"planting" poems
When i was 13 I thought that gay and straight were things that other people were
People that weren't raised christian
People that didn't have dads
People that were abused
People that i should pray for but not get close to
when i was 14 my best friend came out as gay
i didn't see it coming but i probably should have
she wore ties every day
and plaid shirts with the sleeves rolled up
and cut her hair short as soon as she could
but i didn’t see it because gay was other people
when i was 14 i watched as the news spread like wildfire
“did you hear? that girl is gay.”
I watched as people slowly backed away from her
people that knew her all her life
that is, the people that didn’t cut her off instantly
I watched as the youth group we had both attended asked her to leave
I watched as her drama group kicked her out because they were afraid of the yearly camp we went to
that somehow knowing that she was gay made her more likely to attack the other girls in their beds than the year before
I watched.
I didn’t do anything.
what changed my mind wasn’t a change of perspective on queer people
it still took me a year to decide being gay wasn’t wrong
but i decided that my best friend was someone i would stick with
because i loved her
I quietly stayed.
didn’t make a fuss, didn’t call people out when they called her names behind her back.
I should have.
but i didn’t.
I didn’t join in, but i didn’t defend her
i didn’t say to these people
**** you
that girl is beautiful and amazing
and if you can’t see through your hatred then i don’t want to be your friend either
but i didn’t .
I didn’t go through what she did.
I didn’t get kicked out of anything, i didn’t lose friends
When i was 15, i got fed up
I left that drama group.
I stopped going to that church.
I stepped away from those friends and even though i never said why
the look on my face when i ran into them and they asked, “how’s she doing?”
answered that question for them.
I spent 24 hours examining my bible
trying to find the verses that say being gay is wrong
there were barely any
and they were right next to verses that said eating pork was wrong
or planting crops next to each other
or wearing two different fabrics
there was my answer.
this isn't a story of my journey.
This isn't me building myself up
“hey, I wasn't as bad as those other people
I’m good now”
this is a story of how one person can change your life forever
if i didn't have a gay best friend
what a way to start a story, huh?
if i didn't have a gay best friend then I would still be there
quietly praying for the sins of others, but not trying to understand
so don’t look at all Christians and say
they’re awful
they’re bigoted
they’re judgmental
because we are
but often it’s because we don’t know any better
teaching us kindly works
leading by example.
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 1:27 AM UTC
Gentlemen of Courage and Ladies of Excellence,
Toast to stolen prayers with rarer player’s hands;
Soft in defiant laughter,
when drinking their wine from the bowels of brines
Sing along the Ballads of Heritage with Melodies of Exception;
Boast, not a breathe,
though sullen heirs ghost to fairer wearer’s air(s) of land—
A settlement of Rapture and Resurrection, arid, amid dirt and sand
and King and thy Kingdom sprout flowering tomb, and rosebud temple reach to the sky during the showers of spring
Devours the crescent Moon
in big pink petals of bloom;
A garden so fertile
it could look pretty in wartime—
with Gardeners of Courage and Laborers of Excellence;
(Lapse, not into digressions of Being and Essence
but hands in the soil and planting the actions of kingdom come,
patient building of Spring Reign sure
as the flame, the architect of rising Sun is
(Daughters and Sons of kingdom came,
the soldier in a land been conquered and named; abandoned
for the greenness of hope.
)May it never come, Be All The Same; (
be gentle, though whispering wind)
Seeds of Nextyear and the spores of Awhile,
carried by the Wasps and the Clouds
To the Gentlemen of Excellence and Ladies of Courage,
illuminated, eyes from the flora of stars faraway forest floor of foreign
fears,
as the hungry Owls of Time prepare a final feast—
Consume the years between Here and Now;
Watching from blank perch, among
the Trees of Afterall; a place beyond expectance.
Sing the branches of experience, to wake
in Siren’s cipher; inelegant forms
of waking,
ugly sleep on rocks of seabed; once was aboard a marooned skyline—
Those Who Are Will Be
again, again a serf in a wave of Time’s refraction. Neverending neverbeginning;
Those Gentlemen of Courage and Ladies of Excellence,
on the Day That Is, arrays of seers sayers doers displayers
optimists and pessimists, toast to them
and their rarer player’s hands,
Boast they, not a breathe, though sullen heirs ghost
to fairer wearer’s air and land;
Laugh and howl and dine, they drink their wine
from disemboweled gourds
of their own divine—
Warped, in jowls of hungry fix,
no feast they fear, for they prey to the Owls of Time.
