"overdone" poems
New Year's Day 1:16 AM
and my body is weary beyond
time to withdraw and rest
ample room allowed me in everyone's head
but community calls
right over the threshold
drums beating through the walls
children playing their truck dramas
under the collapsible coatrack
in the narrow hallway outside my room
The TV lounge next door is wide open
it is midnight in Idaho
and the throb easy subtle spin
of the electric slide boogie
step-stepping
around the corner of the parlor
past the sweet clink
of dining room glasses
and the edged aroma of slightly overdone
dutch-apple pie
all laced together
with the rich dark laughter
of Gloria
and her higher-octave sisters
How hard it is to sleep
in the middle of life.
10.8k
You wrote a poem that made me want to cry,
a blue moon occasion of risk and shown feelings.
A love poem in response would be too overdone for me
and perhaps it'd seem an obligatory exchange.
You know I love you but only so many lines can be written
and I've run out of new words to excite you.
If I could I'd just hold you to show how I feel,
but I'll go slightly against my decision and write you a poem to thank you
or at least acknowledge these feelings
and then for once, I'll end up the awkward one.
Aug 2, 2014
Aug 2, 2014 at 12:16 AM UTC
As your tongue laps
It's way down my front
I sigh with boredom
We're so overdone
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 2:33 PM UTC
I’m just so tired of every day. I’m so tired of the gray and the way my body begs me and begs me for just a few more hours of darkness. And I never know if it’s asking that because it feels tired, or because it’s afraid that my thoughts and monsters might drag it out passed its’ limits like it normally does. It’s such an odd thing. I’m terrified of darkness, and sometimes it’s all I crave.
One half of me begs for summer days filled with shooting clouds and soft blankets that are hard to lay on because I’m sweating. The other half wants nights filled with angry music and dark clothing. Piercings and dyed hair, shoving my mouth against a stranger with tingling finger tips from what ever my ‘friend’ had given me only minutes before. One wants a calm surreal happiness. The other wants to get revenge on the world. Exhaust her body until it is filed down to skin and bones. Big heavy bags underneath my eyes that hold nothing but the reminder that I will always be tired. Splotchy cheeks, oh that’s right, I was crying last night. It doesn’t make sense. I feel so much more strongly on one side even though the other is so much better. For me. For me for me for me. But is it what I deserve? Is it what I see myself really wanting?
Who knows. I don’t want to care about me. I want to throw myself away, and in the meantime, hold someone else. Of course I wouldn’t drag them down with me… Or maybe I would.
Maybe I don’t deserve people.
Or at least I should avoid them.
But I can’t be alone, because a lonely life is a pointless one. And if I am pointless, then I am wasted space, and I should not wave my arms around in the air anymore. My lungs should not do their regular function, and maybe, just maybe, my heart could be given to someone who would put it to much better use.
My skin feels overused and overdone.
There’s sand in the cracks of my hands and I swear I will never feel satisfied in anything that I ever do. I am not soft to the touch. I am rough. No one wants to put their hand in mine, and wear me like I am the sea. No one wishes they could spin me around and push me off, so that I would beg and plead for the right direction towards them. No one wants me to love them like I so badly want someone to love me. And I won’t have it. I will never have it. I am not meant for anyone, because I am not meant for myself.
That is the problem. It’s right there. It’s right in my own face.
I am not meant for myself.
Oct 23, 2012
Oct 23, 2012 at 8:55 PM UTC
Pacing in endless circles
Appearing to be chasing their tails
With nothing much to focus on,
Eyes reflecting haunted souls unveil
A ghost town abandoned long ago
With no signs of life and the dust
Rising up trying to hide the shame
Of a system which failed the public trust.
Street smells permeate the air;
Sanitation becomes a four-letter word.
There's no need for appetite here,
Not in this theater of the absurd,
And, well, I wouldn't feed the stuff
To my worst enemy if I had one.
It's a no-kill shelter with defunct inhabitants.
If resiliency of the spirit be overdone,
The ability to survive incredible odds,
Look at souls forever trapped in their cages.
As if to mock decency and humanity
The signs read "Patria o Muerte."
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 3:43 PM UTC
∅⚢☢⚧☯✰⚩✿⚥∅☢⚧☯✰⚢✿⚥☠⚩☯⚧✰
Too little and of course, too late
they spend what’s left imprudently
attempting to alleviate
the love of God’s own liberty:
The world transexual one-party state.
