench:
je (suis)... this is nothing more than...
an encyclopedic evaluation...
a trainwreck proposal of: should i ever be stuck in
in russia... and i would have to: read... (ee'd - r'ah)...
chop off a TILDE off the torso of the english:  ȷ...
a crescent moon lying back emerges in the russian... й...
but it's not the english: jeep! it's an english: yeep!
or a  ȷeep! alternatively: yawn could be:  ȷawn...
but not if: it's jaws... coming into play: to chatter from
the siberian cold... how else to explain?
if not by... example?
then there's the "exploration" of the greek F...
as much as in english...
фoughts on θilosoφy...
good to know the russians only "borrowed"
one of the greek Fs... "culturally appropriated" or...
wasn't St. Cyrill born a greek?!
and away from greek we move...
since χ (chi): yep: perpleX... a Ks to a Ts
(note, revision found below)...
otherwise hidden... in non-vowel binding consonants...
like... ч- and -х (although... that's not quiet a Ch-ur-hC -
but sure... some altar for siц and... no... no siPS)...
cholera! which is not: SHow me the CHow mein...
for that we need CARONs...
that's when ч becomes CZ (in polish) or otherwise:
Č... long have i wanted the polish to adopt this version...
to hide the SZ and the CZ (es'zed, х'zed) respectively...
how else to write: szczekam?
a russian would write... щекaм...
out of a "simple" ш out pops out a щ (this letter...
is probably the only "etymological" route to bind russian
to the oddities of Ęva and Ądam (e nosinė)...
ш (š) becomes щ (šč) -
whoever was to undermine the old rules
of engagement when the ruling parties gave up
a monolopy of literacy? you can literally hide an entire
letter / meaning by using a hachek...
as i begin to wonder:
how much did the slavic tribes "appropriate" greek...
and how much did the two greek saints...
try to make sense of the slavic glagolitic script?
em... Ⱋ looks pretty intact if you cut off the body... E:
but i do come from the western lands of the eastern
lands... hence? hardly any cyrilic influence...
but i too: with my own oddities... already mentioned...
come to think of it? the bulgars joined
the "party"?
beside that? what other, russian"oddities"?
orthographic - i.e. aesthetic dictations / rubrics...
ю really is a я... the russians have this english tendency
to stress their pronouns...
i this... i that! i walked up a street! and kicked a black
cat 13 times down the street to ease my luck!
you can talk in polish for days... and never stress the I / я
pronoun... really...
and ю is just a variation of я...
throw in the remaining vowels and you'd probably
come up with some "new" russian letters...
like ye... good point... i did make a "mistake"...
щэкaм! i'm barking!
unless... that's only an orthographic question...
notably? if you're going to: zerkać...
peer in / at "on and off"... casually...
зэркaць... em... it must be an orthographic question...
ergo? i wasn't exactly "wrong"...
just bad taste... зeркaць...
i've already shown the difference between (ъ) and (ь)
in a latin script: that uses more diacritical markers
than english "supposedly" escapes with focusing
on the rather pointless TILDE over the J and I...
this "oddity": ы... ɨ  clearly it's not exactly a ł...
minor details... like a mona lisa smiling...
best example of close proximity?
take a... no... that's a hollowed out "why"...
i know how it sounds... and there are no diacritical marks
needed for it... since there's a clear distinction
that i know of, between: I J Y...
tY... this little sucker is born from the fact that...
western slavs have a name for this letter...
iGREK... funny... the russians borrow more greek lettes...
and have to have...
ё (yo), e (ye), у (which they treat like a greek would U -
never mind the greeks themselves
making the following ref. Υγ / Γυ) -
and of course the я (ya)... so no wonder i see this
"letter" (ы) as an absolutely oddity...
i could stomach: ż (зъ) and ź (зь) differences...
well that's as far as i would come in learning russian...
spot the odd ones out... proper...
й (j) and ё... which is some german loan vowel with
that ******* umlaut... otherwise...
this poo'em was born from trying to **** the english
hydra of "orthography", with its mighty bounty
of the ȷ-ı TILDE! my my... what a ride!
come to think of it... now i think i can sleep.
- it hasn't been such a waste of an hour... drilling this in:
into my head...
after all... what did the professional clarinet player
say then asked about playing professionally
in a travelling orchestra? after 30 ******* years of
blowing hard into this thing...
guess what i still end up doing?
it's not so much learning... i'm still practising!

because this will not end like some sort of "summary"...
i will remember each letter if i weave it into
this latin letter by letter...

the refleξive (x)
in that one might have χeated (ch) -
what it is about an ξ-ray that is also an
"χ"-ray? the "ex" k'ss k'ss cuss...
is this what james joyce's finnegans wake
should have looked like?
the cruξ of the matter...
whenever a question was to be raised about:
any χoice to be had...

i have come to grips with russian orthography...
i'll repeat... the crescent moon over и ("e")
to state: this must be elongated: й ("y") stands outs...

best examples are given by sports commentators,
notably in ski jumping...
suffiξes of surnames...
akin to -cki endings...
yes... you're seeing what i'm seeing...
we'll need some russians to work this one
out... how a C is not an S...
and how it's not KK either...
-цки... hello wet drum-kit snare!

of course not: you're not seeing N:И...
let alone: нaйт (night...
evidently -igh- is a bit complicated...
with ref. to the surd in knight - kappa and
the gamma and the ha ha ha ha tetragrammaton
left arm... vowel catcher i'd be most inclined
to borrow from the hebrews...
whenever they're not busy actually using it...
and not being a bunch of 'ebrews -
electronic brewing of tea?)
сo дaрк (so dark)...

which is the equivalent of writting english
grafitti "backward"... how it sounds...
and not for: what's the formality?
i figured: take the small steps, the trickle...
burn the eyes out with incremental poppy-seed
acts of progress... like the grand Pilgrim Emeryk
from the Świętokrzyski region of Poland
(holy cross)...
each year the pilgrim shuffles to the top of
the mountain with a speed of:
a poppy-seed's worth of distance each year...
by the time he reaches the top of the mountain:
the end of the world will arrive...

am i the next Delmore Schwatrz?
no... i don't have a Lou Reed to contend with...
am i obsessed with Finnegans Wake?
well i didn't spot any "additions" to the letters...
i didn't see any diacritical markers...
a book that shouldn't be translated since...
it ignores... a worthwhile mention
of the concept of orthography -
which is my escape from any western vogue
of metaphysics... i hide behind the omniscient
niqab of orthography... my face can be forever
hidden... but my eyes need to be on... fire!
fire! i want you to burn!

so i went to see the russians having
left the greeks... about any "nuance" bound
to the... ****-naked english language
with its magic act of the disappearing heads
off of J and I...
as you do... you "forget them" and also have to:
somehow "remember" them to be used...

do i still enjoy drinking and listening to
teutonic chants in german?
god almighty! when wouldn't i not listen to german
medieval music... when drinking?!
is that such a terrible sin?

also? i finished the trilogy of H. Sienkiewicz...
and i read some Boris Pasternak...
there was Nietzsche in polish - paul's leash said:
he's more bearable in this language,
than in english...
and how could i forget! there was...
Knausgård... Karl, Ove... volumes 1 and 2
of mein kampf...

now a "summary": hmm... ż (зъ) and... ć (ць)...
could... now... hard sign (ъ) is not exactly worth
ascription if... or rarther: because...
you don't treat a caron over an S or a C...
to "hide the english H" or the Aesti Z when coupled...
there's no need to write чъ... since?
that's pretty much in-itself given č of the nature
of чeap...
ć / ць is different in that... you'd have to hear
it first...
however... the one exception of this "rule" is already
self-enclosed in ж... which is зъ... somehow...
but not зь... examples?

жart / зъart... żart (joke)...
зьrebi... well there's no 'ę' in russian
to name: źrebię - mustang colt...
is there?
so... i was "wrong"...
in that ź = зь and ż = зъ is true...
but? ź = зь and ż = зъ = ж...
so from a "quiet unique" perspective...
and: mein gott! who's to see, travel,
and subsequently marvel at the pyramids of giza...
i'm a different version of what's
considered to be "tourism"...

give me this sole equation:
ź = зь and ż = зъ = ж
and i'll be happy for a month.
as i have been...

oh i'm back... and things have taken
SPEC-TAC-U-LAR turns and twists!
****-naked english over 'ere is gonna make
a chariots of fire runner...
i bet it will... when it comes against a juggernaut
like me.
learning russian and drilling greek until i go "blind"
I can’t believe I’m doing this. I should say something. No. This is the easiest way… the right way to say goodbye. Who am I kidding? This is definitely not the right way to say goodbye. I twist my key in the door; it’s always been a ****** to lock. After I manage it, I turn and set off down my street. The Parcel sitting in my crossed arms. I feel calm today. Unusually calm. I can’t figure out if it’s because it was my birthday yesterday and I am now 17, because it’s my favourite weather (sunny with a slight breeze) or because in 24 hours, I won’t be here to feel it anymore. I try to look confident as I walk into the post office. Non-suspicious. I don’t want the post-office lady thinking I look suicidal, breaking into my parcel, then calling the loony-bin and throwing me in there. “No-one cares enough to do that” I remind myself under my breath. I jump when the bell goes off as I open the door. ****. I forgot about that. Luckily, there is no-one at the counter to see my little moment that I am sure made me look more than on-edge, and I have to hit the bell twice before the short, wispy haired woman pops her head around the corner, followed by her unhealthily-large body. I place the parcel on the counter and tell her I need it delivered first class, so that it reaches where I need it to first thing tomorrow morning. I’ve only ever been in here once before; to post a letter to my brother’s primary school, pretending to be my Mum allowing him a day off school. I was full of excitement that day, making all of these plans in my head for what we would do on our ‘adventure day’. I can’t make any plans today. After the woman has taken my parcel, I turn and walk back out the door, taking note of the bell again. I realise that this may be one of the last noticeable sounds I hear.

