"melissa" poems
we had too much to drink and
you saw your mom crouched in
the corner smoking a
cigarette through her
neck hole
you missed with the marble
ashtray and shattered the mirror
with the hand-carved gold-leafed
frame
Melissa screamed
I followed as you tore through
puddles of sunken sidewalk
until you sat
at the bus stop and buried your
eyes
I put my hand on yours and
felt your raining pulse
we got on the bus with the
red and green stripes
hopped off at Wong’s and
bought 3 dozen eggs
to throw at the
lighthouse
Oct 29, 2015
Oct 29, 2015 at 7:45 PM UTC
*I cried
Until the night died
And morning came to rise*
© Melissa Carlson 2015
Jul 22, 2015
Jul 22, 2015 at 3:26 PM UTC
A huge kinda toothy smile...
A smile that fills her eyes with light
-a light that shines through everyone around her.
A smile that says,
*"I live my life shamelessly
-unapologetically."*
A smile that says,
*"You can throw anything in my way, but you'll never beat down my
optimistic flare."*
A smile that says,
*"I appreciate all that I have
& do not dwell on what I don't."*
It's that real, honest
kinda genuine smile
that does not conceal her problems...
It conquers them.
A smile that blames no one for its frowns.
A smile that makes us all smile
just thinking about it.
A smile that always stays with me
even now that its gone to a better place...
A more deserving home.
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 11:17 PM UTC
Orange juice then frosting
Orange juice then frosting
Time is repetition
As I watch from the couch
“He won’t last the weekend,”
Says Hospice
“They said he might not last the weekend,”
Says Dauson
He’s stronger than they know,
I say
Orange juice then frosting
Orange juice then frosting
False hope, of course
I can see the way
The cancer fights
Deceiving the guards
Hiding and attacking
Slowly taking what’s theirs
Slowly killing,
Spreading down towards the
Ground then rocketing up
Until his psyche
Dissipates into nothing
Orange juice then frosting
Orange juice then frosting
“Go hunting, it’s opening day,”
He says
They listen
But only because
He yells at them to
She goes out to smoke
My grandma with my grandpa’s killer
“Can you pick Dauson up?”
Says Mom to Tracy
Keith’s mother,
Mother of my brother’s “brother”
Orange juice then frosting
Orange juice then Frosting
I know it’s coming
Yelling it’s arrival
Like the steady beat of a beating drum
I’m surprised
That no one else
Can hear it
That no one else
Can feel it
Permeating the air
The shadows reaching out
With tendrils made of cold
Made of smoke
Made of death’s sweet kiss
Orange juice then frosting
Orange juice then frosting
Time is fast forwarded
Laying him down on the bed
“Melissa’s almost here,
The boys are almost here”
And then time stops for a moment
He’s facing me
Eyes closed, mouth parted
A single tear that is his own
Freezes on his cheek
Orange juice then frosting
Orange juice then frosting
You asked what changed
Me the most?
What made me who
I am today?
A grave stone
A wooden cross
Seeing a man die slowly
Day after day
Nov 18, 2011
Nov 18, 2011 at 8:18 PM UTC
I know it was your time
And I know it had to be
But He took you too soon;
You meant so much to me.
I miss you.
I've been trying to remember,
and trying to forget
The memories we made together
The prayers that were said.
I miss you.
May they see You in me.
09/04/14
<3
© Melissa Carlson 2015
Aug 21, 2015
Aug 21, 2015 at 10:13 PM UTC
Tomorrow the baseball Hall of Fame will announce the newest members selected to join her hallowed hall. Ken Griffey Jr. will surely be selected.
I wish Hello Poetry had a Hall Of Fame. There are so many poets and good friends worthy of.
In absence of, I wish to nominate the following poets for the first class when and if it is ever created. My criteria for selection to this Hello Poetry Hall of Fame are:
A feeling heart
loves poetry
is a friend to others in the community
A Triple Crown.
Time and space are the only reason I have not listed all poets here at Hello Poetry:
Vicki (My Queen, a love child of Whitman and Dickinson)
Christi Michaels MoonFlower
mark cleavenger
Musfiq us shaleheen
brandon cory nagley
The Masked Pimpernel
rebecca askew
Sjr1000
Pradip Chattopadhyay
elsa angelica
Eddie Starr Poetry
ryn
Weeping willow
KetomaRose
Steven Langhorst
Mike Essig
Willard Wells
Woody
Elizabeth Squires
SoulSurvivor
Pax
Grace
Dave Kavanagh
Sumina Thapaliya
FJ Davis
SE Reimer
Sally A Bayan
solEmn oaSis
Melissa S
Arcassin B
..... and to those I failed to mention I apologize. I am thinking of you, also, but time and space are the only limitations to my list of nominees.