They think it’s normal — right for all
lost in a prideful dying fall
their lions heed the sea-horse call
attempting to transgender fate;
the devil searches for a mate
his nightly Babylonian date:
the world transexual one-party state.
They’ll legislate the Lord away
(his fundie followers as well)
their hateful heaven, holy hell
shall wither up and disappear
before redemption can draw near.
Their myths no more shall obfuscate
nor dangle such celestial bait
that underwriters overrate:
the world transexual one-party state.
Their antichrist is overpriced,
the nations, globally enticed,
now glorify the deviance
in herd-like mass obedience
surrendering to expedience:
where good is bad, and bad is great
and Christ the only one to hate,
allegiances exacerbate
the world *********** one-party state.
Parties will form and parties end
but parties can no more defend
consolidation into one
than flip a switch and dark the sun;
the Caesars left this part undone
the Muslims are just having fun
with our *********** one-party state.
Bring on the night until we see
that dark means dimming by degree
two parties? Overdone by one !
So let it bleed and let it be
till One is All and all agree
that we are doomed to hesitate
when God cannot resuscitate
the late One-World *********** State.
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 6:34 PM UTC
You left like a jumping fish.
If I had blinked,
I would have missed it
and seen only
your ripples
left behind.
I am a fish out of water--
Cliché, I know
(heartbreak is so overdone),
but gasping for
something Forever
Out of Reach.
She is a flying fish,
a fanciful gift
nature blessed
to glide through your life,
because you had water
and I, empty air,
and she could wing
beside you,
both of you leaving
your ripples behind.
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 11:19 AM UTC
Your effort to save me was three words long
As though years of bitterness could be rectified
With a superficial, overdone, idiotic phrase...
So that you could at least say you "tried."
It's pathetic how the words tickle the back of my throat
Always waiting to spill onto the nearest sympathetic ear
And even more so pathetic that they are never said...
Because I'm convinced you won't say what I want to hear.
It is in your ignorance that you reach out to shattered people
Without recognizing the barbed wire around them
And you'd be infected with their plague with the slightest *****
I hope you're infected, I hope you end up broken.
You're not above this. You're not.
You pretend to be just as okay as we do
You're not some miracle healer; not godsend
I hope you realize we, every single one of us, hate you.
Jun 30, 2014
Jun 30, 2014 at 10:07 PM UTC
We’re all born with our eyes closed to what we learn to be the world.
Our sounds begin with crying, our fingers bunched and curled.
We’re taught our eyes should open and our hands should follow suit.
Our lips we’re told to quiet, our lungs we’re taught to mute.
We’re taught rules are to be followed, enforced calmly with intent.
Our freedoms and our thoughts are forced and every feeling bent.
We grow into what we are made of and what we’re meant to be
These people born with their eyes closed now teaching us to see.
A potluck set of people and we’re told to pick just one
Forever and for always our individuality is undone
Over time it comes back around and soon we have to teach
Our own little entrées that bunched up hands can’t reach
Closed eyes are not able to watch and loud mouths don’t ever listen
We bend and break and force our little dishes until they glisten.
We age and rot and give up on what our hearts once dreamed
And dying we may realize that it’s not what it had seemed.
Saint Peter looks inside his book and asks us how we are
And crying with our eyes closed we ask our lucky stars
Why never in our lives we questioned what we were
Here we are at God’s front door and we finally concur
Hands bunched up and fingers curled, eyes shut and kept closed tightly
The world we lived on and left for here was horrid and unsightly.
Yet every morning we woke up and our eyes opened to the sun
We've been quietly observing a world that’s vastly overdone.
Oct 12, 2012
Oct 12, 2012 at 4:42 AM UTC
We can escape, now,
it's smoky with a chance of curtain drawn,
our minds won't tramsit light
from our empty, covered windo- the train is here.
I'm ready to go.
And though I'm leaving on a train
with room for only one,
I'm hoping you can catch a cheap ride
hidden in my pocket.
Nobody checks your person, anymore,
Nobody cares;
Homeland Security lovingly fed
us fattened falsities
As the fat cats in suburban alleyways
tore off the thickest
pieces of marrow from the national animal
of our Fiction States of America.
I have known this
because I have seen it from my seat
in coach,
thank god, too, because the train is packed.
So fill up
if you aren't going to hop in,
wishing to distort
your mind with all of their public drugs,
community opiates
transmitting across electrical wires hidden
in the ground,
the trees,
the air itself,
stitched into the layers of
dark matter and cosmic foam insulating
our fragile and overdone Universe.