Apr 30, 2018
Apr 30, 2018 at 5:28 PM UTC
~ Ode to Spring ~
Cherry blossoms filled with bloom
rhododendron’s sweet perfume
warming winds feign summer’s breeze
songbirds singing from the trees
Open windows, déjà vu
sunsets filled with graceful hues
families gather on their strolls
Mother Nature for the soul
Baseball season at the park
evenings lifted from the dark
daylight savings' finally here
patios for wine and beer
Cleaning house and planting seeds
rebirth fills the days and deeds
picnic baskets, hummingbirds
poets find their way in words
Kaleidoscope of bedding plants
shorts in favour over pants
farmers markets, garage sales
power-wash the decks and rails
Hiking, tennis, gardening
inhale the freshness of the spring!
painters, sculptors shape their art
gather here with grateful hearts
Mar 31, 2019
Mar 31, 2019 at 1:15 PM UTC
When I look back at the things I had
The things that now are gone
I was planting seeds of division
But the trees grew tall and strong
I used to see for miles around
But now the forest grows
Beneath the shade of branches
Are secrets no one knows
At first it was a place to hide
An oasis on barren lands
But holding on to a past that's gone
Was just leaving time on my hands
For years I must have wandered
Abandoning all that was good
I thought I knew my way out
But now I'm lost in the woods
Dec 28, 2016
Dec 28, 2016 at 8:26 PM UTC
*
*After planting a kiss on Krishna's lips
Radha slowly whispers
"Where is the playground
We will go and play?"
And Krishna replies
"YOU've already started
Playing on it now!"
Radha moves a step back
In the darkness of the night
Krishna:
"Where are you going?"
Radha runs a few steps away
Krishna:
"Do not go away my Radha
Stay with me for some more time
Let us play at least one game
The game you started on my lips"
Radha smiles and disappears
In the darkness of the night
Krishna:
"Where are you hiding now?
What is the hurry
To run away from me?
Wait for another hour..!
Be with me, my BELOVEDz..."
Krishna:
(singing)
"We did not even start
Playing the game of LOVE
We did not even
Explore each other
We did not even
Hide within each other
We did not even
Look into each other's eyes
My heart is thirsty of YOU
I felt your heart on my chest -
And I heard it beating so fast
The game of LOVE has just begun
Do not go away from me
Stay back with me tonight..
Just for one night - my BELOVEDz!"
Radha:
(sings back)
"I will stay back
If you promise me that
YOU will rain your LOVE
For the whole night
Within my ocean
You will strike lightning
Within my abyss
Please promise me that you will
wander over me,
And wonder over me
For the rest of the night"
The birds of the forest sing in a chorus:
"Even though it is night, we birds are awake
We will ask fireflies to light up the sky
We will build a house of
Branches and vines for both of you
We will tie you up in the spider's web
And we will play music of
LOVE for the whole night"
The animals of the forest join the chorus too:
"We have build a swing for such a day like this
YOU two LOVERz can come
And swing the whole night
While sleeping together on this cradle"
Radha:
(peeps out from behind a tree)
"While I am wearing my Krishna
Like a cloth on me
What if we are caught by the world?"
Krishna:
"I will hide you within me
So no one will see YOU separate from me"
Radha:
"Okay, if you say so
I will run and come right away
In your embrace and hugs"
Krishna:
"Oh Radha, be fast -
Surrender your LOVE to me
And sweeten my milk
with your honey.."
Radha: (hesitates)
"Please have some patience for a while
Why are you in so much hurry
To LOVE me - my LOVERz?"
Krishna:
"I promise on the billion stars of the dark night
I promise on every grass & leaves of this forest
If you promise to come to me once
I will LOVE you for a thousand lives"
Radha:
"I am mesmerized by your LOVE deeds
But I won't tell you how I feel"
Krishna:
"I know how you feel -
It must be the same as I feel
Such a salty and sweet feeling
Within the core of our hearts"
Radha-Krishna:
(sing together)
"And we have lost control
On our own heart in LOVE
Tonight we are filled with divine LOVE
That we pour out on each other
Let our touch ooze
LOVE fragrance on entire forest
Let us not utter a single more word now
Let our being & body play its parts
Let us listen our silences & sounds
And enjoy the deep cravings
Of our LOVE-NIGHT"*
*
Mar 28, 2019
Mar 28, 2019 at 11:58 PM UTC
Yesterday saw us through in a stroll
Unaware of the marathon we've begun.