Ok, so you’ve seen the return name and address on this envelope, so you know who this is from and you are probably definitely wondering why I’ve sent you this… So before you read on, let me explain. I’m writing to you because we aren’t very close, and you can listen and understand what I have to say, without being objective to anything. You don’t know me very well, but I know you. I’ve watched you in class and seen how you are and the way you do things, and it inspires (sorry) inspired me. I don’t mean to be blunt, but everyone knows about what happened to you… well, yeah... But, I just want to ask, how did you deal with that? How did you manage to stay so strong even at the worst of times? I couldn’t, and my problems shouldn’t have even been in the same district of pain as yours. I wish I could have come to you earlier... I know you will be thinking that. ‘Why ask me this now that it’s too late?’ but I made my decision a long time ago and I just wanted you to know all of this, even now that you can’t answer me any of it. You see, things just got too much. And I know people say that all the time. But I really can’t handle being inside my head anymore. It’s hard to make sense of anything at all, everything is just so confusing. It’s like, I have the sense in my head that is telling me what is logical and right, but it is completely drowned out by all the other **** that tells me otherwise. And I can’t do it anymore. I’m so sick of being confused and miserable. I just want to die. And by the time you read this letter, I will have done.
The thought of suicide first entered my head about two years ago now. It was always more of a back-of-the-mind thought, never a solid plan; until a couple of months ago. That was when I decided it needed to be done. But timing was hard to plan. I knew that whenever I did it, it would rip my family apart, but I don’t want to talk about that too much in this letter. It’s not something I need to bore you with the details on. Basically, I’ve been procrastinating to try and make it easier on my family. Yes that’s naïve. I know. But not a lot of my thoughts are too rational at the moment. Ha. I guess since I decided, things have been a little easier in some ways… everyday things. The things I hate, I just keep thinking, another month and I’ll never have to face this again. I’ll be gone. But, it did make some things harder. My family trying to make plans with me for some point in the future, for example. I’ve just ended up with a huge reluctance to make any plans; to give anyone hope but it’s so hard and it’s breaking my heart to do that. I can’t bring myself to tell my little brother I won’t be able to make his football matches anymore, or see him start high school. It’s just that the idea of death is just so… relieving I guess. I’ll never have to experience confusion or hurt or misery again. But that comes at the price of giving up anything else. I decided it was worth that price a long time ago.
Sorry for going on about things that you probably don’t actually have any interest in. I don’t mean that in a malicious way, I just mean, genuinely, you don’t know me that well so why would you want to know the details behind my suicide? I just needed someone to tell the complete truth to, someone that it wasn’t going to hurt.
Anyway, I need you to do me a huge favour. In the package you found this letter, you’ll find 4 more, each in separate envelopes. They are named, addressed and stamped, and all I need you to do is post them for me. I’m sure you’ll be pretty confused to why I couldn’t have posted them myself, but the thing is, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. And I trust you. Which leads to my next point, I trust that you won’t read the letters, but I want to ask you not to, just in case.
Thanks for listening; I hope it doesn’t take too long for my spot to be replaced in class… That has to be a little morbid. Ha.

Hey buddy. I know you’re gonna be really confused right about now… And probably pretty angry with me for leaving you. But it’s gonna be ok little man, I promise it is. Before I do any explaining, I need you to promise me you’ll look after Mum and Dad, at least for a while. Things are gonna be pretty tough for a bit, but you’re gonna be the little hero of the house and you need to keep joking and laughing just like you do now. Give Mum and Dad a reason to smile, ok? For me. I don’t want to ever find out that you’ve changed. Not in the slightest. You’ve always made me smile, even when I’ve been sad, and now you need to do the same for Mum and Dad.
So, I’ll try explaining. You see, as people get older, things get very stressful. And some people, like you, are little tanks and can work your way through those stresses. But I’m not one of those people. And I’m so sorry. I’ve just been really sad for quite a long time now, and I want you to always remember that I’ll be happier up in heaven. I know how selfish that is, leaving everyone just so I’m happy, but as you get older I’m sure you’ll start to understand. But please just remember that I haven’t disappeared, I’m just up in the clouds now, and I’m gonna be watching down on you and looking after you still. No-one is ever gonna mess with my brother and get away with it, ok?
Do you remember that time I picked you up from school and I wasn’t in my uniform so you knew I’d been skiving? And you could tell by my face that I’d been crying so you just hugged me and told me not to worry because you wouldn’t tell Mum and Dad I’d skipped school. And then we went for ice cream and I chased you round the park. I was thinking about that earlier today. You’ve always been able to make me laugh, and make things feel better. You’re such a strong little man, and I’ve never seen anything hurt you. So I hope you can stay strong for me now.
You’re my little hero, and I hope you can forgive me one day. I’m so sorry buddy.
I’ll always be here, and love you.
Your big sis x

Hey Dad. I’m so sorry. So, so sorry. I know I’ve left you with probably the biggest job of them all. It’s gonna fall on you to look after everyone now and I know that’s going to make this even harder for you. I’ve always looked up to you y’know? Even with all the times you embarrassed, or to phrase it better, completely and totally humiliated me. Like when you first met my boyfriend and you practically interrogated him. Jesus, I was not impressed. But all in all, you’ve always been the more laid back parent; i.e. the one that let me have a little more to drink than I should have at 14. So than-you for having fun with me, and I’m sorry for throwing it back in your face like this.
You deserve an explanation. I can’t narrow it down to any specific events, but I really haven’t been happy Dad. I’ve tried so hard to ignore it, or to solve it. But the thing is, it’s been so confusing trying to figure out what was wrong with me… And so tiring. And I don’t want to do it anymore. I just want to rest and be at peace. You have no idea how hard it is to say goodbye, but I need to do it; for me. I’m so sorry for lying to you, and for acting like everything was ok. But I need you to not blame yourself in the slightest. You have made me so happy, so often. Our jokes and the times we have spent together mean so much to me… and you need to know that none of that was ever faked. I want you to remember me as the happy, lively daughter I was. Please. You have made things a lot easier for me and I just wish I could feel like that all the time. It’s when I’m alone that I can’t cope. I wish I could explain it to you better than that, but I can’t even get the thoughts straight in my head, never mind write them down. So I’m sorry for that, too.
I didn’t suffer any pain. You need to know that, too. It was about a month ago I decided to use pills. I did my research and completely knew what I was doing, and trust me, I was in no pain. I chose pills because it would leave me looking relatively normal, and I could do it at home, where I felt the safest. I don’t know who found me, but I want you to give them my greatest apologies. I can’t even imagine… I know these are not the things you want to be hearing, but they are things I need to tell you. I decided when I was gonna do it about 2 months ago. It was one night after I got home from school, before anyone was in. I thought about how easy it would be to just do it then and there, but Mums birthday was coming up, and mine was only 2 months away, so I decided to wait. I think it was in a vague attempt to make it easier on you guys, and to get my birthday out of the way first. At least I would be 17 then, and I suppose I thought a news story of a girl committing suicide at 16 sounded a little melodramatic, so I waited.
And I’m so glad I did. I’ve had the best times with you in these last couple of months. Mums birthday was fantastic; it was so nice having everyone together, but so hard to lie to you all. I’m so sorry. It was a struggle every day to keep going on, but I knew that I wouldn’t have to deal with it anymore if I could just make my ‘deadline’.
Not to put any more pressure on you, but please look after Mum. I’m freaking out about how she is going to deal with this. I can’t explain how horrible and hard this is to write. I feel so guilty. And I can’t deal with it. Just please make sure everyone is ok. I’m just going round in circles here. I know this is going to break your heart Dad, and I’m so, so sorry. I love you so much, and I hope you and Mum can carry on with your lives. Give the little one everything now, and make him the most spoilt, special little boy you can. (Joking, obviously). Ha.
Stay strong for me Daddy; I’ll see you again one day, I’ll always be your little girl x