I hear their static,
that pantomimed reality,
caught inside carbon fibers running through everything,
running through me,
running through you,
running into and out of your brain like
a thief without pause or moral.
We could run, too,
the heavy bass notes of the
nurturing ocean could shield the screech
of the battered train's wheels;
the wheels need a rest from screeching, anyway.
Quick!
While the conductor isn't looking!
The wires will tell him you're here
until you're gone,
hidden in my coat pocket
inside a layer of my inner smoke.
Well, if you insist,
I suppose you may leave,
but once the wound of knowledge opens,
just know it never closes.
It will fester and
prickle
with the fetid odor
of truths turned into lies.
I know I'm talking
to myself, now, but I don't
want to let you go,
though I'll stay here,
safe,
in the train carriage,
hidden in smoke.
Smoke,
smoke,
smoke,
the train heats up,
breaths out smoke from its burning
and throbbing pipe.
The engine has built up
an overdose of heat,
trying to throw off the weeds trying
to grow inside.
They tried to enter me,
and they will soon enter you,
now,
without my smoke to shroud you,
to leave your naked wound
easily hidden in
paranoid dreams.
Screeeeee,
screeeeeee,
screeeeeeee,
the wheels screech out,
ready to go,
ready to run,
to run down the track,
to run through all obstacles,
to run through everything,
to run through me,
to run through you,
to run in and out of your brain,
blown away in a puff of smoke,
my memory has burned away
and blows off as ash
and smoke.
Feb 6, 2011
Feb 6, 2011 at 7:32 PM UTC
If you shot me with your gun
I wonder- if it would make me feel..?
You have had me tossed caressing what was once zaftig and turned simply into "oh, that one".
I wonder- if your mental switch-ery makes me ideal?
After everything you have said, tearing away that of mine which you find superfluous and overdone;
I wonder- if I could ever heal?
But, regardless, you have had your devilry and grotesque fun,
When you took that shot through me with your ****** gun.
I can now fathom what it means to feel.
I can now realize that this pain is what makes it all real.
Jan 9, 2011
Jan 9, 2011 at 8:48 PM UTC
I was sitting at the computer
trying to think of a way
to describe a woman's
*** as anything other
than a woman's ***
and there were
marlboro black
cigarettes on my
creaking desk
and I had a fifth
of whiskey on the
windowsill and
I rubbed my forehead
and thought of fruits--
apples and oranges--
no, no that's overdone
and I thought of animals--
elephants and horses--
but, again, no, I'd
come across as one of
those sick ******** that
go to the zoo in
stained trench coats
and rub themselves against
the chain link
and Eve would walk in
beautiful girl with short
hair and a sharp mind
she'd ask what I was
writing about and
I'd say women
but the women were
never her, she pointed out
and I'd say I don't want to
jinx this, what we have,
you know? and she'd say okay,
okay
I'd get lit up every evening and
I'd text other women
I'd tell them about the shapes
of their ***** and the sizes
of their brains and they'd
usually say uh huh yeah
but I was fishing, always
fishing for that compliment
that sliver of hope, that
unsatisfied wife
when you're trying to be
Bukowski you'll throw
yourself under the bus
again
and
again
for what?
a story, trivial and base,
and that good woman,
that best woman, that Eve,
one day while making breakfast
she'll say to the eggs in the skillet
I can't take this **** anymore
and you'll say so don't
and she'll say fine
and she'll walk out the front door
wearing your t-shirt
you'll feel free for a week
and alone for two years.
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 5:15 PM UTC
You always said I talked too much.
And while I certainly
don't think most people of at least
a reasonable degree of competency would
be inclined to disagree, it just seems
to me that you were thinking
about it all wrong.
Perhaps the real
problem was not my tendency to
speak loudly and with great frequency
but rather it was the inferiority
of your listening abilities,
or lack thereof.
You see, I wouldn't
need to constantly dwell and
reiterate and repeat if you would have
been able to conceive even momentarily
that there was reasoning tucked between
the seams of my stories that I kept
waiting for you to find.
I wanted to give you
chances repeatedly to display some
needed empathy and to meet even my
most basic needs or, **** it, just common
decency but all requests were met
selfishly and I think its time
to leave it behind.
I am ready to breathe
regularly and sleep without the haunting
dreams and stick to it this time without relapsing.