Jan 5, 2016
Jan 5, 2016 at 9:24 PM UTC
Starting from the newest, these are my first fifty followers on Hello Poetry.
1. Hailey L May 5
2. Elizabeth Squires May 4
3. Tim Knight May 3
4. Morgan Hanchulak May 3
5. Vi Snicket May 2
6. Jessica Applegate Apr 30
7. Himanshu Koshe Apr 30
8. Mike Winegar Apr 29
9. Joey Lapiana Apr 29
10. Christopher Munro Apr 29
11. Raffi Kaftajian Apr 26
12. Shari Forman Apr 25
13. Jessica Who Apr 24
14. RedWritingHood Apr 22
15. Adreishka Moonlight Apr 21
16. Rocky G Apr 19
17. Sarina Apr 18
18. John Moffatt Apr 17
19. Izisfat Apr 9
20. Leila Apr 8
21. Marian Apr 5
22. Star Toucher64 Mar 30
23. Michelle Mar 26
24. Kristo Frost Mar 25
25. Ra Mar 20
26. Jacqueline Melissa Woolums Mar 15
27. ennyo Mar 11
28. Ellen Menzies Mar 9
29. Jodi Casavant Mar 8
30. Jillyan Adams Feb 20
31. Hailey Scomet Feb 2
32. Pete Taken Alive Jan 17
33. Md HUDA Jan 6
34. Joshua Ohmer Jan 1
35. Quinn Puwang Dec 30, 2012
36. Rissa Ann Dec 10, 2012
37. Hilda Dec 9, 2012
38. Rena Julleitta Dec 7, 2012
39. Emily Rose Williams Dec 7, 2012
40. Abdosh A Dec 5, 2012
41. Naveena Vijayan Dec 4, 2012
42. Kristian Alexander George Dec 1, 2012
43. Oliver Delgaram-Nejad Dec 1, 2012
44. Chessnie Lea Nov 27, 2012
45. Ugochukwu-Charles Onyewuchi Nov 25, 2012
46. Timothy Nov 24, 2012
47. Who Am I Nov 24, 2012
48. Matthew P Hill Nov 23, 2012
49. Tomas Nov 21, 2012
I gained inspirations for my poems from all my followers, those who I follow and especially my lovely little one who brought me here to Hello Poetry first, to a safe haven of like-minded people with a poetic niche each.
Thank you all.
First of all I thank you Eliot York for creating this wonderful poetry blog.
(-: And how can I ever thank you enough for introducing me to this wonderful website, just like Krishna guides Arjun in grand Mahabharata epic. You are my Krishna and I am your Arjun. :-)
(-: You share the place with Eliot York and the family of Timothy sir for inspiring my poems & helping me define my poetic style. As you are a kid for me, your heart is a crystal to me from where I can see the world more clearly in a different way. :-)
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 7:02 AM UTC
He stared at the cuts on his wrist
Reprimanding himself for his cowardice
To not finish the job
Melissa had seen those cuts
Dug deep into his wrist; angry red
Knowing full well the reason for them
But choosing to ignore them
He flinched letting out a sharp gasp
As slaps and punches hit him
Opening old wounds and bruises
His body a palette of suffering and pain
Bleeding tears down his skeletal frame
Melissa watched these attacks
Her boyfriend inflicted upon him
But chose to ignore them
His eyes were dry from shedding tears
His heart was torn from the constant crushing
His body wracked and tired from the frequent beatings
And his brain weary and ready to shut down forever
That morning Melissa couldn't ignore the body
Hung in her front garden
Holding a bouquet of wilting roses;
With a heart saying I love you
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 4:03 AM UTC
Why do they appear so mystified?
As if every little thing must be justified
Moved to fit inside their small box
And look away when their key couldn't unlock
What they aimed to achieve
Does it ever make you giggle
When people call you fickle
But they're the ones whose eyes are fixed
On an object not quite literally applicable,
Something regarded as abstract, typically unseen
You see: I am a metaphor
And people stare at me.
© Melissa Carlson 2015
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 4:36 PM UTC
Have you ever wondered if this world is the actual
hell we live in and if we are being tested
by how well we deal?
