"overage" poems - Hello Poetry

forgiveness for self is a thunderstorm ferocious, cracking sounds so god awful fearful that one questions his-her sanity, an overage so unnatural that only nature could create it it is a moment momentousness when the exhalation of exhaustion, the winner and loser, both you, surrender ne’er knowing which you is which, life’s son of ***** or just a plain jane mothering version, either way you say to yourself got to get past that lousy stinking love affair win the race to clean slate, where the end is insight where everything replaced in its used to be placed goaded into melted nothingness, goaded into believing that’s a real thing, that when you finally get there, enough is enough, get out of jail ticket will work, but it ain’t never free, even if you paid for it in what you call throwing bad after good, monopoly money, nope, ain’t never free no idea what to put in the second empty closet, who needs an attached to-the-wall-tile toothbrush holder with one extra emptying space, where to hide picture albums in a space outta sight, outta mind, you still can find why you didn’t care enough to daily mat-wipe street shoes before riveted in place before entering your own! apartment and no, you are consciously unconscious immobilized by the missing calling out of her “don’t forget” in the car’s ashtray, a red kissed blotted red lipstick tissue that needs discard-action, but you incapable of either, those collected records and cd’s, her teasing your old fashion ways, reluctance to let go so you read “that to forgive one self doesn’t forgive forgetting” and it hits home, home run, score to the core, since you wrote those words on a sun rain afternoon, a punctuating thunderstorm day refusing to decide which haunts worse <>

0

Jun 30, 2019

Jun 30, 2019 at 5:04 PM UTC

sunrain

“forgiving myself doesn’t forgive forgetting”

forgiveness for self is a thunderstorm ferocious, cracking sounds so god awful fearful that one questions his-her sanity, an overage so unnatural that only nature could create it it is a moment momentousness when the exhalation of exhaustion, the winner and loser, both you, surrender ne’er knowing which you is which, life’s son of ***** or just a plain jane mothering version, either way you say to yourself got to get past that lousy stinking love affair win the race to clean slate, where the end is insight where everything replaced in its used to be placed goaded into melted nothingness, goaded into believing that’s a real thing, that when you finally get there, enough is enough, get out of jail ticket will work, but it ain’t never free, even if you paid for it in what you call throwing bad after good, monopoly money, nope, ain’t never free no idea what to put in the second empty closet, who needs an attached to-the-wall-tile toothbrush holder with one extra emptying space, where to hide picture albums in a space outta sight, outta mind, you still can find why you didn’t care enough to daily mat-wipe street shoes before riveted in place before entering your own! apartment and no, you are consciously unconscious immobilized by the missing calling out of her “don’t forget” in the car’s ashtray, a red kissed blotted red lipstick tissue that needs discard-action, but you incapable of either, those collected records and cd’s, her teasing your old fashion ways, reluctance to let go so you read “that to forgive one self doesn’t forgive forgetting” and it hits home, home run, score to the core, since you wrote those words on a sun rain afternoon, a punctuating thunderstorm day refusing to decide which haunts worse <>

55

overage of senses scents and repentance ego tripping, boosting and a love simple like friendship. a paramount attraction lust and pride in equal fractions the type to make you think lest you display the mind's reaction. baby steps on wide sets of stairs that lead to monumental *** have made you make me write this text. as I catch glances you increase your second chances a rose is a rose is a rose, but for those who know, it just don't sum up our romances.

0

Mar 24, 2013

Mar 24, 2013 at 8:55 PM UTC

kara-goss

Flowers out of Season

overage of senses scents and repentance ego tripping, boosting and a love simple like friendship. a paramount attraction lust and pride in equal fractions the type to make you think lest you display the mind's reaction. baby steps on wide sets of stairs that lead to monumental *** have made you make me write this text. as I catch glances you increase your second chances a rose is a rose is a rose, but for those who know, it just don't sum up our romances.

13

I burned your sandwich today. Just like your mom used to. Except she was just bad at making sandwiches. I wanted to ruin your day. The phone bill, rigidly $99.95 a month Has overage fees on it. You’re making a lot of private calls For your public service job. I think someone’s been siphoning gas While we sleep Because I certainly didn’t use that much, Honey. I’m onto you. But I’m not bitter Not at all. Sorry about the sandwich. Have a nice day with her.

0

Feb 3, 2012

Feb 3, 2012 at 2:34 AM UTC

megan-westby

Tillamook Burn

I burned your sandwich today. Just like your mom used to. Except she was just bad at making sandwiches. I wanted to ruin your day. The phone bill, rigidly $99.95 a month Has overage fees on it. You’re making a lot of private calls For your public service job. I think someone’s been siphoning gas While we sleep Because I certainly didn’t use that much, Honey. I’m onto you. But I’m not bitter Not at all. Sorry about the sandwich. Have a nice day with her.

18