Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Darbi Alise Howe Jun 2013
It's a sweltering night, a sweltering morning really, and my body is tattooed with spider bite kisses and bruises.  I smell of park grass and chlorine and someone else's sweat, my lips are chapped, swollen, my eyes encircled in crimson undertones.  The people on the street stare- I am blonde, a dead give away, slighter and taller than the locals.  Men are confused, women are scornful, police are helpless.  My legs cramp with the dawn as I walk back to the apartment in my hospital-gown green tunic, sobbing openly, hair tangled with twigs and dirt.  It's still dark enough for that, but too quiet.  A milkman stops his work to look up at me and whisper ciao in the most kind and gentle voice I have ever heard, especially here, and I want to throw myself into his arms and sleep and scar his white uniform with the black stains of my tears, though I restrain myself and nod, shuffling forward, shoulders slumped, no eye contact, his gaze a hand stroking my back like the father I never had but always wished for, and I cannot help but cry harder, though I try harder to restrict each sob until I sound as though I'm gasping for air, but I would rather seem asthmatic than week, rather be strange than pitiful.  It is always better to be unknowable, much more simple than openly vulnerable in my experience, though my experiences are drunken from the bottom dredges of a half empty glass, so truly I do not know if this is true, and and every day I understand Hamlet's letter to Ophelia just a bit more, because every day I doubt truth to be a liar just a bit more.

Still, there are some things I know, enough to be called intelligente by a man named Simone, whose eyes shone with solare during the day, but at night became dark and hungry.  I know now why my friend chose to fly off a building in Spain without his wings.  There is a disconnection abroad, no sense of security or protection, demons are awakened and restless, dreams colder, and more cruel; the heat drains one's essence, melting the glue that keeps us who are broken together.  I know that expectations are sad reflections of desires, shadows of my own inadequacies.  I know that I am afraid, that heaven and hell are not places but permanent conditions, that my head is the prison guard of my heart.  Blame and guilt come easily.  There are no distractions, just meaningless directions, and I seem to have forgotten those I brought from home. Here, I am concerned with physical threats, trauma that can be shaken off with a block's worth of strides, yet I cannot seem to lose my naked shadow between the buildings.  I thought I hid it well behind frozen gazes, but the mirrors say, no, no, they know you are all wrong, you foolish girl, you poor little lie, they see through you, they sense your fear and feast upon it, you ignorant child, you are as small as the motes of dust drifting through the beam of a forgotten projector, the film torn and tangled, the screen stuck on one frame

I should have stopped when the milkman spoke. He knows that it is not mirrors who lie, it is us.
short story I wrote about something that happened when I was living in Florence.
Ian Jul 2013
You know, if I had a penny for every poem I have read with the theme of
"You don't know what you have until it's gone"
I would be a rich man
It's a shame that it took me seventeen years and a handful of special people
To realize that sometimes clichés are correct

I am not sure if you are aware
But each time you inhale
It is called an inspiration
And each time you exhale
It is called an expiration
So here I sit
Echoing a process that has been perfected throughout the millennia
Except I guess perfected would be a strong word
Because we don't have it right just yet

You were someone who inspired me
To become someone who I could be proud of
Someone whose own stories set my blood on fire
And filled me with hope that I could take the raw elements
Of myself and forge them into something great
Because that is exactly what you did

Just a milkman's son
Who ended up becoming the smartest man I know
Who taught thousands of students
Both privileged and poor
And couldn't tell the difference between the two
Who inspired two generations of people
To learn
To love
To laugh
Whose little gestures meant the world
To everyone who had the fortune to inhabit yours

Your five sons went on to become
Doctors and lawyers
Businessmen and police officers
Even if one wanted to be a clown
You married a beautiful woman
Who walked with love in her heart
And kindness kneaded into her hands
Your grandchildren, while there are a lot of us
Each owe you for the knowledge and kindness you instilled in us
All this from a milkman's son

This poem isn't goodbye
Because each time I draw inspiration from the atmosphere around me
I am thinking of you and I hold that **** breath for as long as I can
Just waiting for inspiration to hit me
I squeeze my eyes closed and hope against hope that everything is going to be okay
Because I am too  scared to let that inspiration go, I am not ready to expire

So grandpa,
Please
For me
Take that breath.
Rest in Peace.
That whistling Milkman so long ago
With tunes so happy and gay,
So very little did he know
How well he started my day,

The tinkling bottles
Of milk and cream,
Awoke me each morning
From my dreams,

With happy tunes
From this whistling man,
Brightening the day
Before it began.
OliviaAutumn Nov 2014
She was an ordinary girl.
Plaits beside a waistline she drew on with ribbon,
Fastening her thoughts she'd sworn to keep hidden.

Behind closed doors she would loosen the noose
Man ******* before her,
And bind up her lover
The milkman's daughter.
David Nelson Mar 2014
The Milkman Cometh

It could be Margie or it could be Pearl
bringing us our refreshment we trust
though we are all old dead beat boozers
we still enjoy sweet cookies dunked in lust  

we waited for Hickey for as long as we could
to get this party off with a bang
but we've waited long enough I say
time for a grand toast gosh dang

Rocky gave us the okay to get started
but he asked us to leave Cora alone
she was busy baking a surprise cake
for the captain who was finally coming home

Hickey finally shows but wont raise his glass
says he sees better now that he's sober
but he couldn't take the kiss from her lips
and quickly began to disrobe her

got milk they all yelled as the night wore on
the police finally shut it all down
the chocolate had been spilled everywhere
the news was all over the town
  
Gomer LePoet....
Jasraj Sangani Feb 2016
Mumbai is rich, Mumbai is poor.
Mumbai is fast, Mumbai is slower.
Little bit sweet, and little bit sour,
Sometimes it’s hot but not too more….

Mornings are energetic and evenings are electric.
Noons are lazy but Nights are crazy
And any one you ask he always say “M busy”
Dude, life in Mumbai is not so easy

There is lot of Masti with little bit of Maska
Welcome to the city that can’t live, without Bollywood Chaska

From cooker whistles to the traffic jam horns,
From steaming tea kettles to breaking nut-betels
From telephone rings and doorbell brings.
There are people connecting through Blackberry pings

Where there’s little time to spare for kids
People here spend their lives on bids
Here you actually pay your travel fare by meter
But milkman mixing water is not a cheater!