Mum. Mummy. I am so sorry I’ve done this to you. It’s heart-breaking writing this letter and this is so surreal knowing this is going to be sent to you. I’m racked with guilt for doing this to you. I love you Mummy, and I always will. You can’t let this ruin a single thing for you ok? You need to get on with your life, and enjoy it. Spoil the little one (as I’ve told Dad; that is a joke) but do make sure he’s as happy as possible.
We’ve always been close, and that’s why this has been so hard to do; to lie to you about. But I had made my decision a while ago; I didn’t want to be here anymore. And I didn’t want to have to deal with you trying to convince me otherwise. I just lost control. I couldn’t keep myself happy, and I relied on other people too much. It wasn’t fair. So I did what was best for me, and for everyone.
You gave me the best send off. My birthday. I was happy that night, for a while at least. And in that time, I almost reconsidered. Almost. But really, I had a great night. I wasn’t expecting anything special; I didn’t think I deserved anything, especially with what I was planning… What I was about to do to you all. But when I opened the door and walked in and you and Dad and the little one and my boyfriend, along with the rest of the family were there, it made me feel happy, and proud to have a family like you. (Speaking of my boyfriend, keep an eye out for him will you? You know how serious we were, and just keep him close by. I want you to all stay close now that I’m gone. You’ll all have your letter, with your little piece of me, and you’ll need each other’s support) Anyway, as I was saying… Acting like everything was gonna be ok that night was hard though. I wanted to tell you so badly that I wasn’t ok, that your baby girl was breaking on the inside. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I didn’t want help. I just wanted to be gone; at peace, finally. I’m sorry that this is the first you will hear of any of this. I can’t imagine how confused you are.
I have a couple of confessions to make before I go. Remember that time you got a call of school, double-checking a hospital appointment for the little one? And you argued with the school office lady for about half an hour, telling her he was definitely in school that day because I vouched for taking him to school that morning, and picking him up? Yeah, that’s not exactly what happened. Let’s just say, we needed a bit of brother-sister bonding, and I took him out for the day. I forced him into it and it was 100% completely my fault… and if I find out he gets in trouble for this, I will haunt you. Sorry. This isn’t the time for jokes.
I love you so much Mum. I’m trying to keep this letter a little more light-hearted, because if I don’t I’m going to break down, and I can’t risk changing my mind. Not when I’ve got this far and have everything planned out this well. This is happening. And I’ve known that it’s been inevitable for a while now. It has just been a case of timing. I hope I got that right.
Please don’t be too angry with me, or find it in your heart to forgive me one last time? I’m always going to be looking out for you, and everyone else of course, but you especially. You’ve been my guardian angel since the day I was born, and now it’s my turn to be yours. You’ve given me everything you possibly could, and you’ve been the best Mum anyone could be. Never take any blame for this. This is just an issue with me personally. And I’m sorry it has to affect you in the biggest way possible.
I will always love you and need you Mum. And I’ll always be your baby girl. X

Now then you, this is going to be the hardest of all my letters to write. You’ve always made me happy you know? Not once that I’ve been with you have I wanted to do this, it’s just when I’m alone that it gets me. You have given me the most amazing relationship anyone could have asked for, and I know that I haven’t deserved it in the slightest. That’s made it harder I guess. Because as much as I love you, I know you could do so much better than me… ‘The ****** Up Girl’ as your ‘friends’ like to call me. Thank-you for not listening to them, even if what they were saying is true. You’ve always seen the true side of me, and you’ve known how much I’ve struggled getting by. But I still don’t think you would have ever expected this, and I’m truly sorry for that.
First of all, I want to tell you that, without you, this would have happened months ago. You are the main thing that has kept me going, so you should be so happy with yourself for that. I’ve been considering this for about 2 years now, and it’s just that recently, things have been tough with people at school starting to find out how depressed I am. The things people say are horrible. But I don’t want you to mention that to my family. I don
Jenny Ochoa Dec 2019
I wrote a letter once, a letter for my mom
it was filled with deep emotion, a letter for the strong!

"A developing girl growing in all places, boys constantly attacking cruelty on their faces. Sasquatch, big foot, gorilla they taunted, a poor vulnerable developing girl they haunted.
popular girls: you're dark ugly and fat
popular boys: mustache unibrow, why you look like that?!?
silently she wiped her tears every day & every night, her heart in constant pain, her brain slowly giving up the fight. laughing & smiling while dark thoughts took over her brain; drown yourself, hang yourself, hurry before you go insane. its finally her breaking point goodbye & farewell to all, she sits to write her letter to explain it all!"

I wrote a letter once, & stuck it between my bears
I hugged my mom so tight, she never knew it was my farewell!

"I parted from her loving arms trying no to cry
she handed me a positive test, I knew it wasn't my time!
I promise to love you and protect you from everything that is bad, I'm going to be the best big sister any brother could ever have! I grabbed that letter, you know the letter full of pain, I threw that letter to the trash, had to be love on the brain!"

I wrote a letter once, a letter for my mom to read
it never got delivered, for a special baby brother seemed to intervene!
I considered hurting myself back in 2008 I was bullied and taunted since elementary all the way to my freshman year of high school! my mom couldn't get pregnant after having me so I was an only child for 14 years and finally the year of 2008 that I decided to end my life god decided to bless my life with a little brother! safe to say I never attempted anything ever again and I'm constantly making sure he is okay!
Nesma Aug 2018
Dear me,

I hope this letter finds you kind, I hope it finds you at ease,
I hope it finds you as you were born.. a soft spring breeze.

I am writing this letter to inform you that your time is not up, that you still have space to unfold, that you are a continuum that doesn’t have to settle for the broken uni-verse where you were unraveled.

You, love, are not limited to your synonyms.

You, love, can develop into a hurricane that doesn’t dwell in a farmer’s cabin.
You, love, can develop into a hurricane that travels between the back of your mind and its front.
You, love, can develop into a hurricane with a FedEx envelop for a title.
You, my love, can develop into a hurricane that transports your memories from the backyard of your colon to the backside of this letter.

You, love, can develop into a sandstorm speaking the names of the Saharas to your left and to your right.
You, love can develop into a sandstorm that does not blind the sufi midnight traveler.
You, love, can develop into a sandstorm that travels beyond the desert.
You, my love can develop into a sandstorm carrying a water-well for the thirsty.

You, love, can develop into an ocean that doesn’t stand in arrogance where there is land.
You, love, can develop into an ocean that waxes and wanes to the rhythm of the moonlight caressing you.
You, my love, can develop into an ocean that doesn’t erode the rocks standing on its shore.

You, love, can develop into a soft spring breeze that makes a home of all the other seasons.
You, love, can develop into a soft spring breeze that gently ****** through a baobab tree trunk.
You, love, can develop into a soft spring breeze that playfully tickles the arms of a refugee on her bus to camp.
You, my love can develop into the synonyms you are not limited to.

Kindly find attached to this letter the love your father has tucked in bed a long time ago and never double checked on it.
Kindly find attached to this letter the understanding your mother stored in the kitchen cabinet she is too short to reach.
Kindly find attached to this letter the forgiveness you have tried to grow out of sunflowers seed every winter.


A Thomas Hawkins Nov 2010
It seems winter has come early.

November is barely here and already it's snowed.

The once warm summer breeze that rolled in with the tide, has been replaced. Replaced by a frigid wind that just hits you and keeps on going. Blowing right through you as if you were no more than the leaves that it was here to strip away.

The Autumn leaves.

Natures finest hour.

Clear blue skies and green grass have their place and their appeal, but when the leaves turn red and gold and yellow in no particular order, the world is truly beautiful.

Its peaceful, serene.

Its a time of change.

Its like the world is getting ready for bed. Its putting on its pajamas and slippers and warming the milk for the hot chocolate to see it through the long nights sleep that is winter, with its white feather pillows and soft blankets.

This year its been different.

This year summer came late, stayed for coffee and then all of a sudden fall had passed in the blink of an eye, as if to get things back on track so that winter wouldn't have to wait til next year to show up. What a row that would cause.

But as I sit here above the rocks and look out at the cape, at the setting sun and the dark green sea. Watching the white horses gallop up the beach before disappearing into the sand, I feel that so much more is changing than just the seasons.

I guess nothing stays the same anymore, anymore than anything lasts forever.

At home a letter awaits me that I dare not read. As if not doing so will somehow change its contents.

It sits there above the fireplace, waiting.

Taunting me.

I caught myself the other day walking down the hallway rather than going through the lounge because I couldn't bear to see it.

Its the handwriting that scares me.

Its the same handwriting that used to be on letters that could lift my soul from the deepest abyss and raise it aloft to soar above the highest mountains. The same handwriting that has now become the bearer of all news that is bad.

I know its from you.

And I know what it says.

It says that you do still love me and that you probably always will, but that its not enough. It says that there's no way you can see this working with me here and you there and it says that you're sorry. It says that you wish sometimes we had never met because before we did you didn't know that this existed. You didn't know how much it would hurt to be without it, and now you do....

But whats missing are the questions.

The "can we make this work with me here and you there?", the "if we can't would you consider moving?", the "how do we get to keep something we both want so god ****** much?" questions.

I know they're missing because I have the answers. I have all the answers, but nobody is asking the questions.

And because you write, and not call, I don't even get to ask them rhetorically just so that I can get the answers out in the open where you can see them and hear them and know that we can do this, and that we should do this.

But thats not in the letter.

The letter can't see that I'm in purgatory.

It can't feel like I do. It can't feel that that bit of me that all my ribs connect to in the middle of my chest, that bit feels like its been ripped clean out. Now all thats there is this big empty space. A space full of nothing but longing... regret... unshed tears and sleepless nights.

Why didn't you call?

Even if you'd called to tell me all the things that are bound to be in the letter, all the things I didn't want to hear, then at least I would have gotten to hear you... to hear your voice.

It used to be like a switch. It triggered some Pavlovian response deep inside me, just the whisper of it would make me smile, just the rumor of its presence was enough to make my pulse race a little quicker, make me breathe deeply, savouring the imminence of it all.

Maybe I should have told you all this before it was too late. Before the letter. Before the conversation that pre-empted the letter.

I should have told you this every day.

I thought you knew.

Maybe you did? Maybe its only in books and movies and fairy tales that it works that if you love someone then they have to love you back. Maybe its only in make believe that any of this really matters.

I wish I'd said no.

When you gave your speech about time and distance and **** getting in the way I should have said "NO!" I should have said "So what!? Yes you're right, its driving us both crazy but lets fix all that. Lets decide what WE want and take that instead?" Thats what I should have said.

But I didn't

I don't know why.

I loved you then like I do now.

Nothings changed.

You can use that one to start the list. The list of things in my life that I regret. Number 1, top of the page, the only thing to make it to the list my whole life. "Not saying no to you when I should have"

Why do I always have to be so ******* agreeable all the time, where does that come from?