We are living in a place where pain, suffering,
and then ultimately death are of everyday existence
I understand that perception is everything here
and this world is an illusion generated by our perception
I am not trying to be a downer but the more I live
in this world the more I see it as a nightmare
that some days I just want to wake up from
This is not coming from my religious beliefs and I am
not saying that I am not grateful for everything I do have
Compared to a lot of other people in this world I do not
have it so bad and I know this. This is coming from
a thought process I have been trying to come to terms with
Is there a bright light at the end of this very dark tunnel?
Of course we all have different journey's to take to get us
to that tunnel but while we are here our paths do cross from
time to time and we all have some of the same pains
sufferings and even death to overcome
My point is this...
We are all living in this hell together
Let's get through this hell together
This thought has become a shining
Ray of light in this dark
Find some comfort in this
and
Perhaps there is hope for us all
Jan 11, 2018
Jan 11, 2018 at 11:09 AM UTC
It's supposed to be
98 and cloudless today.
By the time I roll in,
and park my car,
Roman's walking up to me,
his gold tooth a
full yellow smile in the sun.
“Hey meyer,
I need you to
Pull the box truck around,
We’ve got some plants we’ve gotta load,
Then we’ve got a landscape job
About an hour from here.”
“Are we gonna be back here
Today?”
“Probably not
until
late.”
The box truck
Is a holdover from the old owners
Of Ken’s Nursery,
It’s still got
Ken’s Nursery in large comic sans
On it’s rust-streaked sides.
The wheel wells are rusted
brown as salt deposits
On the shores of sulfuric oceans,
and little ringlets of decay
rock as the truck bounces;
It’s old springs
Giving back after all these years.
Today we have:
Forty-two veriagated ferns.
Ten dragon lilies.
10 cannas,
But cannas have to have a male and female to flower,
So 20 cannas collectively,
And we’ve gotta mulch.
By the time we’ve loaded all the plants;
stuffed the mulch in with the Bobcat,
And thrown in our picks and shovels,
My shirt is soaked through.
98 degrees and cloudless.
Roman walks to his car
and takes off his shirt
To reveal a pink belly
full of folding skin
and matted black upwelling *****
Singing with sweat-diamonds
In the unperturbed vision of the sun.
My shirt is soaked already too.
But even as I loaded the truck,
I thought about Melissa.
When I get home,
She probably won’t be there.
When the female is separated from the male canna,
Nothing dies, the two live happily ever after.
But the canna does not flower,
And doesn’t remember enough
To miss it.
Just continues quietly with a black bulb
The color of a skink’s underbelly.
Nov 21, 2011
Nov 21, 2011 at 12:01 AM UTC
My tired eyes cry
My weary body lies
And why do my tears
Think they cannot dry?
Shaky hands and nervous throat
Exhausted heart, this stimulated soul
They ridiculously wait, day after day,
For a break from sorrow, a thing called hope.
How is it that I can live, but it is the hardest thing I ever did?
© Melissa Carlson 2016
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 6:47 PM UTC
Under the unforgiving summer sun, their small, winged bodies hover from one flowering plant to another, working tirelessly in the sweltering heat as we laze in the shade...
Their work is endless, the product harvested in minutes. Smoked into a stupor while we steal their treasures, and if some of them die, so be it...
Melissa, Queen of Bees,
revered before by human royalty and great innovators,
Melissa, Queen of Bees,
who connects life and death,
whose children killed the demon Arunasura in India,
and were prophets to the gods in Greece and Rome.
Melissa, Queen of Bees,
her bees fell from the sun in Egypt,
aided the first living man in Uganda,
and created man from the back of a mantis in the Kalahari Desert.
Melissa, Queen of Bees,
her children are the origin of magic in Eastern Europe,
a source of fertility and a connection to nature in North America,
and fierce, terrifying warriors in the South.
Melissa, Queen of Bees,
the Great Mother,
the root of being,
the bridge to the afterlife,
we owe her children our lives,
the least we can do is spare them their's.
Jun 15, 2018
Jun 15, 2018 at 12:56 PM UTC
It's all about the moon
the moon knows everything
about you and I and them and that!