Sev puri and bhel puri are all Mumbai chaat
Relishing it with spicy chutney is no easy art
From pop-corn to ice-cream, all sold on cart
Mumbai o Mumbai, you’re always close to my heart

Where local trains usually run on time
And violently rushing for a seat is not a crime
Here 3 PM for lunch and 12 AM to dine
People face hardships, but still say “it’s fine”

From Mt Mary in Bandra to Mumba Devi in Town
And ISKCON in Juhu to Haji Ali in Mumbai’s Crown
Faith runs deep as the Arabian Sea
But people don’t hesitate to pay early darshan fee.

Marathi, Punjabi, Gujarati and Bengali
Everyone forgather celebrate Id and Diwali
Holi is colourful and Christmas is cheerful
Spend some time here and your life will be un-forgetful

Billionaire to baggers, all found in this city
Be careful dude, this place is a bit witty.
Overall this dream-world is huge but pretty
Mumbai o Mumbai you’re wonderful city.
Ashlyn Kriegel Apr 2013
Once, long ago,
An old man took me into his shop
And showed me his snowglobe collection.
Every one, spotless,
No trace of dust lining the rims.
I paused to gaze,
No,
Marvel,
At each scene:
Two children ice skating,
A milkman driving his truck,
Ladies reading magazines while having their hair styled.
Every one, spotless,
Until I lightly shook one,
Just enough so the snow sprinkled
The ice skating children,
The driving milkman,
The reading ladies.
But each scene was still, frozen in time,
Still, perfect.
I slumped to the floor,
Heartbroken and tears trailing down my cheeks.
I wanted their life so bad,
But all I could do was marvel,
No,
Gaze,
And lightly sprinkle the tiny figurines.
AAYARA ZAYN Jul 2018
a cup of coffee
makes difference on
how you manage to make it
put your love into the cup of coffee
it makes it sweet
put a bit of hate and it becomes sour
every cup of coffee defines you and your personality
the way i make my coffee maybe different for you
but the coffee beans, the the milk, the way i make is same as you
but the chances of making the same coffee as i make is a zero because
every style, every cup makes a difference
every smell of the coffee,the style,the amount you put
everything is different
but you never realize the fact that
the cup of coffee
is
the same cup of coffee
whether you add something or remove
it remains the same cup of coffee
you never know how hard it is to make a cup of coffee
and yet you bark about it being bad
because you never seem to understand their people's hardwork
unless you feel it
even if its a cup of coffee
you enjoy it with a passionate love and care
HOPE YOU ENJOY YOUR CUP OF COFFEE
because it's the same cup of coffee
that has been made by a diligent hardworker
putting his love and  affection to his work
the very same coffee beans
that has been farmed by a diligent hardworking farmer
the very same milk that has been brought to you by hardworking  milkman
you never cease to understand
how hard it is to make a cup of coffee with a smiley on it
because you never tried that
but but but you will still bark about it
even if its your fault
even if you know that
you should've hold the cup firmness
you understand everything once,
you throw your selfishness and
wait to admire the hard work ,the love,affection,the care that one cup of coffee brings you
and you realize that
a cup of coffee is not a cup of coffee
it's a world on how you decide to see it
You always read about it:
the plumber with twelve children
who wins the Irish Sweepstakes.
From toilets to riches.
That story.

Or the nursemaid,
some luscious sweet from Denmark
who captures the oldest son's heart.
From diapers to Dior.
That story.

Or a milkman who serves the wealthy,
eggs, cream, butter, yogurt, milk,
the white truck like an ambulance
who goes into real estate
and makes a pile.
From homogenized to martinis at lunch.

Or the charwoman
who is on the bus when it cracks up
and collects enough from the insurance.
From mops to Bonwit Teller.
That story.

Once
the wife of a rich man was on her deathbed
and she said to her daughter Cinderella:
Be devout. Be good. Then I will smile
down from heaven in the seam of a cloud.
The man took another wife who had
two daughters, pretty enough
but with hearts like blackjacks.
Cinderella was their maid.
She slept on the sooty hearth each night
and walked around looking like Al Jolson.
Her father brought presents home from town,
jewels and gowns for the other women
but the twig of a tree for Cinderella.
She planted that twig on her mother's grave
and it grew to a tree where a white dove sat.
Whenever she wished for anything the dove
would drop it like an egg upon the ground.
The bird is important, my dears, so heed him.

Next came the ball, as you all know.
It was a marriage market.
The prince was looking for a wife.
All but Cinderella were preparing
and gussying up for the big event.
Cinderella begged to go too.
Her stepmother threw a dish of lentils
into the cinders and said: Pick them
up in an hour and you shall go.
The white dove brought all his friends;
all the warm wings of the fatherland came,
and picked up the lentils in a jiffy.
No, Cinderella, said the stepmother,
you have no clothes and cannot dance.
That's the way with stepmothers.

Cinderella went to the tree at the grave
and cried forth like a gospel singer:
Mama! Mama! My turtledove,
send me to the prince's ball!
The bird dropped down a golden dress
and delicate little gold slippers.
Rather a large package for a simple bird.
So she went. Which is no surprise.
Her stepmother and sisters didn't
recognize her without her cinder face
and the prince took her hand on the spot
and danced with no other the whole day.

As nightfall came she thought she'd better
get home. The prince walked her home
and she disappeared into the pigeon house
and although the prince took an axe and broke
it open she was gone. Back to her cinders.
These events repeated themselves for three days.
However on the third day the prince
covered the palace steps with cobbler's wax
and Cinderella's gold shoe stuck upon it.
Now he would find whom the shoe fit
and find his strange dancing girl for keeps.
He went to their house and the two sisters
were delighted because they had lovely feet.
The eldest went into a room to try the slipper on
but her big toe got in the way so she simply
sliced it off and put on the slipper.
The prince rode away with her until the white dove
told him to look at the blood pouring forth.
That is the way with amputations.
The don't just heal up like a wish.
The other sister cut off her heel
but the blood told as blood will.
The prince was getting tired.
He began to feel like a shoe salesman.
But he gave it one last try.
This time Cinderella fit into the shoe
like a love letter into its envelope.

At the wedding ceremony
the two sisters came to curry favor
and the white dove pecked their eyes out.
Two hollow spots were left
like soup spoons.