By day's end we found ourselves bearing future's toll
Realised we were in it to secure today's sun.
Today saw us slightly worn thin
Indulgent naïveté in this marathon we've begun.
Into each other's strengths we lean
Hoping to see the end in tomorrow's sun.
Tomorrow may see us out in the cold
We may not be done with this marathon we've begun.
At opposite poles save for the binds that hold
But still planting hope in future's sun.
The future might see each breath to be drawn
In this marathon we've begun.
Only to be swallowed by each new dawn
Inadvertently still chasing the sun.
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 2:46 PM UTC
Your face is always into sunshine;
It gives hope and clear aura to everyone.
The way your eyes say Hi whenever you smile;
It lessens up a bad vibe not just for awhile.
You are clothed with strength and dignity.
And you laugh without fearing the future and reality.
In the darkest days of your life;
I know you’ll stand tall to find the sunlight.
You won’t bloom to where you’ve planted.
I know you’ll explore more to get started.
It’s your goal for a better life to get;
Pursuing to reach your dreams and to be contented.
You are a flower that will not wither.
It’s because you know how to get yourself watered.
Even in cloudy days turned rainy.
You still know how to make yourself shiny.
Your influence is like spreading seeds;
Planting good vibes to the ones who are in need.
You are a sunshine that lightens up a day.
A sunflower that smiles, feeling like summer.
© Quenniebells, 2015
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 12:54 PM UTC
We live in a world, that's loaded down with greed. Man will do anything for money, falling to do a good deed.
Man will take a chance, to traffic people across the boarder. They pack them in like sardines, and like a selfish hoarder.
We will never stop allowing drugs, from entering our land. Men thinks that they are cleaver, by planting drugs, within the body of man.
With the technology we have, something need to be done. The slavery of woman who 's brought to our country, to them, it's not fun.
By, Sandra Juanita Nailing
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 11:58 PM UTC
When gentle breezes turn into gale,
remember that you will prevail.
You may tear at these pages daily,
in search of peace and tranquillity.
Planting hope and scattering wishes,
Spilling blood in smears and blemishes...
Flying out of the dark on
wings of birds.
Bridging the rippling void through
severed words.
***Seeking...
Reaching...
Imploring...
Writing...***
Be not wary of eyes that speak.
Be not afraid of mouths that leak.
Know that our scribbles are only
sacred to us.
Emotions and thoughts we
bind and truss.
What we put forth, we owe it to ourselves...
Bits of us we've kept hidden in the
darkest rooms; atop the highest shelves.
You...
are wielder of your mighty pen.
You...
determine how far or long your
words would span.
Your words... They're precious gold.
Many or little; be them new or old.
So let drip your ink with little reservation...
Let us grow from strength to strength
as life teaches its lessons.
Rise up and live on in these here pages,
For here exist only
freedom;
not cages.
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 6:53 AM UTC
you had a green thumb,
planting rose after rose.
but when you grew bored,
a tulip would show.
her stem was too short,
her smell did grow hazy
so not long after that,
you planted this daisy.
I thought I was special,
I thought I was yours.
until I saw you water
that daffodil *****
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 6:54 AM UTC
We wear this city on our feet
Planting our roots with each step
Our shadows
cast shapes of ancient oak trees stretching out over old squares at daybreak
We grow here
with the spirit of buildings past,
present and rising like a staircase to heaven in the distance,
the plumes of white smoke from their rooftops as burnt offerings for incense,
spires for steeples,
the bundled masses of people moving beneath as the calloused soles
of our feet pounding the pavement,
Our congregation
seated in reverant silence on the R-Line hissing to a stop
Their hushed prayers filing out from within to bring the reclaimed sidewalks of Fayetville Street back to life to join this pilgramage
They march
downtown toward Capitol
holding signs for disarmament
They bar-hop through Glenwood toasting to deliverance
They move in a blur of faces that become us,
Rush at all hours through our veins
Cross our hearts and keep us breathing,
Moving
wearing the city on our minds
like the greyest pieces of their winter sky and the way it caps the peaks of Mount PNC, BB&T and Wells Fargo like hoodies over our heads
We assume monk-like appearances
in robes color-coded by season- from blue collar sweaters to cold hard sweat
We'll wear their city until we're worn out and wet,
We'll wear their dreams at night
like streetlamps flickering on beneath wired telephone poles carrying conversations about each one as far south as Florida, fears unspoken, made visible
on iron park benches too cold to sit on at this hour
We'll keep walking
and wear this city like backpacks over our shoulders
under the watch of their heavens,
the skyline
a glowing testament
of every step taken
toward someplace higher.