I am ready to finally start resisting picking up the phone
when you inevitably decide you are feeling a little too lonely
and know that you can always count on me to be too
desperate and too weak to waste an opportunity
to speak because you always said
I talked too much.
I hope I am finally running out of things to say.
Apr 30, 2013
Apr 30, 2013 at 7:45 AM UTC
*After enough heart breaks
I finally found a perfect hypocrite
who loved me "supposedly" unconditionally
our days were full of light
felt like moon was a little closer
like a flower we blossomed
we emitted a heavy fragrance
haters choked on it
each day we fell more and more in love
woow to that love
it was crazy and adventurous
while I bought her guns and bullets
bows and arrows
she got me flowers and chocolates
wrote me heart quenching poems
and at night ,serenaded my heart
I painted her staircase pink
and got her ***** dresses
her walking upstairs
the view I enjoyed
But sigh!things just changed
its dawn, sun is up and the moon far gone
Medusa turning me into a stone
would have been merciful
maybe I did overdone something's
believing I was cementing our fragile relationship
after all
the road to hell is filled with good intentions*
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 12:35 PM UTC
I am from a rooftop garden
That smell like fresh guavas
And hard, wired fences
Behind which lies a foggy skyline
A dreaming city
I am from a small, brown-red backyard shed
Tucked between rural green fields
Where two little girls defended the world from evil by
Laughing and swinging wildly on a rusted, fluorescent swing set
I am from a row of townhouses
Where no matter how late the return
Warm lights inside glow
Beckoning
I am from strong rocks
Against which foamy, icy waves crash
Leaving behind grass
Soft to touch
And hard to uproot
I am from eating overdone fried chicken
From short-lived patience
From a voicemail
That will always say
From Lucy, Tulu and Samah
From don’t eat that, it’s for the guests
And if you have to do it, do it, but I don’t want to hear about it.
From too many whys
And not enough faith
I am from Dhaka, Bangladesh
From jostling crowds and hearing a million voices outside
I am from Limerick, Ireland.
From rustic houses and quaint parishes
I am from Wallingford, Pennsylvania
From suburbia and inane boredom
From the college-genius who crashed weddings on weekends,
The woman who is still unimpressed by sushi in Japan
I am from feeling sad if you do
But wanting to make you laugh anyway
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 6:11 PM UTC
Write your poems about death.
(write ur emo-black-hair
skinny-wrist-white-scar
silent-back-of-classroom
ster-e-o-type po-e-try
about death)
Write your overdone morbid
imagery, similes
(write ur unhappy-heart
out-in-ink-onto-paper
arteries-bleeding-out
ur-blue-and-purple
octopus-veins-ur
ster-e-o-type po-e-try
about death)
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 7:21 AM UTC
DISTURBIA
HYSTERIA
FOLDED
ROLLED IN THE BACK
OF MY EYELIDS FLUTTERED BY HAIL
BUT MY EYES DON'T BLINK
DRIED LIKE CONCREAT CRACKED
OPEN
FROM TEARS OVERDONE READNESS
CONTAGIOUS
IN MOUNT OLYMPUS
PALE LIKE COCAIN
IT CONTAINS YOU
LIKE EVAPORATION
I CRAWL WHILE I
SLURR THE LIFE OF MY EYES
LIKE
CHECKING ON INTO IMMAGRATION
BOBB MY HEAD BACK
AND TWIST OPEN THE CAP OF EVERY BLOOD FLOW BEHIND THE SOCKET
AND IT GOES
IT FLOWS
LET GO
LOOSE LIKE A **** TO HER KNEES
PLEASE YOU
ME
INTO YOU
INTO ME
IN MY EYES
STAY OPEN
CAN'T PUT THEM
TO SLEEP
AND SHEEP DON'T COME ROUND HERE NO MORE AND MY SIGHT KEEP SEEING METEPHORES
OF HUMOR FORMING
INTO EVERY TRICK PLAYING OPTICAL ILLUSION
YOU WERE
...AN ILLUSION
CREATING MADNESS
AND THE CORE OF MY HAIR ROOT RAISNG SKIN DEEPINING ICE BURGE SKIN FROZEN
THE BECONS ABOUVE THE SKULL TOP SPITTIN OUT PELE'S LAVA MELTING BURNING
TEARING APPART
THIS MASSACRE OF MY HEART
AND I AM LEFT TO HARVEST
HARBOR
WHAT'S LEFT OF THE UGLINESS IN MY EYE
(INCREDIBLE INK- TEAM JAGUAR HAWAII )
© Copyright 2014 S.T. Parish CSP Rebel of Eden
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 2:53 AM UTC