Cinderella and the prince
lived, they say, happily ever after,
like two dolls in a museum case
never bothered by diapers or dust,
never arguing over the timing of an egg,
never telling the same story twice,
never getting a middle-aged spread,
their darling smiles pasted on for eternity.
Regular Bobbsey Twins.
That story.
Robin Carretti Aug 2018
Sweeter* than* wait I am starting
to melt like a____?
             Royal Jam
  Scarlet Movie Oh!  I don't give a
              ****!!
The Milkman versus My Breadman
How can I decide I feel I am
going to faint

Such a quaint picnic was "Hot Epic"
       My biggest fan is my
              Mother
    Going public like a stand up comic

All stereotypes happiness
        is a warm bread

Any way you slice it love it
Even going out of our head
The war going on
Hello Vietnam
Be my *Grand Slam


Have difficulty with everything
Melting our hearts those
"Good Eat" the luckiest people
But it's us the ordinary people
No time to brag or boost
who believes
everything is extraordinary
take a bow

Feeling tired give me a bat and ball
My big hit  built me a buttercup bed

I love the sweet warm toast
With my butter spread that
dash of sea salt the most
What was truly said in
your opinion no one's fault
Justice For All so stop
feeling guilty

Or in the presence of someone, you
didn't love at all

End of the reign beginning of
Melted candle dripping softly
like I apple butter he texted me
His ears were full of wax

Moms and
their daughters play
dressed up Dads and sons
  kickball having a meltdown
Of timeless bills no bread lines
Kings and Queens love their crowns
Love those quilts of corals
Soft as butter what morals

It's time for Hellman's
mayonnaise sandwich
What a dilemma
Every morning she is eating
Cream of wheat like a blob
Of farina
Kansas City here she comes

She loves her buttered popcorn
Poppy seed bagel was
near her acorns
We used to be human now
  An Army of Robots
Keep your enemies closer
If you truly love her

Robin Hood of the thieves

She got Gingersnapped
Melted finger-mapped
Crusty Baguette's French lip
lemon creme
Those marionettes caused
a scene

Butterscotch candy sugar cookies  
cleaning up your
computer meet "Ms." Butterworth"
movie
The worst shes ever has seen

She is sitting in the country
southern style
the dining room
Doing banana splits boiling
egg yolks Mcdonalds pancake
with Old folks

And cartwheels Moms always
wearing her buttercream heels
More room buttercream paint
And so toxic she zooms

What a silly goose with hens
He is hiding his eyes like
a fugitive he was blind getting
melted by so many lovers
Buttery slippery hearts

Jumping like Jack Rabbits melting a
white picket fence no nonsense
This bread and butter hold me closer
Everyone is looking
like a stranger
Almost every morning new
improved bread love pusher
Fresh taste and another lover
Uptown girl left her catcher of
the rye bread on used up counter
Seeing too many piano players
of Billies, she was getting a
Bread hot fever

Take me to *
Panera Bread
Cyborgs the pig and whistle 
beer and nuts melted butter pretzels
The Alien like a damsel in distress
Like a heart of the shamrock
What a lucky piece Irish bread
The Queen red wine and
breadcrumbs
On her musical chair
Milk and honey not your
Unicorn Pony quick kick
then melt me in my sleep

Ancient rocks up her castle
Sipping her hot spell word
puzzle
Secrets of all tattle tales
In her coffee, he smiles with
French croissant like a sergeant
Bread melted her butter lips
The very first time she
ever saw his face
There were more excursions
but no excuses to
butter up my Prince
How our bread is buttered or so soft but sweet like out Mother and  her lovers' chef knife left her salted the stars upon them a temptation to move on soft heartedly
To be loved you feel squashed in between there is always a shining light we see them differently let's not cause such a scene
kirk Jun 2020
I can not help the sadness, my heart's now in my throat
A single tear lost in a stream, that never stays afloat
We will meet again someday, when we're called to life's great moat
And you'll be sailing on a wave, in a randy milkman boat

Our memories wont fade away, you are never truly gone
Your always there inside our thoughts, your legend will live on
We'll miss the laughter and the joy, you are the only one
The cheeky risque sometimes frisky, Randy Milkman John
For a friend who died
Pagan Paul Jan 2019
.
No milk today.
Please tell the cows its nothing personal.



© Pagan Paul (27/01/19)
.
Silly one :)
.
Kate Morgan Jun 2013
I lost cuntrol when I was nine years old.
Mother took my hand off my crotch yet left my brother to the confinement of his ****;
Girls good, boys bad, and oh no sweetheart your beauty is your only power.
And I’d blush; not in the way she’d hoped through the sweep of a brush but rather when my teacher left her hand lingering on my back as she bent over to tick the formula of the female form and cross out what the chimes of the church commanded.
I looked at the curve of the x she used to mark the spot and sighed.

Teach me. Teach me your ways so I can breathe in the sweet blossom of your hair as I rest in the bossom of your heart, its smells like lavender. Lavender.
Lavender sweet dreams honey and I will see you there tonight.

It was then I began my perpetual low earth orbit from dream to dream and departed from what mother said that day when I asked the question that makes mothers quake as they smooth out the creases in their dresses and tuck their unravelled hair behind bitten ears.
Making love. We made love only to make you, darling.
Mother smiled sweetly and turned her back on me as her mind traced back to that morning when she made mad passionate love with the milkman when daddy wasn’t looking. I am still waiting for my little sister.

If practice makes me perfect then meet man, mother.
I used his rocket to launch myself into space where I spelt her name out in the stars and jumped over the moon to Venus. I felt the warmth from her skin like the sun that keeps me alive. Alive. Alive.
Warm me, darling, just with the nestle in my vessel in my veins in my sugar coated spaceship.
We found sticks and made smores and we floated together, with my hand tracing your V in that three-dimensional galaxy between your legs we fell in love. No void existed between our celestial bodies as gravity pulled me into your arms.

He came as I came back from space thinking of nothing but the soft shape of her hips and the trail of her spine that led me back to earth.
There’s man with his grey socks still on his feet, dark matter on the sheets and a wrapper on the floor.
******* I thought, but in the sky…
That night my mother asked me why I am smiling.
I said I have become an astronaut in orbit with a woman who I love in space.
She cried shes lost it.
I smiled, nodded yes, I've lost it to her.

I lost cuntrol when the earth, heavens and waters fell in love and sailed and soured as we danced on the tree tops of your garden, with waves crashing beneath us leaving salt shimmering particles like diamonds on your feet.
You were my alphabet soup that filled me with too many words, the thrill of the prize at the bottom of the cereal packet and the noble intentions of stopping the Titanic from sinking with the touch of button.
We had love at first sight like David and Jonathen, Ruth and Naomi who boarded the ark as my back arched in passionate throws below deck, as Noa held Emzaras hand smiling.
Adding a letter to her name on Transgender Tuesdays was just an afterthought.
Opening her drawers to pack up her boxers and bind her ******* Noa smiled as the clock cocked Tuesday.
She entered her escapism; what the Bible calls a natural disaster, I just call natural.