I think I was shocked. Stunned into total inaction, like a deer that freezes in the headlights of certain death. That was me.

I remember feeling like something was draining away from me, the way maple syrup does from the bottle that gets knocked over just after you've told your kids for the umpteenth time to put the lid back on it when they've finished. There it was, slowly pouring out, leaving a mess behind.

Only the mess was me, is me. The syrups gone and the bottles empty but the mess is still here.

And the only thing I can do is sit here and conjure up this story of a letter that never got read, that never got written, in the hope that one day you'll read this letter and then you'll know.

You'll know all the things I never got chance to say, because the questions never did get asked. But the answers are real. Just ask me.
This piece started off as a piece of prose but got a little long to call it that, still here it is as a short short of sorts.

Follow me on Twitter @athomashawkins
Forgotten Dreams May 2014
She sat in that chair by the window,
Watching as life went by.
Hoping to receive the letter,
The letter that never arrived.

She sat in that chair by the window,
Listening to the sounds of life.
Clutching to the hope of the letter,
The letter that never arrived.

She sat in the chair by the window,
With the light fading from her eyes.
She never gave up the hope of the letter,
The letter that never arrived.

As I sat in that chair by the window,
With a tear running from my eye.
I wished I had sent that letter,
The letter that never arrived.
This is my first poem on here and I know it *****. In case people wondered the poem is about my Great-Gran, she had a long struggle with life and finally passed away in November 2012.
A major storm was brewing as I
Alighted back to the hotel when the porter
Told me that a young woman in a yellow hat had
Just moments before inquired about me.
I thought nothing much of it other than of its odd nature
Taking my leave from the porter with a thankful nod.
Entering the towers making my way – not to the elevator-
But to the stairs – for I often opt for the more difficult path.
As I went up the stairs coming to a landing 5 floors below
My own, I met a young woman in a yellow hat coming down.

I stopped to nod and give her free passage down the staircase –
Making sure not to fail in waiting upon her to pass - she stood
Staunch still in front of me saying, “I was afraid you had left town.”
Then she asked, “Do you have a letter for me?”
Somewhat bewitched I tried to think of what she was referring to
But my mind was so full of the yellow hat and those inquisitive eyes
I had not the presence of mind to understand her question, let alone
The ability to search for any logical conclusion.
“A letter?” I asked thinking only of the scarlet letter.

It was the darkest, stormiest of evenings in the latter part of May and
Even here in the stairwell the ozone smell of lightning was present.
When she spoke again I noticed the smell of the ozone was
Not of the typical “storm” type but rather that pleasant firmament
Was radiating from this yellow bridled – creature in front of me.
I knew I had to beat down my temptations, so again I asked, “What letter?”
“I’m sorry,” she said with a torturous half grin on her ruby lips, opening
The palm of her right hand revealing a small golden box – she continued - and as she
Continued I became aware of her accent – “My father, he past last week” –

“I’m so sorry,” I said interrupting her – “Please tell me – who was your father?”
She looked down at the box with a tear in her eye, “He is – was the count De Conti.”
Immediately I knew of who she spoke because I had had dealings with him before.
“I’m so sorry,” again I repeated purely out of stupidity not knowing what else to say.
“He said I was to find you and give this to you in exchange for your letter.”
With that said I thought I knew of what letter she meant – or did I?
“It’s in my room,” I said with no more attention to detail.
I led her back up the doubled five flights of stairs holding her by the one hand
While in the other she held the golden box.

At the door I fumbled with the card key until the little light on the door
Turned green – I opened the door to my room and she entered.
The crimson curtains – the same pattern and colors of the bed –
Were drawn closed, the lightning reflecting a more reddish hue
Than I remembered the curtains having – so warm a tint it affected the
Mademoiselle’s face – Somehow I took it as a blush so I blushed myself.
We were quite undeniably alone which induced a second blush before
The first one could get itself fully free.
It was a pleasing half-guilty blush where the blood is more at fault than the man.

My virtue flew impetuously after it – not to call it back mind you but
To make the sensations of it more delicious to the nerves.
Knowing these feelings are not sent by the righteousness of virtue,
I searched for the letter for five minutes, opening drawer after drawer then
Luggage piece after piece unable to think clearly – the devil was in me.
He I knew well as a capable adversary, whom if we resist will surely fly away
But I am not usually one to combat this formidable foe, fearing that I myself
Will be harmed in the combat – generally I don’t do anything and by my
Abstinence the devil must get bored of me and leave me alone.

The fair mademoiselle came close up behind me as if to help me search.
“Do you know what was in the letter” she asked?
I nodded yes and then she opened her handbag taking out a tissue and
Handed it to me along with a pen – “Then write it down,” she pleaded.
I wanted to yell, “Then I shall write it upon your fair lips,” but I knew
If I did I would surely perish, burned at the stake of honor – Instead I
Took her by the hand and led her to the door.
Then she did the unthinkable – she turned and placed both of her hands in mine
As if to say that all was alright with her.

It was impossible for me not to caress them in this situation.
I wished so hard to let them go but I held onto them all the while.
Her eyes looking into me with that yin and yang quest where
Her stare made me focus on her perception of myself.
No sooner did the inner struggle begin to fade than I found
Myself having to fight the battle all over again with my limbs
Trembling at every idea that filled my head.
Letting go of her hands, I took the pen and put it to paper not knowing
What to write -I scribbled something and started to speak when…

When last I noticed the bed should have been several feet from the door.
I still had the pen and paper in my hands when it happened – and I
Can give no logical account of how it happened – or why – I never asked her
Nor did I pull her – neither did I think of the bed – but so it did happen.
We both sat down.
Beside me she opened her hand again showing the golden box.
She reached first to her left pocket, then to her right pulling out a tiny key.
She put the key into my hand holding the box up toward me.
Seeing the key hole I inserted the key and turned it to the right.

As the box opened I felt her other hand on the nap of my neck.
I heard the box begin to play – “Somewhere in Time” as she crossed
Her legs beside me – I noticed that one strap of one of her shoes was loose.
Listening to the chiming melody I reached for the strap to buckle her shoe.
As I did so my guilt ridden feelings got the better of me and I said,
“I’m so sorry, I have something to confess, your father never gave me a letter
To give to you.”
After putting the strap into the buckle I lifted her foot and in doing so
I must of unknowingly threw her off center – and then
As she laid back on the bed pulling me with her -
She said, “I know, I have something to confess to you as well.
I wasn’t ever really looking for one.”
Do you ever dream like this?
Wuji Sep 2011
Hester was imprisoned for her sin,
She had betrayed her own kin.
By ******* with a different man,
She ruined her family's master plan.

They could've lived peacefully in Boston,
If it wasn't for Hester's sin.
Now her husband wants pay back,
On the man who was with Hester in the sack.

While in prison Hester had a little girl,
She decided to call her Pearl.
As an added bonus she received a new family crest,
A scarlet letter for her breast.

As she walked out of jail,
Her life seemed to derail.
As the people in the crowd,
Mocked her with a tone so loud.

She stood on the scaffold so she could repent,
While the townspeople picked at her feelings like she was a dent.
Her husband manged to get into the crowd,
He put a finger to his lips for he was too proud.

When it was over Pearl and her went home,
To a cottage far away so they could be alone.
Hester tailored cloths to keep her family alive,
For in family values they were not deprived.

She decided she would still perform good deeds,
Helping the town's people with all there needs.
She beat the system with hard work and determination,  
Even if her sin will send her to an eternity of damnation.

A scarlet letter "A",
To separate night from day,
To make Hester pay.
We'll see what society has to say,
Will spirit be broken, nay.

Her husband went to find the guy,
Who ****** his wife and denied.
He then got a patient for him to care for,
Arthur Dimmesdale, who was the *****.

Almost certain that he was the one,
The doctor had himself some vengeful fun.
He wanted the priest to feel his pain,
At this point the doctor is no longer sane.

He bombed his thoughts with mental missiles,
The words he said hurt like wild whistles.
The priest knew he needed to repent as well,
He tortured himself till blood was the only thing he could smell.    

But that was not enough for the priest,
For the visions of his sin wouldn't cease.
So he stood on the scaffold so he could repent,
He screamed in the night but no one gave him their two cents.

Until his lover and daughter came to the scene,
And then something magical happened like it would in a dream.
A meteor flew down from the heavens and marked in the sky,
A letter "A" way up high.

The Priest and Hester deiced to meet,
In the forest in about a week.
They talked and made a plan,
To get out of this foreign land.  

After the Priest's last speech,
The family would leave for an European beach.
But the doctor found this out,
And boarded a trip on the same route.

But before the family tried to leave,
The priest had some unfinished ends he needed to weave.
He ripped off his shirt and there on this chest,
A ****** scarlet "A" just like the one on Hester's breast.

A scarlet letter "A",
To separate night from day,
To make Arthur pay.
We'll see what society has to say,
Will faith be broken, nay.

The priest then died right there,
Giving all the town people a scare.
The doctor had never got his full pay pack,
The purpose of life, he now lacked.

Now for the good news you will hear,
The doctor died within the next year.
Pearl and Hester left that place,
And went back to their home base.

Pearl married a rich man,
Despite being the "devil's brand".
But as for Hester she had returned,
To the place that she yearned.

Back to Boston where she was labeled,
But this time the scarlet letter "A",
Didn't mean "Adulteress",
It meant "Able".    