When I met you, believe me, I didn’t intend to fall for you. By no means did I want to put your laugh on repeat every time it filled the air, every time it filled the room, all the moments when it felt like time didn’t have a definition to begin with. When I met you, I did not believe that opposites could attract. I did not know how valuable words could be until they came in slow thought out sentences, quickly traveling from your lips to my ears and hanging in the space between us like Christmas ornaments, the ones that are so beautiful you understand why they should only be put on display for a short period of time, the kind where you’re afraid to touch them in case you might leave a fingerprint, smudge the beauty of it off with your quick responses and loud voice, the ornaments you put high enough on the tree for everyone to see, but not high enough for the risk of it to break. You tell me that you are easily breakable, when people first meet you, you tell me, that your brain stops functioning because it cannot handle the pressure that new people bring with them. It’s not easy for you to let people in enough to see your elaborate conversations. My luck is the kind of luck that gets me close enough to want for me to see it, know that I’m close enough to touch it only to have me land on my face not much farther from where I began. I am lucky enough to know you, lucky enough to hear all the ticks of your brain that the world could only dream of hearing, but I will never be lucky enough to love you. I’m a desert that doesn’t get rain for hundreds of years at a time, and you are a thunderstorm that will only stay for a little while, you will overflow me with happiness, flood me with hope, and create fields of dreams and overdone romantic scenarios that I am not good enough to play the role for. When you leave, when you return to the amazon where you belong, there will be some lonely hikers who will find the remains of what I wanted it to be between us. They will pick the flowers with your name on it, but they will not question. Some questions aren’t meant to be answered. And the same reasoning applies to how beautiful Christmas ornaments don’t belong on the same branch with the generic ones you find at the bottom of the dollar store bin.
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 10:39 PM UTC
Fall in love with a man who's good with words;
Who tells you there won't come a time he won't be around,
But as the days turn to months and the months turn to years,
As you choke back your tears while you drown in your fears,
He is nowhere to be found.
Fall in love with a man who's good with words;
He'll find 100 different ways to say that he loves you,
Each one sweeter and more heart-tugging than the last,
Watch him use them for his own manipulation,
Up until he decides that this is it, that his "love" has come to pass.
Fall in love with a man who's good with words;
He'll express how he hates seeing you sad, making you cry,
But like a stubborn child, he never learns from his mistakes,
Protecting his ego and his sense of pride,
when all you wanted was to see him try.
Fall in love with a man who's good with words;
He'll need you to know that he thinks you're a goddess,
And oh, will you believe his overdone flattery,
But realise this: once he's done and he's gotten what he came for,
Every single flaw and secret will be made into a mockery.
The same voice that sang you praises,
will be shouting words shaped like knives aimed at your heart.
The same tongue that formed you personalised spoken poetry,
will lash out at you,
further crumbling the pieces he promised to put back together.
The man who's good with words rarely means them,
He's mastered them because they are all he has to offer, all he has to bring to the table,
But still you need to fall in love with him and his words,
So you'll know how to treasure the man who _doesn't need them_.
Aug 14, 2016
Aug 14, 2016 at 2:30 PM UTC
I never thought my mentality could be torn to such an extent.
Worse than the slaps
The shoves
the kicks
the punches
I went in for Joy
I had hope
never thought I could live a life so exhausted
Stress is the word of the day. Every day
But its so overdone
It goes beyond anxiety.
Fear
helplessness
Every cent I earn goes to the family we were supposed to be
creating
Now its all going to the family I wish I could be
deserting
How can I love her when I come home and
“You're a piece of ****
“Where were you all day?”