I lost cuntrol when I re-arranged the stars like pick and mix, so I could always find my way back to you. When you said I love you I wondered whether I’d had too many dolly mixtures and where jelly babies came from.
Sugar rimmed your lips like salt on a martini and left me drunk with desire as I licked around your edges. You slipped a haribo ring on my finger and I gave you my loveheart.

I lost cuntrol one day when my lover Alice said eat me. She showed me Dinah who hide beneath her skirt and I followed curiously.
I didn’t ask her to say please but that’s another story.

After her lesson I was told the Sputnik satellite was man-made and I laughed.
Oh no, women have been launching rockets with complete cuntrol between their legs for years, leaving the earths atmosphere and dreaming of everything else but ***** ****’s ****.
During countdown they think of shopping lists, whether they’ve burnt off enough calories for wine with their girlfriends, and sometimes, sometimes, of her.
Do good girls go gay?
In space, my mother said, in space.
*I am a spoken poet*
Sarah Oct 2014
It was me, I killed the Butler
and what you've heard is true.
But before I am condemned
Let me explain to you...

The milkman killed the ferrel cat,
set a trap and let it starve
So now no longer there will be
sick kittens in his yard.

The schoolboys killed the milkman
Maybe it was some sad trick
Maybe it was just an accident
I'll let you take your pick.

The Butler killed the schoolboys
I won't pretend that I know why
He shot them each in the chest
then fired his gun into the sky.

And yes, I killed the Butler
I didn't even know his name
He snuck up upon me
and now I'm the one they blame.
Chris May 2010
[an imagined monologue of an elderly lady]

It's taken me a while to think
To think what I wanted to ­say
Did you put the note out for the milkman?
I'm sorry. It's jus­t, I need to pay
You know how it is, the way 
some people just wa­nt me to go 
You know, you've got your own life, so
Don't feel yo­u have to stay
I think I'm just in the way
Perhaps it'd be better­ if I just...
Is that the milkman? I need to pay
Is it Thursday o­r Friday today?
Dear they all seem the same 
What was I saying? 
­Oh nevermind. Pass my my purse, dear
have I got the money for Ray­?
I think I'll just be going, now
There's no reason really to sta­y
That's it. Put it back on the tray, dear
So I was saying, what ­I wanted to say
Oh it's taken me a while to think
To think what I­ wanted to say
Do you think that God will accept me?
I still some­times kneel to pray
But then I cannot get up, dear
If my stick's ­left too far away
There's not enough money you say?
Oh, then how ­will I pay?
Oh, then how will I pay?
That's what I wanted to say
­

For the wages of sin is death, but the free gift of God 
is et­ernal life in Christ Jesus our Lord.
Romans 6:23
cheryl love Mar 2015
Her world was golden
her world was sleek
Designed for the brave
Any second minute, day or week.
She waited and she waited
For that special moment to come
She had read in her paperbacks
What thoughts to think overcome.
Petals began to fall on her in disgust
The Magnolia had worked this one out.
Leaves encircled her feet, leaving dust
a lonely image, imprint of her shadow.
Hope began to question itself in her heart
Should she stay or should she go.
I suppose a little longer just to play the part
of an excited young lady, would not matter.
She started to whisper to herself,
words of encouragement, so as not to cry.
The Magnolia shed its tears hours ago.
She could hear footsteps, nearer they came
This could be him, the love of her future life
But she had only got herself to blame.
It was a milkman delivering orange juice
"Not much call for the white stuff nowadays" he said
"I'll soon be out of a job" he chuckled.
His words went in and straight out of her head
She half smiled and looked beyond in hope.
Looking at her watch, at last she saw sense.
The Magnolia had thrown caution to the wind
a long time ago, but sent its emotion to line her path.
If it could hug it would have done I imagine.
She went home, he appeared, late, to a wilted leaf.
Terry Collett Mar 2014
Lydia's mother
opened the door
of the flat
after I had knocked

and gave me
a stern stare
is Lydia coming out?
I asked

she looked hard
at me
where?
to the herbalist

get some sarsaparilla
I said
sarsaparilla?
she said

yes it's good for you
they say
makes blood
I said

she looked
at my scuffed shoes
and blue jeans
and the gun and holster

hanging
from the snake head
elastic belt
around my waist

I suppose she can
her mother said
LYDIA
she bellowed

windows rattled
a dog
across the Square
barked

the milkman's horse
lifted its head
from the nosebag
Lydia came to the door

and poked her head
out from under
her mother's arm
Benedict here

wants to take you
to get a sarsaparilla
Lydia looked at you
her eyes narrowing

then widening
ok
she said
can I go?

she asked
course if I say so
as long
as you are wrapped warmer

than you are now
her mother said
Lydia rushed back inside
and her mother

took a long drag
of a cigarette
her yellowing fingers
in a V shape

what's your father
do for a living?
she asked
the smoke carrying

her words to me
he's a metal worker
I said
he makes things

from metal
she stared at me
a few loose hairs
had escaped

the flowery scarf
about her head
I think
he frequents ******

she said
I see
I said
unsure

what she was saying
she inhaled
on the cigarette again
her eyes

gazing beyond me
keep Lydia out
a fair while
she said

pushing out smoke
I want to rest
my eyes a while
ok

I said
she went indoors
and I waited for Lydia
sniffing in the smoke

hanging about
the doorstep
the dog barked again
the horse ate

from the nosebag
the milkman whistled
a few notes
from some tune

I sniffed the smoke again
hoping Lydia
would be out
wrapped warm soon.
A BOY AND GIRL IN 1950S LONDON.
Robin Carretti Jun 2018
Everything plus-minus,
Venus, I beg you
to sponge me
All her fishes
Swim to surplus
and I imagine John
and all the people living
in peace but your niece looks
like Octopus
A priority the postman comes
Again twice got sponged
paid another
wet your
palate
price

His sturdy strong
legs
Milkman diary
but so many legs
But not enough time
Seattle rain
dating site
of Squid
She said to put a
lid on it
With such fluid
of water legs