A scarlet letter "A",
To separate night from day,
To make Hester pay.
She changed what society had to say,
With her spirit, she had created her own way.
Basically a poem version of a summer reading book I had to read and pretty much my best byproduct of procrastination. All credit to the author and the story he told of course.
taijarea darius Jul 2013
you wrote  me  a letter with you signature
in that letter was lines of lust. this lust was deep you talked about .. curves ,breast , lips
i read on and thought **** he moves me with so much passion i sworn it was because he loved me
because i was the only woman that feed him songs of freedom . freedom from the chains of pain
late nights of running through each others  minds.
you wrote  me a letter with your signature in that letter was lines of secrets you talked  about  your past i read on
then understood i couldnt be your little secret anymore. i would have to leave you alone you wrote me a letter with your signature in in that letter was lines of mysery the paper wet from your tears  and in bold letter was the reason why. you said the lost of compassion kept you up late. tossing and turning in bed. and that you havent ate .
you wrote me a letter  with your signature in that letter was lines of love. deep love that you wanted to experience. love that wasnt judging  but  forgiving . i read thet letter thinking we could have done better. grab my hand i can take you back to your begining when you and i were kings and queens
at the bottom was a p.s. stating that you have moved on.
and what we shared had been lost.
that time was wasted being with me. you needed space to breathe. and thats when i knew that the writing was not about me.
DC raw love Nov 2014
four letter women
how you make my life today

four letter women
how you take my hard earned pay

four letter women
how you make me feel today

four letter women
why can't i let you go

four letter women
why do i think of you so

for letter women
how you take my breath away

four letter women
how i need you in bed

for letter women
you drive me INSANE
Stefan Michener Mar 2016
I'll write you a letter
I'll write you a letter
I'll write you a letter
You ain't never gettin' better
When I write you my letter


Don't you make me do it
You'd'a wish'd you didn't do it
Don't stray from my will
My letters will **** you
When I write you my letter


I'll write you a letter!
I'll write you a letter!
My will you won't deny
You ain't never gettin' better
When I write you my letter

Say, "bye-bye"
bye-bye, now
Letter Box: ‘Why does nobody comes this way’?

Me: ‘Maybe, they prefer an email’?

Letter Box: ‘Really? That means I am no more needed’.

Me: Not really! Maybe, they need you for registered posts only.’

Letter Box: ‘Well, what is an email’?

Me: ‘It is an electronic message that is instant moving from one gadget to another’.

Letter Box: ‘Oh, so it is faster than me. It is instant that is why I am discarded.’

Me:’ You are not discarded. You are just less used these days’.

Letter Box: ‘It is instant and faster but can one feel the touch of the paper? Can a mother touch the words written by her son and feel the warmth of his affection? Can a father embrace the letters drenched in his daughter’s tear who is miles away? Can all this be possible in an email’?

Me: ‘No, not at all. But you know what the world has changed now. And maybe, you did not notice. There are more people on gadgets than in the garden, where you are place’.

Letter Box: ‘I know as there are no footballs that hit me anymore. There is no one who looks at me – waiting for that one letter eagerly. They just pass by me – as if I do not exist. Oh, it hurts, it really hurts so much’!

Me: ‘You are still needed, and that is why you are still here.’

Letter Box: ‘Maybe, but still I wait for that football to hit me, and that postman to unlock. I still wait’!
Salem Feb 2016
Why is my heart tight
From a 7 letter word

A 7 letter word
From 2 years ago

My stomach is twisting
My head is spinning
I feel the self hate

Pathetic little girl
Letting the pain come back
A 7 letter word
Is all it took

So pathetic
To let it bring the hurt back

You're supposed to be better
To put it in a grave
And let it die instead of you

But here I am
Sharp pains of guilt
And shame

My body feels weak
Heavy like lead
From a simple 7 letter word

I can feel the numb return
I can feel the pain again

A trigger

A stupid 7 letter word
Is a trigger for me

It awakens the beast
And it reminds me
How close I always am
To falling back into the grips
Of the monster inside

No matter how drugged I am
With antidepressants
And mood stabilizers
That 7 letter word
Brings back the pain
The numb
The memories of 2 years ago

Memories of Roger's Memorial
Of the fear
Of the hate

They come rushing back
Because of a 7 letter word
That has affected so many

A 7 letter word
That once had no meaning to me
But now terrifies me

A 7 letter word
A simple 7 letter word

Katelynn Jan 2020
A letter to me.
Not the younger me,
or the older me,
but me.
The one fighting today.

It's a letter to my hands,
for all they have created,
many ideas that have flourished,
even this poem made elated.

It's a letter to my feet,
for all they have carried,
standing when I fall,
rising when I am buried.

Even a letter to my eyes or ears,
for everything they've seen or heard,
grateful for what has been blocked out,
creating room for more that is cured.

These key parts of me,
while I could thank them more,
help me through the day,
even when I am sore.

Just a letter to my body,
forgiveness I would wish,
for all the scars and shame,
that I will never miss.

Forgive me for not loving you,
the way I know I should,
one day you will know,
of all how much I could.

It's a letter to my mind,
a place that is haunted,
whispers that beg,
wishing to only be wanted.

I've cursed you daily,
wanting you to be better,
but never really thinking,
until I wrote this letter.

Yes you can be bad,
yes you can be sick,
but you are still my mind,
and that is something that will stick.

But sometimes you have thoughts,
that are wild and free,
creating ideas,
that can fill will glee.

So for that you are wanted,
for all I take for granted,
for staying by my side,
for not leaving me stranded.

As I get older,
and the more that I see,
on how I should not treat my body,
so pitifully.

Though it has its flaws,
a bad day,
a rough night,
I will always say,
that I need to treat it right.

So this is a letter to me,
the one living today,
to never forget,
why things are this way.

For my body is not perfect,
and neither is my mind,
but it always teaches me lessons,
on how to always be kind.
Writing this poem I tend to sit back and realize how poorly I treat myself sometimes. Everyone has these moments whether cursing a bad hair day or wishing for a reality that isn't true. Reading this poem I hope to take time and realize though I may not love my body fully today that one day I will for all that it have done and yet to do.
I was working at the Postal Service
Part time, answering letters
When one for Santa caught my eyes
I could make this kids life better
I read the letter, held it close
I couldn't promise gifts and stuff
But, I read the **** thing fifteen times
And at that point, I'd had enough

Dear Santa Claus, the letter read
My name is Katy Green
I hope this Christmas is the best
That you have ever seen
I want to let you know I'm scared
You won't find us Christmas Eve
We are living in a trailer now
But, Santa...I still believe

We lost our house and all our stuff
When we got wiped out by a storm
We had to move to trailer town
And it's not easy keeping warm
There's Mum and Dad, and my sisters
All in this trailer built for two
So don't go where we were last year
No matter what you do

I put the letter in my shirt
Without a second thought
I'd be fired in a heart beat
If I ever did get caught
I went home after work that day
Pulled the letter, showed my spouse
My Christmas gift to them this year
I was gonna find that house

I started calling neighbors
Got my friends involved as well
And told them to get others
As many folks as they could tell
We were in the countries center
They were stuck out on the coast
We were going to bring Christmas
Just like the Holy Ghost

We put the letter in the paper
Gifts came in from shops and stores
I would come home after working
There'd be gifts outside my door
We started out with eight trucks
We figured that would do the trick
Eight trucks led by a madman
By, the name is Nick

We had five days until Christmas
To get this load to where they were
We had toys and clothes and gift cards
We had no frankincense or myrrh
We had trucks just full of tires
In case we broke down on the way
There was nothing that would stop us
We'd be there on Christmas Day

Each city that we passed through
Our convoy grew in size
The police just let us roll on
They could not believe the size
Our line of trucks was bigger than
Any that I'd seen on the road
And each truck was fully packed up
Each one had a full load

The plan was nearly perfect
Two days and we would be there
We would fix up their old house
Where others wouldn't dare
We would not only bring them Christmas
We would give them back their house
And we would do it all in silence
Like that poem and that sleeping mouse

Our convoy found the township
And we did the best we could
We ripped the house asunder
And then rebuilt it with new wood
One letter set this movement
Of Christmas love and cheer
In mothion for one family
That as yet, weren't even here

We put lights up and got ready
Found a tree and made it right
When the gifts were all delivered
The house was quite a sight
We went out to the trailers
Just the drivers and no press
This was our Christmas present
Started by a child...who'd have guessed

I knocked upon the trailer
All the trucks lined up the way
We still had twenty four hours
Until it would be Christmas Day
Katy stood before me
With her mother in the back
I stood waiting on the doorstep
Dressed in red with a large sack

As soon as Katy saw me
She new that Santa Claus was here
That he'd seen her letter
And was here with Christmas Cheer
When her mum saw all the trailers
Lined on both sides of the road
She said to me "Dear Santa"
Where are all the trailers stowed

I told them of the letter
And we got them all outside
It didn't take too much convincing
That we would be going for a ride
When we turned up on their crescent
And we started for their place
Each one of them was crying
Tears were streaming down their face

The house was lit up brightly
The trees were lit up too
The house was their big present
Everything inside was new
The parents stood and wondered
While the kids just went on in
They asked us why we did it
It just took a letter to begin