The moon saw the holocaust
saw Caesar get stabbed
saw a miracle grow in Mary's belly
was there on your first birthday
puts France and Zimbabwe
and Brandon, Manitoba to sleep
every night
and still has time to shine
with the sun some days
-Melissa Nadine Flowers
Mar 20, 2015
Mar 20, 2015 at 12:36 PM UTC
Kylie
A song bird with a broken wing the cancer like the archer’s arrow pierced the breast the spirit widens
Under storm laden skies from inward hush and silence an opening umbrella of prayer provides a shield
The buffeted retreats to sheltering rocks and finds the hidden stream within depths blessed bindings
In warmest recesses your steps guided by the unseen over and through this dark passing new findings
With down cast eyes you continue the dark streets the home of the sick and the broken pain unspoken
You came upon these deep downward steeps from the flood lights and euphoric accolades of fame
Before your lyrical melodies were joyful expressive now will carry weighty and knowing sterling acclaim
Mined from troubles hard unrelenting walls finally the richest golden ore through your feelings pour
A little ease by the mystical dreams when sleep restores still withdrawn faces in the moonlight so pale
For a time at heaven you rail to costly you barter all that is thine to own backed by a great pink brigade
You fight with unstoppable courage you lead the march you find ground unvisited you go on without fail
Beaconing to legions behind encouraging you carry the burning torch showing the way through the dark
This my only desire I stand in this human body frail knowing my limitations but from the fight I call you
Don’t be afraid and never say give up to many are depending your touch glorious women you defend
Say in song the mystery you found in a city all alone you met sisters not age defined all filled with youth
In your face I see the unexplainable the untraceable a strength born from conflict a secret knowing
This is dedicated to Kylie Minouge Melissa Eatheridge and all breast cancer survivors
Dec 1, 2011
Dec 1, 2011 at 9:13 AM UTC
*My muse can be thought of as a curse
for it comes at the most inopportune times
but she also plays nice
and brings me peace of mind*
*My muse pounces on me to write
Hit by the force of nature in nature
The sound of crashing waves guide my hand
Releasing words from my body*
*My muse is like a lover
She comes to me in dreams
She teases, pleases then leaves*
*Calliope my lover comes often
She's never satisfied
This temptress of the tablet*
*Just think we could feel
the warmth from the same sun
Hear the same whispers in the breeze
Wish upon the same fallen star
and look up to the same majestic trees*
*She connects all
No matter the place
Her sirens song on the wind for all
Under the same night light constellations
Wreathed in the fog under veiled trees scribbling*
*She is a giver
When allowed to live within us
She gives a whole new view
Bringing two poets together
Even though there are miles in between
She gives her heart and soul
and the drive for us to dream*
*Her gift is poetic eloquence
Stirring within two
Beautifully scribes new words
New places to explore
Distance means nothing to a muse
She bestows everything she has to her
chosen oracles*
By Melissa S and Palmer
Oct 28, 2016
Oct 28, 2016 at 11:15 AM UTC
i watched her lips part and smile form
i heard her laugh start and heart warm
her heart was sore and her jeans were ripped
her mouth sipped coffee from the mug she gripped
the pages from her book were bent,
they were stained where the coffee dripped
the pages from her book smelled like home
they reminded her of him
i watched her lips part as her feeble voice shook
tears filled her sorry eyes as she put away her book
she told me that she saw her life
as a page in a book she didn't intend to write
© Melissa Carlson 2015
Aug 19, 2015
Aug 19, 2015 at 1:21 AM UTC
beside your brother-in-law, they placed you in the ground. they buried you by my great grandparents in an unpopulated town. by early September, the grass was cold; but they made a spot for you, so they wouldn’t be alone. dressed in black, i took a step forward; i grasped some courage, then reached for a rose. there were tears in my eyes; there was hesitancy in my step. they lowered your coffin as i took a deep breath. i swear i tried; i tried to be strong. but i remember you healthy, and now you’re just gone. so here i am; i’m faced with a choice: cry quickly, move on, & live, or socialize and listen, & try to forgive. they’re all here, grandma, your friends and your family; they came. you have no idea how great an impact in these lives that which you have made. i didn’t tell you that i’d been halfway lying, about the mistakes that i’d made. i regret not sharing my poems with you. i’m sorry for the excuses i always made. i’m sorry that i didn’t just sit with you to visit and crochet; i tried too hard to be busy until it was just too late. and i live with that regret everyday. grandma, i miss you. i love you. i know where you are lain. your beautiful soul is flying with angels, but your body’s in this dying grave. unrelenting overthinking causes a heart to stop its beating, and this gut-wrenching under-eating has got to STOP. my stomach’s bleeding from the constant hunger to feel needed. to be heard & to live in peace…once more. because grandma, i went back to your grave on September 7th this year, but i could not find your site. and i started to cry as i wandered aimlessly; to try to lay down the letter to you that i started to write. they told me that you’re better off now, but i’m not so sure i can go on living like my heart didn’t get torn out. my hands shake as i hang my head in shame because i cannot bear the thought of someone looking at me and finally noticing that i am broken..and hurt. frankly, i ache inside because, though i was there when you were buried, i know not where you lie. i forgot to pay too much attention to the site of your grave. maybe it’s because i was afraid to admit that this would turn out to be a familiar place, a desperate space, an earth-shattering, sob-crying, soul-dying, terrifying thing! grandma, i am afraid. because this…this is where you are lain.