They can really swim
Diet of fish my mask had
holes Swiss cheese lace
The golf game hole in one
sponge
I am home cooking
Calamari all knifed
inside like
Samkari  Uncle Sam
Sponged in with a lady
in her Mercedes

All squid-crabmeat
Those fish cakes water
crabby women
town
Sponge Bob aquarium
what an age
The college sorority
took over
the man's legs
Colliegate Girly
Fun side
authority sponge me
anytime no cell phone
So precocious hair rinse
game
So fictitious
legs so pompous
showing
Something always
more flirtatious
Sponge wet lips
she thought things were
clean delicious women
why do we
get devious wanting
what others have
You cannot share
your way too jealous
everyone became about the
The next winner New Jersey
Mrs. Cleaner not the dry ones
joy luck don't press me out
Club sandwich of legs
Got sponged
obnoxiously
I Apple phones
too much of a bite
She got bugged
things had to change
They deleted
everyone's name
Those monstrous

Mother in laws belly buttons
with gems rings of octopus
Everytime the same things
Octopus every October
They were Cowboy riders
And baked trio swingers
Quickdraw Mcdonald burglar
the gun always the silencer
Those sponge ladies love
to clean with their dancer's legs
Hitting some ***** spots
with her sponge
Those octopus men muscles
Leg lift Taylor Swift
Men love their leggy
eating muscles
Snake eyes of Venom
That jellyfish way too clean
lemon
Those surrenders
and wet calender
reminders
They got suspicious email
But lemons are the climate
Of October clean
Halloween became
beyond nasty
Thirteen sides slippery
Got slimy at the Door concert
Jimmy with his Morris(sons)
  Octopus
Octopus caused a vigorous
scene smashing pumpkins
There is no science to an
Octopus and sponge
But she loves her computer
and it was
an infectious disease
She was overly had
obsessive-compulsive
behavior

Cleaning it with her sponge
Eating her blueberry
sponge cake big mistake
She became on this sugar
leg kick really sick
Aggressiveness
So reckless or
Metamorphosis
Wheres her thesis
What a day for the sponge to
be doomed with curses
Sponge talk ***** lounge
Cafe with mud packs
Dilemmas

Sponge sticking to Mamas
Octopuses garden wanting
to hold your hand
The Beatles pin cushion shaped;
like an Octopus needles
I am the Walrus all doodles
Meretricious appliances
Her child had
Octopus performance
What allowances

Woodstock New York
The concerts heavy rained on
Purple haze Octopus
You needed to ring it
out on the clothesline
This felt like a pipe dream
The Octopus needed
more money

All burlesque Cher legs I got you
Sponged
The seamstress what madness
The butterfly lost her wings
Hannibal all Octopuses cannibal
They were sewed into the
Octopus picnic outing
Salads calamari tomato rotten
Got crush from her leggy

Going out of the country but
I cant back down
Tom Petty got sponged
with a  million buggies
Dr. Seus Octopus in the hat
Her legs got flat
That's a Jerry Mcquire Hire
Octopus got so baked I wonder
who made the fire
Got sponged into something but the Octopus is everything too leggy feel the buggy  but how much time do we really have make it leggy and get into this action
THE POLICEMAN buys shoes slow and careful;
the teamster buys gloves slow and careful;
they take care of their feet and hands;
they live on their feet and hands.

The milkman never argues;
he works alone and no one speaks to him;
the city is asleep when he is on the job;
he puts a bottle on six hundred porches and calls it a day's work;
he climbs two hundred wooden stairways;
two horses are company for him;
he never argues.

The rolling-mill men and the sheet-steel men are brothers of cinders;
they empty cinders out of their shoes after the day's work;
they ask their wives to fix burnt holes in the knees of their trousers;
their necks and ears are covered with a ****;
they scour their necks and ears;
they are brothers of cinders.
judy smith Mar 2016
It was hardly a JFK moment but if, like me, you remember what you were doing when you first heard a Spice Girls track, it may be hard to believe two decades have elapsed since the girl group released their debut single, Wannabe, in the dying days of John Major’spremiership. Together with Oasis, Blur and Blair they heralded a new dawn for Britain - selling millions of records while they were at it - before embarking on what turned out to be a lengthy hiatus just four years later. There was a brief reunion in 2007-8 but the question now is: how, if at all, will they mark their 20th anniversary this summer?

Sitting opposite me in a London hotel bar in Leicester Square, just across from where she co-hosts the Breakfast show on Heart FM withJamie Theakston, Emma Bunton - the one formerly known as “Baby Spice” - makes no secret of her hope that the “girls” (now all in their forties) will get their act together.

“We adore each other. There’s so much we’ve been through. I would love to do something,” she says. “I think we’d all quite like to do something, but it really is figuring it out. We all have such different lives. Mel B [Melanie Brown, formerly Scary Spice] lives in America. We’ve all got different managers.” Not to mention the fact they are all mothers now and their busy schedules include commitments such as school plays, which makes finding time for a reunion even harder.

It’s natural to wonder, too, if any jealousy simmers beneath the surface. Victoria Beckham’s star has risen exponentially since the group broke up, with her marriage to former footballer David, their children and her fashion line keeping the profile of the erstwhile Posh Spice higher than those of any of her former bandmates. Bunton insists she’s delighted for her though.

“When a friend does that well it’s incredible. She’s just hilarious and I know exactly what she’s thinking just by looking at her,” she says. “I see pictures and I go, ‘I know what she’s thinking about!’ I’m very lucky because I know the fun, sarcastic, brilliant other side to her as well.” The fact that Beckham invited Bunton to choose a dress for her 40th birthday in January would appear to support the picture she paints of their friendship.

When “Baby” joined the band in 1994 she was almost young enough to be in a school play herself. Now she has two babies of her own - Beau, aged eight, and four-year-old Tate - with her fiance, the singer Jade Jones, to whom she has been engaged since 2011. Although she could pass for 30, her woollen shawl, floral Kooples shirt and the glasses that frame her face give her the look of an elder stateswoman of pop.

“Wouldn’t that be amazing?” she agrees when I suggest a one-off gig at Wembley Stadium. “Fingers crossed. That’s something we’d really love to do.” While we talk, a phone rings in her bag. It’s Geri Halliwell, formerly known as Ginger Spice. Bunton ignores it. “I’ll speak to her after and tell her you suggested it,” she says of the concert idea.

Meanwhile there is her new early evening live TV show to focus on. In BBC Two’s Too Much TV, she pairs up with Rufus Hound, Sara *** or Aled Jones, reviewing and previewing what’s on the box. Her years of experience as a radio host have come in handy here, but the programme itself has reportedly suffered some disappointing audience figures.