We made Christmas for this family
We brought a Convoy across the land
Every one who heard about us
Pitched in to lend a hand
We may not quite be Santa
But, we helped him with his load
And next year again at Christmas
There'll be a Convoy on the road
And the letter came:
And you thumbed, humbled, over it and over
An hundred times a week, you took it out
Pouring each word over again
As for the first time, it still was
And blotchy it was from tears
And tips, nervous fingers which pulled little rips
Into the off-white paper, where much strong handling bore
Each time's grief bearing need: you read it, nothing more
Seen differently; surely always the same, yet nuances
Came despite instinctual knowledge of before;
Did this sentence- this wording style preferred it
That he might mean only just that- or was it
Imagination's sullied creation? did those words
Sound tired; and if very thought of you
Became fatigue, was it the plague of his precious pen, or brain
Or just the worry of his own entrenchment there?
Even so; sometimes you read familiar words
That joy shouted from, certain as could be.
Times when you felt uneasy, queasy at one word
Or phrase, as if a ringing death-knell must have
Rang: to spell out the end of time's bitter being-
Crossed yourself, three times; and said a beaded prayer.
The letter came to be important to you that this
Could cause everything to cease; a hunt driven
Feverish, once it went missing where from out it's pocket-house
(deeply as when you bent under the trees..
to pick up crying children in their frail need) it leaped.
And when one day unfolding, the letter dropped into your lap
Pieces neat piled into sections; folds perforated through
Because so nearly worn out; stained, thin-souled as grief itself
Heart treasure map woven in lover's lace; bequeathed
And then realized: there no other letter ever was or be;
If never sent, gone missing; you'd pinned all quickened heart beats
Stayed hope's courage upon a single letter's fate, and it
Carried through the fears, saw above the swarming years
Sleepless nights when, no tears left, it swam: you gathered up the limp
Damp, feathered pieces and stowed them safe for keeping
Knowing some day again, when things were not the same
And finding them you would remember, this single letter
By which all hope then was given, your hope that came
As a single letter; came due south, straight down from heaven..
John Jan 2013
Back when I was about ten or eleven, the only friend I had was the most beautiful girl I knew. Her name was Jessica and her and I did everything together. In school we were inseparable, always chit-chatting before, during and after classes. So much so that teachers bestowed upon us the annoying, yet endearing, encompassing nickname of "Jackica" - a combination of our names; Jack and Jessica.
     I was so thankful for her companionship, and thinking back it might have been a pretty uneven relationship, emotionally. I was an overweight and awkward Harry Potter fanboy and she was a cute little auburn-haired thing who could've won any Miss America Junior competition in the world, as far as I was concerned. She had the most piercing powder blue eyes. The kind that made my skin tingle and mouth curl up into a stupid smile at any given moment. I felt like she saw me, like she really saw ME. Not the blubbery flesh that coated my muscle and bones but what I was made of, the real me. And I loved her for that.
     Along with Jessica's physical blessings, she was also given an insatiable appetite for adventure. She loved to go to the park at night,  after the gates were locked and when everything was drenched in darkness. We'd hop the five foot chain-link fence and roam around the grounds. We'd go the water at the edge of the park and sit on the rocks, look up at the stars and take turns telling stories to each other with intent to scare the **** out of the other one.
     One humid night in mid-June, Jessica told a story that succeeded in making my skin-crawl. She always told decent scary stories, she was gifted in the art of fabricating tales of fright right on the spot, but this story really got to my core for some reason. I just felt uneasy as the words spilled from her mouth to my ears and with each sentence my muscles tightened and strained just from the mere tone of her voice as she told the story. She sounded serious, and she rarely did, even when telling these stories, but with this particular one it sounded like she really believed what she was saying was cold, hard truth.
     What she said was that she heard a story that her older brother's girlfriend had told her. It was about a house on the outskirts of town, placed just a few hundred yards from the mouth of the woods that lined our little suburban utopia. She went on to say that in the house was nothing all that scary. She said it was an old house, a very old house, as it was a log cabin that was built in the 1700s, when the town was first being settled. Supposedly, everything in the house was just as it was back then, little kerosene lamps sitting on home-mad oak tables. The maple-wood floors would moan and creak at the slightest hint of any weight being put on them. And then she said that no one had lived in the house since the man who built it died, around 1785.
     Needless to say, Jessica wrapped up the story by proclaiming that we had to find the house. And we had to go inside and see for ourselves what was so creepy about it. Being the scared, chubby little wimp that I was, I immediately rejected the idea. There was no way I was going to try to find a place that would only succeed in making me **** my pants in front of a girl, especially the one whom I'd placed the delusional label of "future girlfriend" on.  But, as I subconsciously expected, Jessica talked me into it with just a few graceful words: "I'll kiss you if you come with me."
     The very next Saturday night, Jessica and I put on some dark jeans and t-shirts and took the bus all the way to the last stop, the edge of town. We hopped off and right in front of the stop the woods were already waiting, I took a deep breath as Jessica's eyes lit up. She took my hand and pulled me as she ran, me clumsily waddling along behind her all the way to a little dirt pathway that paved the only marked entrance we could see. She asked me if I was ready and I shrugged, saying something like "I'm as ready as I'm ever going to be." And so we started down the path. As the tall trees swayed in the wind, I dragged my feet with  Jessica always about five feet ahead of me, as eager as ever. We walked for probably ten or twenty minutes before the foot of the cabin was before us.
     At first sight, it was a very old structure. I'd never seen anything like it outside of paintings in my history textbook and this Abe Lincoln documentary I saw on PBS. I never knew houses like that stood the test of time. But there it was before me, two stories high with wooden shutters clad in severely chipped paint and a big oak door that looked stronger than any door I'd ever seen. Jessica took my hand again, smiled enchantingly and rushed me forward.
     Once at the door, I was speechless. It didn't look as old as the rest of the house and whoever made it obviously meant for it to last a very long time, taking extreme care in carving it out impeccably and sanding it until it shined with a professional touch. Without a word, Jessica rapped on the door. Three hard times, and when no one answered after thirty seconds, she rapped again, and again. She shrugged and turned to me, asked if we should just go in. I said no and she frowned.
     "There's no way we came this far just to go back home with nothing," and then she wrapped her hand around the rusted doorknob and turned.
     The door opened with no hesitation as she pushed it all the way in. She stepped inside, and I followed. The first thing I noticed inside the cabin was the creaking floors. They creaked louder and longer with each step, affirming that part of the story, making my blood run cold. We looked around, going from room to room with wide eyes. We were amazed that we made it, that we got inside and now we were actually investigating a place that no one else supposedly had gone before. Truth be told, though, it was nothing special. There wasn't much at all to see, save for a few tables, the creaking floors and some very old paintings on the wall. We were just leaving when we noticed something on a table nearest the big oak door. It was a metal box with a small lock fastened to the front of it.
     "We have to open it," Jessica proclaimed after a second of curious inspection.
     "There's no way were going to find the key," I told her.
     "So we'll break the lock, Jack. Duh," she replied in her sassiest tone.
     I just shook my head as she grabbed the box and began to furiously slam it in the wooden table. The sound echoed through the house, exacerbating it and making me shiver from head to toe.
     "I don't know if you should keep-" but my sentence was cut off my the lock flying off the box and clinking onto the floor below.
Jessica smiled again, very pleased with herself and looked to me.
     "Wonder what's inside...," She said, lifting the top half of the box open.
     After an initial and cough-inducing puff of thick dust subsided, the contents of the box were revealed. It was a letter, written on old-school parchment in heavy ink. In neatly laid Victorian script, the likes of which I had never seen so simultaneously neat and scattered, like it was written in a hurry or during a time of distress, was a love letter. Well, a kind of love letter. It was addressed to a woman named Tania and it was signed by a William. It told the story of how William had loved Tania since they were children, and Tania was now to be married to a Pastor named Hensley. William told Tania how he couldn't bear the thought of her ever being with anyone else and that the fact that she could never truly be his was killing him. Literally. He ended the note by confessing his plan to **** himself.
     I took a step back, but Jessica just stood at the table with her eyes glued to the crumbling parchment in her hands.
     "I'm leaving," I said after a few moments, mulling over the sorrow that this poor man must've felt. I headed out the door, Jessica following. The walk back through the woods to the bus stop I couldn't get this feeling of dread from subsiding. It seemed like I felt what William felt, but not in a sympathetic sort of way. It felt like I was William and the pain he felt was actually my pain. And then I noticed that, rolled up tightly in her fist, Jessica had taken the letter with her.
     "Why'd you take that," I said, sounding thoroughly upset. "That's not yours to take, go bring it back!"
     "No way. There was no way I was going there and coming back with nothing to show for it," she said, gripping the letter tightly, her knuckles almost whitening.
     I knew how stubborn Jessica could be and I knew whatever I said probably wouldn't even phase her in the slightest so I did what I did best and just shrugged it off. I found myself wishing I could shrug off the terrible feeling the letter put deep inside me just as easily as I could Jessica's stubbornness.

     Over time, Jessica and I lost touch, as kids of that age often do. I grew up, lost weight and opened up, making more friends and acquaintances, no longer hanging onto the thought of Jessica being my only love. I didn't talk to Jessica all that much. Just once in a while we'd meet up and have a chat over some coffee or pizza. We had both changed and morphed into young adults with different agendas and dreams and I had no problem with that. But on one such meeting, Jessica began to worry me. She said that every now and then she'd open her desk drawer and take the piece of parchment out and read it. Over and over again. And lately, she had been opening the drawer more and more, she said that she felt drawn to it. Like something about it made her feel this deep-seated dread that no horror movie or scary story had ever made her feel. She said that she felt like the letter was beginning to take a toll on her. And, by the look of her, it didn't seem like she was lying or kidding around like she always used to love to do. She had dark circles underneath her once striking eyes, which were now darker and had taken on an odd and ominous color. I was scared for her. And I told her so but she hugged me and assured me she was alright. I wanted to believe her, and I tried to, hugging her back and telling her I'd talk to her soon. But when she turned her back I knew something was very wrong.