“You're a piece of ****
I'm a piece of **** I'm a ************* piece of ****
I'm gone to often, I don't dress nice, always on my phone
have to many **** friends
don't care enough
never clean
smell horrible
can't perform
don't love her enough
Tell me a way to show my love
Tell me
I want to know
because maybe it will get her to stop
maybe it will get her to
be who I told “I do”
It was all mental for a while
I thought when you broke it was like
in half
I didn't know there were
shatters
tears
splits
explosions
My identity was numb by the time she started physically
my friends and family believe the rumors
*********** has addicted another husband
I don't have what it takes be a
“real man”
No hope, no reason, no soul
her life
her punching bag
her creativity
Don't tell me women can't physically abuse
they're not dumb
You get punched, slapped, kicked
so you grab her
see you in a year when you get out
she called in and there was marks on
her arms from your hands
now you're the guy who has no pride
I haven't had one for a while
If I did I would have been locked up
two years ago
But I also don't have a me
so its easier
It hurts yes
but I'm in more pain when I think about not being
able to see my boy
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 7:49 PM UTC
To the simple minded man
This day would have been like the rest
Would have been an overdone steak dinner
Alone
But he plays a broken bone remix
Of ex-lover’s gritted teeth
It is the click in his jaw over steak
That reminds him of the gnashing
He nurses a beer
In between helpings
But there’s always the click
A painful metronome
For past music
When he was capable of lapping the language out of her mouth
Days when he was all noise
Like a hallway echo
Or a fist through drywall
Or a nightmare gasp
But now all he needs is the cotton he eats
To soak up the sound
So he won’t have to listen to himself keep sayin’
There used to be this growl my gut made
For your bitter music
When we choreographed a collision
Of bone
And breath
And teeth that touched when I still thought I wasn’t pressing hard enough
The masticating click
Reminds him of her smile
It hurts his jaw
And his memory
But he continues making her painful sound
Like it might actually bring her back
And it does a little
Just for today
And tomorrow?
Tomorrow is too far away
Apr 1, 2012
Apr 1, 2012 at 5:55 AM UTC
I gazed at her skin, fried and sprayed orange like the flames
That swallowed her soul, dragged her down to hell with ‘em…
Let her burn.
Staring at her sparkly stripper shoes, I wondered how she could sleep at night.
Well, she probably wasn’t alone.
Her hair, so harsh, bleached blonde beyond compare,
Frail, fraudulent, wannabe beauty
Like her shallow, gimmicky, stage get-up for the guys,
Giving the goods in mass quantity, like a buffet.
How cheap could she be?
I ogled her body, ***** that resembled balloons.
Psh. More like implants.
Honey, you’re not fooling anyone.
Her makeup, tacky and overdone.
It could never be plastered over her tattered self-worth.
I glared at her clothes, or lack thereof, itsy-bitsy and a poor excuse
For a cover-up, of any kind,
Physical or emotional.
Leave something to the imagination, would ya?
Some girls, how pathetic they are.
I’m better. I have morals.
Even if I don’t abide by them…
Even if I despise the creature I’ve transformed to…….
I gaped at the reflection, in the million-watt mirror lit aglow…
Who could this be? It never could be me.
Staring between false eyelashes, she was easy to see.
A party girl. A ***
No, no!
It’s not me…
Apr 30, 2011
Apr 30, 2011 at 2:33 PM UTC
the best love stories are the overlooked
the ones that you sat round
the dining table listening to
when you were a child
and you couldn't ever imagine
your grandparents being young and so in love
love stories are kisses in the pouring rain
but only because she forced him to
because she thought it'd be romantic
it's bickering in the living room
when he gets home from work
about how he never does anything
it's watching tv together
late at night
being completely comfortable in each others silence
it's her doing the dishes
and him vacuuming the carpet
it's him kissing her goodnight
every night for 40 years
it's her still getting butterflies
at the sight of him after all this time
it's quiet nights out
at a family restaurant
it's holding hands
during thunderstorms because he knows
she's terrified of lightning
the best love stories
aren't the grand and overdone
the best love stories
are completely overlooked
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 11:19 AM UTC
baffled at ** hum
yawn snore boredom
what a conundrum
this viral life infarction
unnecessary creation
boring old pity party hum drum
cry me a river; don’t want none
get off your *** ***
enjoy the sun some
be a person
impaired some?
take your **** meds ***
walk the woe is me to the dump slum
debbie downer 24 sev 365 clusterfucktion
sad lil’ emo infection
overdone depression queen incursion
misery loves company seduction
Mar 12, 2015
Mar 12, 2015 at 12:02 AM UTC
H is for help! you know I'm alive
E for estranged, expressionistics
contrive
R eading rhymes- revise, review
reprise, recite- rethink and renue.
O verwhelming-
vertly, overdone-
bsessive...
o ntology~
Still, I'm the one.
I'm the hero, of the story-
Don't need to be saved.
Mar 2, 2024
Mar 2, 2024 at 8:57 PM UTC