Still, Bunton is pleased to be forming a female double act with ***. The phrase “Girl Power” - which she defines as “supporting one another in everything you do” - was famously central to the Spice Girls’ brand and is something she continues to draw on. “For me, it started with seeing my mum going back to college at 40, starting karate at 40. She just kept growing and I’ve really fed off that,” she says. “I want to grow as much as she did and still is. She was my first role model. Jade is brilliant, it’s just we [girls] have had to push a bit harder. As girls we’ve pushed things forward.”

Bunton was born and raised as a Catholic with her younger brother in Finchley, north London. Her parents worked hard to provide for their children but separated when she was about 11, which she struggled with. (“I don’t like change too much,” she says.) Until her father, a former milkman, recently moved to Ireland, she would visit him every Sunday. Privately educated at the Sylvia Young Theatre School in London, she was granted a scholarship when her parents could no longer afford the fees.

Though not one to dwell on failure, even she began to question herself when the rejections kept coming. “You’d think, ‘I’m just not good enough,” she says. It wasn’t until she auditioned to become the fifth member of the Spice Girls that her big break arrived. She was asked there and then to move in with the others in Maidenhead - and the rest is nineties pop history.

Part of the Spice Girls’ selling point was their girl-next-door image. While it could not be said that *** was removed from the equation - theUnion Flag dress Halliwell performed in at the 1997 Brit Awards left little to the imagination and many of Brown’s leopard print outfits were an exercise in cleavage-display - *** appeal was not the main draw. Yet even if looks weren’t the focus (wasn’t it all supposed to be about fun, girl power and attitude?) Bunton hasn’t always felt secure about her body image.

“Obviously [body shape] is such a big thing in this industry,” she says. “I’m 5ft 1in so I feel that sometimes being curvaceous is harder to carry off because I’m so short. But I’m comfortable. I’ve always been that kind of way. In the industry it is becoming a bit more difficult because everybody is so slight, it’s quite unbelievable. I don’t know how they do it.”

When she first joined the group she felt relaxed enough about her appearance, but went through “probably a very short stage when everything hit and there were pictures everywhere and you think, ‘Do I look OK?’” This faded, and having children has helped stop her worrying about this. “It’s something I just don’t take on board as much because I can’t,” she says. “But you’re being pictured every day or papped, so obviously there’s that pressure of hoping to look half decent in pics.”

Reflecting on how motherhood has transformed her, she goes on: “I used to be very self-absorbed, I’m sure, worrying about what I was going to wear to the next event or whether my roots were done,” she says. “I’ve changed as a person.”

So what about that long engagement? Will she ever get round to tying the knot? She and Jade will need their heads knocking together before they do, she says. “If we do, we’ll definitely elope,” she adds.

Career-wise, she remains ambitious. She has a small part in the forthcoming Absolutely Fabulous movie and would like to sing and act more, as well as branching out into comedy (she’s already been involved in Comedy Central’s Drunk History).

Pop culture doesn’t cast out the over-40s these days, so there’s no reason to think she won’t stick around. Nobody, after all, puts Baby in a corner.Read more at:www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-2015
eatmorewords Jan 2013
Red post boxes stand on street corners like aged prostitutes
rusted and flaking
and they are going the way of phone boxes and TV aerial?

Are there still milkman?

Who writes letters?

Postcards from men
working down a pit?

Stuck in the trench
I killed time by attening seminars about powerful words,
the history of things,  
body language as legitimate currency
exposing the micro.

A craven emptiness screaming extinction.
Alliesaurus Dec 2010
The beginning's are the worst for me,
but I prefer the middle, rather than the end;
I'll always enjoy the journey more than the destination.
Great for roadtrips, irritating for bedtime.

I've got baggage, but I don't want to talk about it.
I will listen to yours 'til the cows come home
(and offer you reasonable advice),
but I don't want you to fix me. I've been fixing myself for years.

I may leave you for the milkman,
but only because I have a longstanding relationship with dairy.
Take it as a compliment if I call you a cow.

I would rather help than be loved.
To me, they are not synonymous.
Just like writing in short lines
with even shorter
linebreaks
is not synonymous with poetry.

My rhyme scheme has little structure, but I expect your schema to have a story.

You have to play chess, but well enough to kick my *** occasionally.
Keep me humble.

I will probably be incredibly, secretly needy,
or ridiculously nonchalant.
What human being doesn't yearn for the other side of the looking glass?
My brains are always tumbling and rumbling, though.

Mister, you have no idea what you're getting yourself into.
Me neither.

I'd like to be protected by you,
even though I don't need it.
(I still believe in chivalry).
I like the idea that my honor is worth defending.

I'm still the same 3 year old soul, wandering around
with my microscope and plastic saxophone,
except this time it's linguistic puns and wh- questions
(especially why).
My favorite response being, why not?

I won't ask much of you,
just energy, a soul to squeeze, and a hand to hold;
a body to hug.
But don't worry, you'll get much in return
(probably too much,
at least that's what they tell me).

I talk too much, walk too slow, and am the most
awkwardpersonyou'llevermeet,
all tumbles and rumbles and wiggles.
But I've got a lot to say,
even though I'll always prefer to listen.

I want you to hit me
like a ton of bricks with good intentions.
There's a lot of fire, especially for you, young love.
My heart string and soul swing,
I am yours to mold and shape and croon
(but my heart is not an empty room).
You can move the furniture,
but once you hang up the paintings,
I might just want to keep it.

(That's what I'm worried about)
I want to set your world on fire,
and I want you to set mine alight
(but sometimes I lose the extinguisher).

I'm expecting
nothing
but hoping
for too much.
That's where my tongue gets tied-
I don't know how to take the reigns,
****** you,
or  make myself undeniable,
or irreplaceable.

I don't want to though,
because with enough time,
everything heals.
Memories are alive as long as you think of them.
But after you forget, they rest in peace.
I'd like to be your peace,
piece of apple pie, holy moly me oh my.

Don't fool my janglin' heartstrings
because they'll stretch andstretchandstreeeettch and bend 'til they break.

I don't like talking on the phone.
Make up your own ******* story.

Before this date,
I just want you to know
that I'm slightly crazy, completely ridiculous,
and have a few tales to spin from my fingertips.
(and I wiggle. too much)

I'll be your Jane if you can be my Alexander
or Tarzan.
Noah always needed a whale for his ark.
I probably already think you're funny and cute,
and I'll kiss you all starry eyed, my body swaying from side to side.