Apr 9, 2018
Apr 9, 2018 at 7:27 PM UTC
I am my own garden
Wildflowers grow on me
But he came along,
He didn't dig holes but graves
Then you came along,
You didn't plant a single kind but plenty
I let you water my plants
But as they begin to sprout
You drowned and burried them
Under the graves he made
I am my own garden and
I will start digging holes
I am my own garden and
I will start planting seeds
I am my own garden and
I will not expect anyone
to water my flowers for me
Aug 1, 2018
Aug 1, 2018 at 2:25 PM UTC
People only ever want to ask me about
the poetry -
those verses about
busted up noses in outer space;
about the pros working
way down passed
the corner of Broad and Main;
about fistfights and hard, hard drinking.
But I built a flowerbed this weekend...
Twenty two tastefully irregular stone blocks
in a crescent moon shape,
filled with the blackest of soils.
The sweat of toil.
The digging.
The planting.
Exotic grasses. Asian maybe?
Purple and yellow flowers.
Zinnias or some **** thing.
All covered in a thick blanket of brown mulch.
It's a fine thing to have dirt on your hands
instead of blood.
No one ever asks me about flowerbeds.
May 14, 2018
May 14, 2018 at 10:12 PM UTC
Our last connection with the mythic.
My mother remembers the day as a girl
she jumped across a little spruce
that now overtops the sandstone house
where still she lives; her face delights
at the thought of her years translated
into wood so tall, into so mighty
a peer of the birds and the wind.
Too, the old farmer still stout of step
treads through the orchard he has outlasted
but for some hollow-trunked much-lopped
apples and Bartlett pears. The dogwood
planted to mark my birth flowers each April,
a soundless explosion. We tell its story
time after time: the drizzling day,
the fragile sapling that had to be staked.
At the back of our acre here, my wife and I,
freshly moved in, freshly together,
transplanted two hemlocks that guarded our door
gloomily, green gnomes a meter high.
One died, gray as sagebrush next spring.
The other lives on and some day will dominate
this view no longer mine, its great
lazy feathery hemlock limbs down-drooping,
its tent-shaped caverns resinous and deep.
Then may I return, an old man, a trespasser,
and remember and marvel to see
our small deed, that hurried day,
so amplified, like a story through layers of air
told over and over, spreading.
9.5k
We waste our lives
Planting the seeds of the devil
In hopes
That we can reap what we sow
And enjoy the fruits of our labor
From a tree that will bear none.
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 4:31 PM UTC
spring planting, spring harvesting, spring garlic
One of the great joys of having a job in agriculture
is to think days, weeks, even months ahead,
One of the great joys of having a job in poetry,
like a fireman, a patient planter of love,
you wait to be called,
then becoming by being,
part of an all consuming burning
come spring, take advantage of the cool, wet weather of spring
to put in multiple crops of peas and lettuce, also a great time
to get your perennial vegetables,
like asparagus and rhubarb, started
the planting cycle is not an either/or,
come harvest thy labored fruits,
nine crops to harvest come March,
kale, pick leaves as needed,
leeks, best left in the ground
and harvested as needed,
parsnips, purple sprouting broccoli,
rhubarb, spring cabbage, spring cauliflower,
and of course, my personal fav,
Spring Garlic
Garlic, like like love, is generally planted in the fall,
before the frost and harvested the following late summer.
But from March to May,
once the ground has truly thawed,
the young lover plants, spring garlic or green garlic,
can be harvested.