     I'm writing this now because a few weeks ago Jessica's mom gave me a call. When her number came up on my cell phone, I think I knew, deep down, e actor why I was getting this call but I pushed the thought away and said hello. Jessica's mother called to tell me that a few days before Jessica had gone missing. The only indication to her whereabouts was a note she left with the words "cabin at the edge of town", and below that, instructions on how to get there. Her mother said she took the note and hopped in her car immediately, and made it to the cabin. She said she was breathless by the time she got to the cabin but forged on and barged inside and looked around. She said she found nothing and was about to leave when she noticed a small door behind the big oak door she had swung open to get inside. She opened the little door to find a stairwell. She climbed it, calling Jessica's name all the way, sobbing and wiping tears from her eyes. At the top of the stairs was the attic. And she said she almost died herself when she saw Jessica. She was hanging from a wooden rafter on the ceiling. And next to her was a severely decayed skeleton, dangling from a rope only a few inches away.
It's definitely more of a short story but I felt obligated to post it here for some reason.
brandon nagley Oct 2015
Dear Jane Sardua Nagley;

Hello dear queen, I just wanted to write you a love letter just in case anything is to happen to me. I'm trying not to sound nor be a pessimistic being mine love, though with all the health issues I have going on right now and worries on mine mind,it's truly hard to be positive. When daily ( literal demon's attack me) as they do you mentally and emotionally and me physically spiritually and in all form's, ( as who cares if others believe in that or not!!!) As tis you have seen the proof physically and what happened with us the one time face talking on Skype. The breathing coming through the line. Yeah as you and I more than know!!! Anyways what I'm writing to say is though things haven't been most positive for me health wise and things im dealing with as you are dealing with alot; The true positivity that I do have is you Jane. YOU!!!! Yeah I said it queen. YOU ( mine soulmate), YOU ( mine life) YOU ( mine all) YOU ( Mine love) YOU ( mine air) YOU Earl Jane Sardua ( Nagley)!!!!!!! See you always say to me that you don't do enough for me, that you say you aren't good enough for me, that I deserve better is what you tell me.... And that you are worthless you say at times...... !!!!!! Jane nagley!!!! LISTEN TO ME OK? Loll... You ARE MORE THAN WORTHY OK? MORE THAN!!!!! You are PERFECT!!!!! MORE THAN!!!! You are ****!!!! MORE THAN!!!! You are the positivity that surrounds me!! You are gods light and his messenger to me!!! I don't even deserve someone so spotless and beautiful and pure and angelic and amazing!!!! And someone so godly beautiful inside and out Jane!!!! Your inside is more than wonderful and attractive!!! And glowing!!!! Why do you think all people circle around you Jane? *** there's a bonfire!? Lol NO!!!! Because you are bright and a light and everyone from here to heaven can see that!!!! People adore you!!! God cherishes you!!!! I want,need, yearn, and desire only YOUUUUUU!!!! Not thy friend's, not noone here not noone anywhere!!! There's one queen who owns me and who I'm with and need and want hear me yet! Listening? Lol the Queens name is earl Jane nagley!!!! it's YOU!!!! Noone else YOU I'm in mad love with!!! and I don't care who doesn't like us.. And I don't care who sees our love!!! Because our love is something others wished they'd have yet do not!! Yet I pray others can find a love like our's!!! Because I've never been so happy in mine life!!! I've never known love before, fact is as I told you!!! Before you I reached out for any quote ( love and affection I can get) ànd I was never truly loved!!! I never truly felt love from anyone nor did I actually ever love anyone else!!! It was out of lonesomeness I reached out to others!!! Because as human beings we reach out in our loneliest hour's, as the amazing part I told you I cried and prayed to God even with others to send me mine real true soulmate!!! One who will love me for me and me inside and me for mine mistakes and faults I have because I'm far from perfect as you say im some perfect being haaa! lol.... But you know how amazing God is Jane? See people always question God asking him why isn't their prayers answered by him? And why isn't he listening to them.. Or hear them? He does hear us. and alot of times God gives us the ànswers back right in front of us and we don't even know it or he'll give his answer not the way we want it meaning not on our own time but his and not always the way we want our prayers answered.. As I kept praying for years as many do and pretty much gave up!!! Then after I got out of prison in mine loneliest lowest time!!! That's when it happened SLAP BAM!!!! On mine doorstep!! Mine angel God sent me!!! The soulmate I learned for years.. Since before mine birth was sent to me Jane. The one who's look's mind soul spirit and voice hair eyes lips thinking all I ever wanted... YOU!!!! And you are always so afraid I'm going to leave you because you feel I deserve better and that you aren't good enough? Are you kidding me? YOU are MORE than worthy and good enough, and I'm never leaving the answer to mine prayer that God finally gave me!!!! Even in death I shall find you... We will meet in this life no matter how long it takes and no matter if we can't talk for a while at times.. I'm NOT leaving you mine Filipino rose!!!!! I'm going nowhere Jane!!!!! I'm so happy with you, I've never known happiness until you fell from the heaven's!!!! You are mine only peace other than God!!! You are mine comfort, best friend, soulmate, mine lover, mine ALL!!! and this is a letter for all to see to bend on mine knee's for mine queen, in front of your throne: to tell you....

for doing all for me noone else has or ever could....
You are me
I am thee.
I'll forever Love you earl Jane nagley
And honestly daily mine love grows for you.. Dont know how when I'm already madddddddd for you!!! Lol this hearts gonna pop because I love you sooo much and I wanted all to see this to show you that you are worth more than anything on earth!! You are many other's angel to not just me!!!!
Especially mine!!!!!!
And mine other half
Mine half
Me period
As I am you.. ..
You are me!!!!

With love forever and always
Your king
And soulmate and lover.....

Brandon Cory nagley

©Brandon nagley
©Earl Jane Nagley dedication ( Filipino rose) soulmate
©Lonesome poet's poetry
Mustafa Mars Apr 2013
I found a love letter the other day
And it had so many pages
That I wished it were for me
But I was faced with the reality that it wasn't
So I stumbled upon the letter that had no to
No from
Just words confessing love
To an unknown man or woman
Who seemed to have either dropped it or forgot about it
I found a love letter on the ground
And I read it
Wondering what it could say
And felt my heart skip 5 beats
Because whoever wrote this
Meant it from the bottom of his or her heart
The words used in this letter create an atmosphere
No human could ever achieve
Yet did for the attention of a significant other
Who decided it wasn't important enough to hold onto
I looked at this letter
Trying to grasp a meaning
Failing to conceive the vleeding
Heart that aches
Because this isn't with the one it's meant for
But rather in the hands of one
Unworthy of reading even one word
That was drafted in pencil
Written in red ink
Whited out
And rewritten in black
This letter closes the gap that most
Literature teachers try to understand
And comprehend
And it lies in my hands
I stumbled upon a love letter the other day
It was a thing of beauty
That must find its way
Back to its owner
Hannah Ripps Feb 2011
Never a word I’ve feared more.
Never needed a label for adore.
Never a word I’ve desired for.
Never needed a word to make my heart sore.

This four letter word that strikes fear.
A four letter word that I desire to hear.
This four letter word that can burn and sear.
A four letter word that’s always held dear.

What a four letter word can do to the soul.
What it can do to a heart of solid coal.
What a four letter that people extoll.
What is this L-O-V-E that we try to control?
Bo Burnham Mar 2015
I wrote you a letter,
and then another letter,
and another, and another,
until I wrote you a word.

So I wrote you a word,
and then another word,
and another, and another,
until I wrote you a sentence.

So I wrote you a sentence,
and then another sentence,
and another, and another,
until I wrote you a letter.

I hope it finds you as I found you.

Yours truly,
Yours, truly.
Alan W Jankowski Jan 2012
I poured out every thought upon the page,
Filling it up with all the rage and anger,
That you have instilled inside me.
My pen literally quivered,
As I held it in my sweaty hand,
Yet the words flowed swiftly,
As venomous as any snake,
And almost as deadly.
As I poured the last of the wine into my glass,
I reviewed my handiwork.
Three pages of anger.
Three pages of hurt.
An expression of all you’ve done to me,
As best as I possibly could.
I carefully folded the letter,
And stuffed it in the envelope.
And with quivering pen,
I wrote out your address.
It was late, and I’d post it in the morning.
I went off to bed that night.
The next day I spent quietly around the house.
It was cold outside,
And it was warm by the fire.
In the afternoon,
I opened another bottle of wine.
I sat pensively for some time,
Just watching the flames dance
Upon the logs in the fireplace.
Amidst the crackling of the timbers,
I picked up the envelope.
I stare down at your name upon it.
I take another sip of wine,
And remove the letter.
As I begin to read it again,
I am reminded of everything you’ve ever done.
All the hurt you’ve caused,
To myself and my family,
Comes back again over three pages.
My blood starts to boil again,
And my palms start to sweat.
There is a damp thumbprint on the page,
And the edges of the letter are damp and frayed,
From holding it tightly in my hands.
I lean back in my chair.
I know I am not ready to forgive.
I don’t know that I ever will be.
And God knows I will never forget.
In fact, I hope you rot in Hell,
And if I could deliver you there myself,
Lord knows, I would.
But, I can never stoop to your level.
I can never stoop to your level.
I sit for some time just watching the fire.
In a while, I pick up the letter,
And walk over to the fireplace.
I toss it upon the flames.
I sit back down and sip my wine.
And as I watch the letter burn,
The sparks crackling,
And the black soot fall upon the logs,
I know I can never stoop to your level,
But, there’s a part of me that says to myself,
“God, I wish that letter were you.”