I actually don't know what I want.
But I'd like for you to be there when I figure it out.
Woe is me
What have I seen
The ****** dog peed
All over my DVD machine

Woe is me
And twice woe
I lost my balance
And I stubbed my toe

Woe is me
It just isn't fair
I looked in the mirror
And saw I'm losing my hair

Woe is me
I hate my life
I came home and found
The milkman run off with my wife

Woe is me
I chased a mouse
Knocked over the electric fire
The curtains caught light and burnt down the house
copyright Chris Smith 2010
Terry Collett May 2015
Ingrid sports a black eye;
she looks like a panda.

She said she walked
into a door;
she doesn't lie
convincingly.

I know her old man;
I passed him
on the stairs of the flats;
his beady eyes
drinking me in,
giving me the cold glare,
the cold shoulder.

We walk through the Square,
off to the shops.

What happened to your eye?
I ask again,
studying the black
and slightly green;
walking beside her,
passing the milkman
and his horse drawn cart,
the horse wearing
a nosebag of food,
ignoring us.

I walked into
the bedroom door,
she says,
knowing I don't
believe her,
looking sheepish,
knowing
I guess the truth.

What have you got
to get at the shops?
I ask.

She shows me a list
on a scrap of paper,
pencil scribbled,
in her small right hand
a handful of coins.

I passed your old man
on the stairs yesterday,
I tell her,
gave him my
Wyatt Earp stare,  
I say, he didn't care.

I note her hair
is unbrushed,
her green patterned dress
unwashed.

We cross Rockingham Street
into Harper Road.

I talked too much,
Dad said,
she confesses,
he said I yak and yak.

We pass the paper shop
and go on
to the grocer shop.

I say,
if I had your old man
in the sights
of my six-shooter gun
I'd fire a cap
up his ***;
she sniggers;
people stare at us
as we pass.
A BOY AND GIRL IN LONDON IN 1958.
Ponder the milkman.
Uniform obsolescence met evolution
Occupation is what you are reduced to,
In a body
Not meant for boundaries
Some nausea from the neighbor’s perfect lawn
There is anxiety pouring from that clock
Cerebral mardi gras parade rolling the spine
Crackling bottle rockets that pepper nerve endings
Between the shouting and *******
Accompanied by beads of sweat
My love
Ain’t all in the hips, some comes
Outside of me, but through me all goes
All I could ever know
And always less I could tell you
Things aren’t the same, they never will be
That truth like a statue
Carved from ever step forward
That forgot what backwards meant
The Milkmen may be a dead breed
But I know children who have soul
Dressed all in that pearly white
Ready to deliver
Themselves
To everything.
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2023
Semi-
——-

Something new, in our years of partnership,

during

the early morning semi’s, the half awake, yet
mostly asleep, passageway from rest to wake,
as per usual, I am awake before her, to write,
to think, to read, to do my variety of early morn
chores, but today, her semi is populated by a
new concern, an alert, mind programmed, silent,
no chirp, no beep, just human punctual new instinct,

let us
check if my man is alive and breathing, rub his
thankfully copious-headed hair & air supply,
rub-a-dub,
once, repeat twice, thrice, sense his beating brain,
confirming the night passage, always dangerous,
completed safely, for she feels my warmth, hears
my eyes-crinkle smiling, and ascertains, the
continuation of my existence and the statistical
probability, (her occupational hazard and habit)

that when

she crosses fulsome into the living day,
awakensgladly, that her not-too-hot-black
coffee, will be
mister milkman delivered on schedule with
a bedside delivery like clockwork-blonde, with a
half sheet of enwrapping paper towel within some
morning fruit, to  ensure that her coffee will have some company…

while she dances a beloved tango in her semi-,

I am:

in my only~pretending post-tense,
semi complimentary state,
mentally scrambling scribbling half a dozen
eggs of new poem ideas, mad pursuing these
very words, my way of saying good morning girl,
my beating heart muscling me to be sure I-remain,
in the good company of the Oompa-Loompas,
and yours too
!
Chris Slade Nov 2020
At this time of my life
I find myself wearing hats…
I’m not happy with my head you see,
In short, being able to see it
it just doesn’t thrill me.
Not through those depressing, disappearing strands.
So it’s that time - It’s hat time!

Hats are warm, comforting things;
take it off and, for a while at least,
it feels still there - a phantom hat.
Not quite as spooky or worrying
as a phantom arm or leg - after that
severed limb thing, but right there!
It really is that time - It’s hat time!

My Grandma Lamplough,
that’s on my mother’s side,
was an avid knitter of things to order,
She was even a freelancer for Jaeger…
matinée jackets, mittens, cardies, pullovers
But in later days mostly just tea cosies.
If there was no immediate customer in mind…
“Everybody needs a cosy and one size fits all”
she would say… and anyway,
commissions were rare for cosies back in the day

She’d wear it boldly herself
with handle and spout slots front & back, proud
She’d start the next one and announce
to every visitor right out loud…
”Hey…Do you want a cosy for your ***?
Mr Watling, the milkman, he had quite a lot!
But then he showed up every day!
A quart is it Mrs L?… and yes, I WILL have a cosy today!

Me? I’ve never fancied a toupee, wig
or go in for a Bobby Charlton tribute gig ….
I’ll be happy just to settle for a beret,
news boy or Fedora… to hide the offending pate
and avoid the comb over till a later date.
Meanwhile I’ll maybe settle for Grandma’s cosy special?
My Grandma was a cosy knitter extraordinaire!
cyanide skies Dec 2015
I didn't wait long
for the milkman to arrive
but instead of milk he had
liquid cyanide
and I didn't know how to tell him
that I was all set with that
so I paid him, zipped my lips
and decided that was that.
**
Bathsheba Jan 2011
Father ….

As you can see I have been coerced into presenting this eulogy to you on behalf of the family because quite frankly nobody else was prepared to do it!

It is impossible to mourn the man that you were as everyone in this church will bear witness to.

So after careful consideration, I have decided to mourn the man that you should have been.

The husband that you should have been to your wife.

The father that you should have been for your children.

The man that you should have been to the world in which we live.

YOU  failed on all three points.

How does that feel Father?

Not too good eh?

Well … That pleases me …. Yes …. Pleases me.

Now ….

Look around you …. Look at the fruit of your ***** …. Open your ******* eyes.

What do you feel?