it’s a long bus ride to Western Canada
where the garlic spring has come,
ain’t complaining lots of time to write foolishness
and plant a few good bus poems in northern ontario
and even michigan,
the window slides, and the seeds scattered,
but at every bus poet stop,
those that need it,
planted many inches deep
April 2 naught how I wish I was nineteen again
Apr 12, 2019
Apr 12, 2019 at 4:02 PM UTC
I'd like to introduce myself to you
One letter, one syllable, one word at a time
I would like to take things slow with you
Play get to know with you
Like I've never been allowed to do before
I want to capture those butterflies
And release them into skies of us
Me and that one
My Mr. Right that has paid your attention in full
That can simmer in the quite between our glances
He would never waste our time on second chances
Because we are what time well spent is
I would like to introduce myself to you
Spell me out with big doe eyes
That only you can read into
That only you would take the years to understand
And looking back
You see me for who I am
Unadorned by outside exteriors
I never feel vulnerable with you
You cloak me in the reassurance that you are here
Here in each moment that I need you
I would like to introduce myself to you
Planting memories that we can sip on in our bad days
Locked in gazes that I don't care to escape
I can't wait to meet you, or reintroduce
I would like to introduce myself to you
Sep 21, 2010
Sep 21, 2010 at 6:07 PM UTC
She's planting out her window box
Young shoots are showing through
She thinks about the Springtime
And the garden she once knew
There were primroses and daffodils
Sweet violets white and blue
She thinks about her husband
And when their love was new
Buds and blooms open up
They scent and colour Summer long
She thinks about those happy days
When they were young and strong
Sunset's falling sooner now
Petals drop, the show is done
She gathers up her Winter shawl
Prepares for what’s to come
May 19, 2017
May 19, 2017 at 5:26 AM UTC
Never lie to the same poem twice
save it for the next one
or better yet don't tell it at all
for a lie no matter how beautiful
it may sound
or sweet it may taste
rolling off the tongue
will always leave behind
a sour smell
to linger in the mouth
of the past and present
and more often than not
carry knives into the future
Never kiss a new lover
with an old prayer on your lips
it will not bloom
to love or lust
only heartache and embarrassment
be alone and lonely and miserable
until there is no stain or trace
of old fire burning
or cinders glowing
or ashes still smoldering
forming the face and the name
that no longer cares
for your prayers
Never tell the truth to a kiss
that whispers only lies
when speaking of love
and dances with serpents
that tend to planting seeds
of venom and lust
in the skin
and the core of pleasure
that will only wither
and rot on the vine
be patient with yourself
be kind to yourself
time and life will pass
and pass too quickly
and pass too slowly
wait and listen
you will find
what you need
as it finds you...
unexpectedly
and then you can
kiss the love
that whispers in dreams
while only speaking the truth
Aug 19, 2017
Aug 19, 2017 at 4:58 PM UTC
Mum had been gone a couple of months, six I think… (An ordinary day, feeling hollow but doing OK) …when I realised I could get rid of the sofa.
I thought it was ugly, she thought it was a bargain. A sofa’s not a keepsake and it was certainly no heirloom. I’d not inflict it on my kids. I got rid.
If I could’ve had her back then? I would’ve done. Even if it meant keeping the sofa.
Redecorated. Bought a new telly. Spent frivolous amounts of cash on scatter cushions. She disliked scatter cushions. I thought they were cosy.
My little boy drew on one of the cushions. On purpose. I was about to smack the back of his legs… (Mum would have, she smacked me when I was little) … I stopped.
I never wanted to. Had known all along, somehow forgotten.
If I could’ve had her back then? I would’ve done. But she would not smack my children.
Mum had been gone a year… (Planting bulbs, feeling conspicuous carrying a shovel ‘round the churchyard) …and I missed her.
It was as hot as the day she died. There was no breeze up on that hill, no cloud. Beautiful views stretched right out to the sea.
My little boy had grown, he helped carry water and dig holes. My baby was learning to walk, she wobbled on uneven turf between the headstones. I wanted Mum to see.
If I could’ve had her back then? I would’ve done. No question.
Mum had been gone three years… (Bulbs were doing OK. There was nothing left to plant that rabbits wouldn't nibble) …and I realised it was time to move on.
I kept the ghosts quiet while agents showed people round. The house sold. We moved away. A warm, terraced place in a small town by the sea. Dad died.
Mum has been gone eight years and I miss her.
Looking out from the Downs across cliff-top and sea, the churchyard seems nothing more than a soft-grey fleck on the green edge of town.
If I could bring her back now? Everything’s changed.
Ghosts exist. They sit in empty chairs and speak kettle-whistle. Wishing us well.