© Melissa Carlson 2015
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 8:23 PM UTC
***Dearest Tommy
I think of you every night
I lay awake listening to the thunder
and the lightening, and the rain
on the old tin roof
(which is leaking again by the way)
but during the day
I can't hear it, I'm so busy staying sane
Just want you to know, even though
it's only been 2 months I'm thinking
of you, again***
*My Heart, Melissa
I'm thinking of you out in the desert
there are 50 million stars
and several stray bullet tracers
but they can never mar the beauty
of the night sky, from where I lie
thinking of you and maybe...
our babe? Don't leave my hanging
sweetheart, give me a hint
to make my darkest day
I LOVE U!*
***Dear Tommy
The mailman came again today
with no news from you, I can't pretend
that it didn't light a fuse beneath my temper
but I understand you are busy and it is September
Autumn months where life lies fallow
I'm not trying to be shallow
I'm just trying to plug up the leaks
there is no babe, I'm sorry (I'm not)
but it's cold and life is bleak
without you***
*Darling Melissa
I'm hearing you cry out to me
I'm getting your letters but you're
not seeing me? How can that be?
I want you to know that each grain
of sand that I pour out of my boots at night
I count as minutes spent away from you
and I'm seeing you beyond sight
when I close my eyes under stars
that don't shine for you in your universe
and I'm sorry for that
but under each shining light, I pretend
that your looking up at the same star
and you are whispering what we rehearsed...
No matter where you are, you are my star.
Remember?
Love your Tommy*
***Dear Tom
The leak was fixed last week by Steven Treadle
remember him from High School
He played football for a little while
and then he decided college football wasn't for him
so he decided on a trade and now he's a roofer
He wanted to be a soldier but his injury prevented him
He's doing well, here in Suburbia...
and with me...
I'm so sorry, sorry, sorry, so sorry
but he's here for me...
I'm so sorry
but Tommy
I Loved you
and the idea of you and me
but Tommy
I need someone by me...
Sorry***
the last response Melissa received
was not a letter
from Tommy
but an Official
Sorry
from the Military
but it was never
as sorry
as Melissa felt
that Tommy
may have
(or may have not)
received her last
Sorry
or the Hell
it may have spelt
Mar 22, 2013
Mar 22, 2013 at 8:31 AM UTC
A song bird with a broken wing the cancer like the archer’s arrow pierced the breast the spirit widens
Under storm laden skies from inward hush and silence an opening umbrella of prayer provides a shield
The buffeted retreats to sheltering rocks and finds the hidden stream within depths blessed bindings
In warmest recesses your steps guided by the unseen over and through this dark passing new findings
With down cast eyes you continue the dark streets the home of the sick and the broken pain unspoken
You came upon these deep downward steeps from the flood lights and euphoric accolades of fame
Before your lyrical melodies were joyful expressive now will carry weighty and knowing sterling acclaim
Mined from troubles hard unrelenting walls finally the richest golden ore through your feelings pour
A little ease by the mystical dreams when sleep restores still withdrawn faces in the moonlight so pale
For a time at heaven you rail to costly you barter all that is thine to own backed by a great pink brigade
You fight with unstoppable courage you lead the march you find ground unvisited you go on without fail
Beaconing to legions behind encouraging you carry the burning torch showing the way through the dark
This my only desire I stand in this human body frail knowing my limitations but from the fight I call you
Don’t be afraid and never say give up to many are depending your touch glorious women you defend
Say in song the mystery you found in a city all alone you met sisters not age defined all filled with youth
In your face I see the unexplainable the untraceable a strength born from conflict a secret knowing
This is dedicated to Kylie Minouge Melissa Eatheridge and all breast cancer survivors
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 3:09 PM UTC
You won't get a free car wash
no free dessert, or pie
not a movie pass
or glasses, for your eyes
Don't look for that free meal
or a cookie, for your name
a deal, that's a steal
or any other fame
But I have too say
HP's got your back
today, is Melissa day
so here's an ounce
of crack
Nov 18, 2017
Nov 18, 2017 at 5:33 PM UTC
First and foremost in everyone's mind
but mine
is the Green of the Crayola crayon.