I think we've all wanted to write a letter like this at one time or another...and forgiveness is not always easy...
TigerEyes Nov 2014
K is the letter for forceful action
it's not a letter
that likes distraction..
In the light
it shines in white
in the dark
it's no
"walk in the park"
R stands for ****
it rhymes with lust...
S stands for slinky
yet, sassy
n' everything silky...
The KRS letters
all together
make her slinky n' soft
n' she's everything...
be careful with her..
she's a challenge to hold.
Kara Rose Trojan Dec 2014
My Second Letter to Allen Ginsberg
Dear Allen,
Almost five years ago, I wrote you a letter, and in
That letter, I purged my drunkenly woeful cries
That seem so first-world now and naïve –
The things I grimed over with luxuries I didn’t
Realize that rubbed against my plump limbs
Like millions of felines poised at the
Tombs of pharaohs.

Oh, Allen, I’m so tired –
These politics, and poly ticks, so many ticks that
Annoy my tics. Allen! I smear your name so liberally
Against this paper like primer because the easiest way
To coerce someone into listening to you like
A mother
or predator
tugging or nibbling on your ear –
Swatches of velvet scalped from a ****’s coat
Are you and I talking to ourselves again?
Candid insanity : Smoky hesitance.

Dear Allen, I’m so tired –
Yes, I love wearing my ovaries on the outside like
Some Amazonian soapbox gem glistening from beneath
The iron boots of what the newspapers tell me while
I cough at them with the hurdled delicacies of alphabet soup.
Give vegetables a gender and call them onions, Allen.
Sullied scratch-hicks pinioned feet from slapping
Society’s last rung on the ladder.
Ignore the swerve of small-town eyes.
Scapulas, stirrups, pap smears, and cervical mucus – now do you know who we are?

That fingernail clipped too short, Allen. We’ve all got AIDs
And AIDs babies, haven’t you heard? Hemorrhaging from the political
****** and out – they haven’t reached the heart.  
Since when have old white men given a **** about some
13 year old’s birth control? I’m riding on the waves of the
Parachute game and I swear this abortion-issue is just a veil outside Tuskegee University
Being further shove over plaintive eyes, swollen and black.
Pay up and
shut up.

I still remember my first broken *****, Allen.
Can you tell me all about your first time?
The vasodilatation that made veins rub against skin,
Delirious brilliance : unfathomable electricity.
I made love during an LSD experience, Allen,
And I am not sorry. I see cosmic visions and
Manifest universal vibrations as if this entire world is
A dish reverberating with textiles and marbles, and
All are plundering the depths of the finished wine
Bottle roasting in the sink like Thanksgiving Turkey.
The patience is in the living. Time opens out to you.
The opening, between you and you, occupied,
zoned for an encounter,
given the histories of you and you—
And always, who is this you?
The start of you, each day,
a presence already—
Hey, you!

Ah, Allen, if you are not safe, then I am not safe.
And where is the safest place when that place
Must be someplace other than in the body?
Am I talking to myself again?
You are not sick, you are injured—
you ache for the rest of life.

Why is it that I have to explain to my students that
sometimes what I'm spouting is prescribed by a pedagogical pharmacy --
but all they want to know is "what do the symbols on the television mean?"
I am completely aghast against the ghosts of future goners --
I am legitimately licensed to speak, write, listen like some mothers --
I am constantly cajoling the complex creations blamed on burned-out educators --
I am following the flagrant, fired-up "*******"s tagging lockers --
Pay up and
shut up.

Yes, and it’s Hopeless. Allen.
Where did we get off leaping and bounding into
The dogpile for chump change jurisdiction, policing
The right and the left for inherent hypocrisies when
Poets are so frightful to turn that introspective judgment
Upon ourselves?
We didn’t see it coming and I heard the flies, Allen.
Mean crocodile tears. Flamingo mascara tracks
Up and down : up and down: bow – bow – bow – bow
Buoyant amongst the misguided ******* floating around
In the swirlpool of lackadaisical introspection.
What good is vague vocab within poetry?
Absolutely none.
Would you leave the porchlight on tonight?
Absolutely, baby.

Dear Allen, would you grow amongst the roots and dirt
At the knuckles of a slackjawed brush of Ever-Pondering Questions
Only to ask them time-and-time-and-time-and-time-again.
Or pinch your forehead with burrowed, furrowed concentration upon those
Feeble branches of progression towards something that recedes further
And further with as much promise as the loving hand
Attempts to guide a lover to the bed?

Allen, I wish to see this world feelingly through the vibrations of billions of bodies, rocking and sobbing, plotting and gnashing like the movement of a million snakes, like the curves collecting and riding the parachute-veil.

Ah, Allen! Say it ain’t so! Sanctified swerve town eyes.
And everything is melting while poets take the weather
Too personally
And all the Holden Caulfields of the world read all the
*******’s written on the walls and all the Invisible Men
Eat Yams and all the Zampanos are blind and blind
And blind and blind and blind and blind
Yet see as much as Gloucester, as much as Homer,
As much as Oedipus.

Oh, Allen, do you see this world feelingly
and wander around the desert?
Colored marbles vibrating on the curtailed parachute paradox.
Lamentation of a small town’s onion. Little do we know, Allen,
That what you cannot see, we cannot see, and we are bubbling
Over in the animal soup of the proud yet weary. I can see,
However, how the peeled back skulls of a million
Workboots and paystubs may never sully the burden
Of an existential angst in miniscule amounts.
Pay up and
shut up.  

My dearest Allen, there is always a question of how
The cigarettes became besmirched with wax to complement
What was once grass, and
What was once a garish night drenching doorknobs.
The night's yawn absorbs you as you lie down at the wrong angle
To the sun ready already to let go of your hand
As you stepped, quivering, on to
The shores of Lethe.
Tommy Randell Mar 2017
Read again that letter from my father -

You can hear the music in it I'll bet,
Its old style singing from his lonely centre.
He asks for money, brandy on his breath,
He offers time and talks of Ireland’s history and pride,
He offers me the right to share his name.
He asks for comfort in the few years left
And thinks I might care - because he is afraid.

Read again that letter from my father -

Now he wants to have all the things he has not.
It would take some doing, he would need to make account
Of his long abandoned wife and her sons,
Her later death and us being orphaned at nine and twelve,
The school bus bullies from other father-less homes,
And being pounded and being pounded into stone
To be remade in his image, to be an absent father's sons.

Go on, read that letter from my Father -

You tell me what it says about his life,
Of living well-down the glass of his pride.
Can you see one moment of any abstract thought
Or is it the old story of the King with no clothes
Caught naked with no place to hide?
An ugly truth, no matter dressed in gold.

Should it make me sad, that letter from my Father?

It reminds me of an old tree no light can shine through,
With no birds in the branches and no rainfall can penetrate.
If you threw a stone into its branches you would hear it
Clatter like a bucket of hope down a dry well.
It reminds me of the story of The Foolish Oak
Whose roots withered as its leaves cast off the rain
And who became a dead log just standing there.
He is dead now. In reality we let him back into our lives, my brother & I though we never grew to love him. He inhabited the fringes of our family. He was harmless and every man deserves the right to prove he has changed. BUT, that cruel part of me still hurts and feels anger for a lifetime without a father and for a deserted mother who turned to drink.
berry Apr 2014
this is an open letter to anyone who has the audacity to try and love you like i did.

dear whateverthefuckyournameis,

i apologize in advance for spilling my boiled blood on the hem of your skirt. what you need to understand, is that you are standing on ground previously reserved for my feet, so forgive me for any bitterness that seeps through the cracks in my clenched fists. i don't hate you, but i can't be your friend. you probably don't know about me, and if you do, let me commend your bravery. i have a tendency to set my problems on fire, and in my bouts of anger everything looks flammable, especially girls with paper complexions. i'm sorry. i have never been one to walk away, so i don't know how to explain to you the holes in the bottoms of my shoes. but i have been further than you will ever go. this is not supposed to be an angry letter, but lately that's the only thing coming out of me. i don't even know your name but the thought of your hands reaching for him makes we want to break them. i will douse your dreams in gasoline and strike the match against your cheek. but i know that's not right, see, the poison crawling out from the end of my pen belongs to a scarier version of myself i try not to know. my heartache is an insatiable war cry in the dead of night, that will stop at nothing to shatter all your windows. it shames me to admit that i've found a sort of twisted satisfaction in using passive aggression to breach your armor. i am sick with missing a set of arms i was not privileged enough to know. i speak with all the grace of an atom bomb and wonder about the rubble at my feet. you are white picket fence and i am barbed wire. some girls are lions, some are lambs, and i learned to love, teeth bared and snarling. one of the only things that keeps me going is the hope that one day i'll learn how to love something without making it bleed. i may have never been his, but for a time he was mine, so please understand why i taste acid when i think about your mouth on his. again, i am sorry. i know it is not my place to be so full of resentment, but there is a part of me that sincerely hopes it bothers you to know he dreamt of me before you were even a thought. there is a side of me that thrives on the image of the color being drained from your face when you read this. but i am trying to learn how to be softer. this letter is the manifestation of a self-inflicted war that has been raging in my chest since he first told me about you. you will try to be good to him, and you might even succeed. if you ever find yourself singing him to sleep, like i did, don't ask if he wants to hear another song, just keep going until his breathing slows.

- m.f.

— The End —