"podiatrist" poems
not everyone who holds a pen is a writer.
not everyone who rides a horse is a jockey.
not everyone who clips their toenails is a podiatrist.
not everyone who smokes knows the feeling.
not everyone who chokes is a sadist.
not everyone who lies is an actor.
not everyone who wears a moustache is a communist.
not everyone who smiles is the sunlight.
not everyone who tries is a failure.
not everyone who shouts knows the silence.
not everyone who cries knows depression.
not everyone who laughs gets the joke.
not everyone who speaks is a teacher.
not everyone who hears truly listens.
not everyone who died really lived.
Dec 25, 2011
Dec 25, 2011 at 9:41 PM UTC
Well, we only lost one
But it was a rock star
we only lost one
But she was a soccer player
we only lost one
But he was a philanthropist
we only lost one
But she was a podiatrist
we only lost one
But he was a good dad
we only lost one
But she drove us all mad
Well, we only lost one
But it should’ve been our first one
As the days go by
No matter how hard we cry
Nor times we ask why
We will never know
Well, we only lost one
And we missed all the toys
we only lost one
And we missed all the stories
we only lost one
And we missed all the scrapes
we only lost one
And we missed finger smashed grapes
we only lost one
And we missed all the laughs
we only lost one
And we missed all the baths
Well, we only lost one
And we will try for another one
As the days go by
No matter how hard we cry
Nor times we ask why
We will never know
Well, we only lost one
So my heart severely aches
we only lost one
So tears puddle like lakes
we only lost one
So this emptiness is real
we only lost one
So things seem so unclear
we only lost one
So why does it feel like more?
we only lost one
So to the sky I roar
Well, we only lost one
So we hope to meet the next one
As the days go by
No matter how hard we cry
Nor times we ask why
We will never know
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 4:42 PM UTC
My feet have callused
cracks, so I worry about
my immortal sole.
Oct 11, 2010
Oct 11, 2010 at 5:32 AM UTC
Today, my eyes are drawn to trees whose
leaves are now scouring their knotted roots,
just as podiatrist's fingers search for corns.
Forbidding skeleton branches glance back with knowing,
and our lives’ meaning it seems
are the lives’ meaning of leaves, growing strong and colorful,
getting this and that from the earth, but
impossible to stay for long.
Today, my fists clench. Waves of anxiety as blowing
leaves are gathering, compounding against my person,
just as pedestrians waiting to cross,
forbidding contact but crowding, shoving the curb.
And our ligaments that fail
are the limiters we feel,
getting thinner and thinner, seeing its
impossible to stay for long.
Today, my thoughts continue to dim while
leaves are loosed and blow in the wind,
just as peddlers flee the scene of the scam.
Forbidding dotage, autumn knocks at our door,
and our livid little cries
are the lights we use to cut the shade that’s
getting thicker and thicker, making it
impossible to stay for long.
Feb 16, 2013
Feb 16, 2013 at 2:34 AM UTC
drunken podiatrist
face full of feet
seated at the reapers’
keep
pleated sneakers
freak seekers
weaker than peeking tweekers
needing respite a quiet pine cove beacons
alone with disorganized thoughts,
sleep evades capture
melancholy and fidgety
***** fingers fumble in the needles
absentmindedly truffle hunting
little piggy, sad and introspective –
well-wishers fish for the perfect dish
the combination of flavors that will remove pain
while creating pleasant inconsequential conversation
as no one wants to look at reality
even in times of loss
…but at what cost?
mossy lip gloss tossed
plausible pauses cause
raw nerve sawing –
bunion burns and yellowed toenails curl
once again seated in front of the lonely *******
red eyes hide nights of lies to wives
despising the rising bile
fruit flies dive against spore covered windows
cluttered floor acts as a shore against poor ******
and he has the audacity to charge my insurance –
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 11:42 AM UTC
A moth flies into a podiatrist’s office and says,
“I hate my wife, my son, and myself.
I can’t look in mirrors anymore. Please help me.”
The foot doctor tells him, “I’m sorry
but I can’t do anything for you.
Why did you come here?”
And the moth says,
(this is the punch line)
“Your light was on.”
Everyone laughs.
I leave out the parts about
moths flying too close to the light
because they don’t know it will **** them,
how they flit through open windows into our bedrooms
because they are following something beautiful,
because they don’t know that they’re lost,
that we find their tiny corpses
in the corners of our homes
and behind our beds.
I’ve always looked in mirrors too long.
I stare at the dark circles under my eyes and think,
“Please help me,” and my reflection says, “I’m trying.”
I thought about killing myself yesterday
and didn’t tell anybody,
not even my foot doctor.
No one laughs,
because that’s about as funny
as a suicidal moth turning towards the light
because he has nowhere else to go.
Mar 15, 2015
Mar 15, 2015 at 12:21 AM UTC
I'm off to heaven this morning as I be sitting 'pon the bus.
Podiatrist invasion as my poorly feet doth cuss.
Crying internally silently, nowt but an odd wince be spake.
Today being my day of rest.
My feet I do so take, to the wonderful chiropodist.
Wise and wistful.
Curer of pain.
See her next year.
Same time again.
(c)LIVVI
Aug 17, 2016
Aug 17, 2016 at 8:57 AM UTC