As Green as factories and skyscrapers, like
man
and his tendency to take over.
Green looks different through my eyes.
I see the Green of a clover.
Green that is
alive.
Bouncing and bobbing and buoyant
as duckweed on the waves.
Promising and purposeful and persistent
as the first shoots of grass.
The Green that shows in the people with
bravery and bright smiles and bursting with
life.
I wish I was
lucky
enough to have more of the Green of a
clover.
I see the Green of an emerald.
The depth of Green,
the bottomless bottom of the ocean;
Green where I
drown in my thoughts.
The emerald city where my insignificance and significance
crush me all the same and I am
smothered in questions
questions
questions.
So many drown in the shallow Green of seaweed. The Green of
money and makeup and my god have you seen Melissa's haircut?
The dollar bill Green of
envy and greed
that stops so many so many from diving any
deeper.
I see the Green of ferns and the Green of cacti.
Soft, soothing Green of
enough sleep
and
tea in the mornings
or
sharp, sinister Green of
alone
and
you should have studied.
I see the Green of Christmas trees
that should mean family and giving and light but
instead
means pretend to like her and
smile at the right times and
why are you so
unfriendly I mean shy.
The dark, for everGreen of the most
wonderful
time of the year.
I see the Green of my eyes.
The bluish goldish brownish color
that everyone sees a little
differently
but that's ok.
Because everyone sees Green a little
differently.
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 4:01 PM UTC
This morning
I woke up
and
told Melissa we wouldn’t
make it past three months.
We're at month two,
and I can feel it.
Either I’d drop her, or she’d
drop me, but either way
“we don’t have staying power,
and there’s no point
in either of us
pretending like we’re grown ups
who can just power through things
out of sheer complacency”.
I wasn’t looking at her.
Just up
at the spackle and a spinning fan.
It’s so hot in here,
that we sleep on top of the covers
sweating little puddles of skin
into the comforter.
Nightly,
we mash those deposits of dried salt
deep into the mattress
with our sloughing bodies
to get stuck
and form
tiny caves of skin and boredom in the springs.
She rolled away from me
swirling off a cloud
of stale, watermelon shampoo
And reached
With a tightly domed deltoid
towards the blue milk crate
where her purse sat.
She rummaged in there,
her back muscles working
like a landslide of flesh.
She finally dropped the purse,
after an effort of five minutes,
and I heard the successful flick
of a lighter.
She started
puffing and chugging down smoke
As she laid on her side.
My eyes watered
in the bluish smog,
and as the fan turned
raining down peices of our own skin
in a dusty, undetectable cloud of particulates
I could just see her,
out of the corner of my eye,
Shifting the weight of her body
from her deltoid
to her trapezius.
Nov 20, 2011
Nov 20, 2011 at 11:39 PM UTC
Jane's sick, just a common flu
Nothing she can't handle
Another workday
Same as any other
She blows her nose right before work
Tosses the tissue in to a bin
Grabs the doorhandle and walks in
George is just on time for work
Maybe today will be the day
Maybe Jane will see him today
He grabs the doorhandle
And as he walks in
He wipes the raindrops off his lips
The virus works its way in him
Just like Jane's rejection
It's like he's not good enough
But he's a good man
He knows that
Okay maybe not the best guy ever
Maybe he thinks too much of himself
Perhaps she's known better
I'm not good enough
But he knows she likes him back
she can get better
Well she's not that great either
Much does he know
That in order to be able
To cast blame on others
We must have an understanding
Of what we are blaming them for
And that can only be identified within us
Do we not have to understand
A concept before we teach it
Sure enough we must understand
What it means to not be good enough
Before we teach others to feel that way
Congrats George you passed
Jane was taught she wasn't good enough
And now George has identified with that
And George will teach it to Melissa
Who is secretly casting
Her adimiring, loving looks at him
And when George is done with Melissa
Melissa will teach it to James
And James will enforce that within Jane
May 31, 2015
May 31, 2015 at 1:21 PM UTC