What do you feel when you look at us?

When you look at us …. Sat here in God’s waiting room …. In our
Sunday Best and all.

Stuck for words eh Father?

What’s that ….

Well well well …. If a little bit of reality …. Isn’t finally seeping through.

It’s a start ….. I suppose!

Now ….

Let’s start with your wife.

Yes, that’s her …. The one with the look of an animal just released from captivity.

OOOOH ….. She is going to have some fun …. Now that her captor is
dead.

She could have had the look of a woman in mourning.

Distraught.

Inconsolable.

Desperate.

Why Father … Can I detect the merest hint of malice on her lips …. Hhmmm …. Interesting!

Are we just the teeniest weeniest bit concerned now that she has been unleashed?

She could have drawn comfort from the love of her children.

If only things had been different.

We would have cared for her.

Soothed her troubled soul.

Kept her safe within the warmth of the family.

But alas …. There was never any ******* warmth ….. Was there Father?

So do you know what …..

When she is caught dancing naked in the apple orchards whilst defecating on the delightful meadow daisies ….. I’ll be laughing my ******* head off as they cart her away to the nearest loony bin.

Did you really believe your pathetic suicide pact would be honoured?

You created her.

Moulded her.

Made her what you thought that she should be.

So ….. Reap the ******* benefits Father.

Now ….

Let’s look into the eyes of your children.

Oh ….. You see it too.

What a turn up eh?

Is it …..

Is it …..

Dare I say it?

Jesus ******* Christ.

CONTEMPT.

Oozing out of the pores of each and every one.

And who ….. Prey tell ….. Are all these little ones?

Why …. They are your grandchildren.

But you never got to see them …. Did you Father?

They could have mourned your passing too?

But alas yet another generation denied.

By  YOU! …

And your unhinged madness!

If only once you stopped yourself swimming against the tide and gone with the flow.

The fun that we all could have had.

Things could have been so different Father.

So different …..

LOOK ……

Can you see how close your children are?

Off course you can’t.

Because  YOU  destroyed that too!

What exactly was wrong with us getting on?

Why did it cause such fear in you?

Why was there always pleasure in pain?

Pure evil you were Father!

And you can wipe away those ******* crocodile tears because they cut no ice with me Father.

CUT   NO  ICE!

I know what you are about.

I have your score.

YOU  can never touch me.

I hold my own.

But  YOU

YOU  needed to control and conquer in order to feel like a man.

To validate your own pointless existence.

Stop ******* crying.

You worthless *******.

We could have gone to the ….. Zoo!

We could have had …. Dinner!

We could have …. Holidayed!

We could have ….. Laughed!

We could have ….. Cried!

WE COULD HAVE BEEN ******* NORMAL !!!

You stone walled every opportunity.

Now …..

Look closely at the world in which you lived.

Look carefully at the prison that you created.

No outside influences.

EVER!

No one ever knocking at the door.

Except Mr James ….. PC plod …. Lived three doors down …. He hated  YOU  too!

You refused to even work.

Such was your level of jealousy.

She wasn’t ******* the:

Milkman

Postman

Coalman

Jehovah Witnesses

She wasn’t ….

But you were ….. Remember eh Father.

Remember that gypsy girl that you took a fancy too.

*******  HYPOCRITE!

You strutted around town, fit as a fiddle, but refused to leave your wife alone.

And you wondered why folk looked down their noses at us.

You were more than capable of working.

You were fitter than men twice your age.

Such was the level of your obsessive fitness regime.

Shame on you Father!

Shame on you!

So …. Now we come to close.

And in summing up, I would like to say ….

Father …. I will miss you so much …. You have been so important to me …. You have guided me …. throughout the toils and troubles of this here life …. Always there by my side ….. I love you dearly ….. but alas …. It would all be a lie …. One great big ******* lie! ….. The truth of the matter is this ….. I hope that you rot in hell ….. and hopefully that dumb mute ***** of a wife will follow shortly …. If it’s not locked up first !

Goodbye Father  

*It's been a blast!
Mitchell Nov 2012
Out on the empty streets
The ringing chime of deaf echoes cries
Stumbling through the brown alleyways
All I find is trash & dirtied lies
I need someone to save me, I've got no more strength
My soul's been stretched out to its limits length

I've looked for my secret
Yet all I've found is an illuminated crescent
Shining like the son of the sun
Who's only wish is to truly belong
To the morning bluebirds song

I need a way out of here
I need passage quick
The fields are empty, the cold-blooded moon high,
And all that can be heard are the sounds of crickets
Rubbing together in the tall, thinning thicket

A fire burns as the milkman feigns
Flicking his wrists as he whips the reigns
Toward a house full of the ripe insane
The grandpa on the deck, tapping his cane

Torn between choice and necessity
I feel free at least once in this life, oh' finally!
Cry for the moon and cheer for the rising struggle
Of the corrupt waning as the stitching of fought for love
Flies to the west like a snow white dove

Old times intertwine with the new
Waves crash along the beaches shore
What she wanted she couldn't explain
But I knew deep inside she wanted more

So I shake my head back and forth
Rocking with a splintered ship that wears no obvious sail
And I press my finger's against my heated temples
Looking for a moment that is never resting
Searching for a feeling without a name
Worrying whence I find it
I'll waking in the morning still the same

Black lit sky key to the weather horizon
A fortune for you is cast in all sorts of prizes
Hotel beds creased to make as the fake I.D.
Is checked and double-checked
Making sure who at dawn will pay
Rooms dressed for stranger's bashful vices
A rose colored wish only meant to entice

Each song I hear reminds me of you
Who knew true love was so fleeting and few?
I stretch my sun dried hands as I gaze ahead
If only I'd thought straight before I was led
The road in front of me graveyard dead

The abuse I'm feeling
Still runs through me
Is the heart serious
Or is it fooling?

I stand accused
Guilty and innocent
Shackle me let me free

The end

Means all the same to me

In brotherhood men learn to spread their wings
Mixing kindness with mythic grievances
The night wakes as the dawn slowly slips to sleep
Bubbling brook, I am here, try to speak

Cornered and alone now
Each hour a witness
Of a goal never finished
And inside myself I hear a wail
Of my soul setting sail
The waves breaking as I'm speaking
To a monk of no persuasion

Every prayer with reason
Drenched in hope for salvation
Appeasing what pains are held within thee
Each hour in wait ear near to the gate
Only humbled disinterest
Tempt the hands of sought fate

— The End —