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 2:34 PM UTC
Losing you feels like my body ripping at the seams
(Losing you feels like birthing a new purpose)
Losing you feels like the cry of an abandoned babe
(Losing you feels like a new search is beginning)
Losing you feels like foundation crumbling in my fingers
(Losing you feels like rebuilding myself)
Losing you feels like all the pain of a lifetime bottled into a single jar
(Losing you feels like love is present everywhere now)
Losing you feels like a rage from the core of my being
(Losing you feels like making every action purposeful)
Losing you feels like breaking everything I once deemed as sacred
(Losing you feels like now I understand what it means to hold something as sacred)
Losing you feels like the sky will always be black
Like it will always be raining
(Losing you feels like a new duty has been cast upon me from the heavens
Like the feeling of rain on my skin)
Losing you feels like the burning
Like the old scars no longer matter to me at all
(Losing you feels like the fire is now warmer
Like there are new wounds scaring over)
Losing you feels like gasping under crashing waves
Like drowning
(Losing you feels like every breathe is important
Like the first gasp of air)
Losing you feels like a forever famine
(Losing you is like planting a single seed to feed a million)
Losing you feels like a life long battle
(Losing you feels like an initiation to become a warrior)
Losing you feels like the universe is void
(Losing you feels like you’re filling all the holes inside of me)
Losing you feels like a death of my own
Like I will never be the same
(Losing you feels like an opening
Like life has taken on new meaning)
Losing you (is gaining an angel)
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 9:37 AM UTC
O Krishna, Lord of Hindustan, I sorrowed by the lonely Jumna river bank, where Thy flute-notes thrilled the air and led the lost calves to their homes. O Lotus of Love, musing on the sad absence of Thy delusion-dispelling eyes, I saw Thine invisible Spirit take form, frozen by my devotion's frost.
Thy divine form of sky-blue rays, with feet of eternity, walked on the banks of my mind, planting lasting footprints of realization there. I am one of Thy lost calves which followed Thy flower-footprints on the shoals of time. Listening to the melody of Thy flute of wisdom, I am following the middle path of calm activity, by which Thou hast led many through the portals of the dark past into the light.
Since all of us are of Thy fold, whether moving, sidetracked, or held stationary by the fogs of disbelief, O Divine Christ-na, lead us back to Thy fold of everlasting freedom. O Krishna, Thou reignest on the heart-throne of each knower of Thy love.
From: Whispers from Eternity
A Book of Answered Prayers
1949 Edition
7.4k
stripped naked in the figurative sense, I see a girl that is far overdue for a dose of joy. so much emptiness in her eyes, blood flow has become invisible. beauty. oh so much beauty in the way she cares absolutely too much for those that are unaware of her favorite color nevertheless asks how she feels every blue moon. perfectionist could quite possibly be her middle name by the way her heart beats in sync with the spontaneous moods that show their appearance every two days or so. anxiety equals a rapid beat. "if you feel worried then you must act on it" seems to be her philosophy because when she's sad and shaky the heart must go slow.
for,
she.
is.
slow.
when the depression hits and vulnerability only shows its face behind closed doors im sure she would say that she feels as though she's suffocating. suffocating in the figurative sense, where everyone is there watching her but no one can differentiate heavy breathing in basketball practice from a ******** asthma attack.
idiots.
so numb. she's so numb in the figurative sense. you ask her how she is and each time it's an automated "good" as if practiced hundreds of times before a theatre performance. an actress. she's an actress in the literal sense. planting a smile from ear to ear even when it's an obvious gloomy day for everyone else. she puts on a show of happiness that could very much earn her an oscar, if only she were literally in the entertainment business. I can see her falling in the way her back hunches just 10 degrees lower than it had a year ago. I would recommend a doctors appointment but im hoping she learns to fix it on her own. I'm hoping it begins to appear in someone around her that maybe she isn't as okay as she seems. this beautiful perfectionist doesn't just have bad days and doesn't just spare her low moods in spite of upsetting those around her. this beautiful perfectionist doesn't see herself as beautiful. this beautiful perfectionist is so far from perfect.
maybe if someone looked a little deeper in the literal and figurative sense, they would choose to ask, after her automated response of "good", "are you really?"
-mxy
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 9:33 PM UTC
A simpler life
No more anger and strife
In the yard, in the sun
Spinning in gardening fun
A big floppy hat
Sunglasses acrobat
Crisp, refreshing mint juleps
When I finish planting these tulips
Owning a house is dream
A capitalist scheme
Millennial bravado
When you choose avocado
Feb 3, 2021
Feb 3, 2021 at 11:11 AM UTC
outside it's browns and greys
Inside an orange glow permeates,
skimming the surface
a Ravel march serenade.
the scent of burning pumkin.
You're in the garden planting tulips for
Spring.
when it arrives,
will kindness bloom anew
alongside the rows of colour..
or will we witness the beauty out there
Separately?
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 4:13 PM UTC