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1
I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.

My tongue, every atom of my blood, form’d from this soil, this air,
Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their
parents the same,
I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death.

Creeds and schools in abeyance,
Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten,
I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,
Nature without check with original energy.

2
Houses and rooms are full of perfumes, the shelves are crowded with
perfumes,
I breathe the fragrance myself and know it and like it,
The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it.

The atmosphere is not a perfume, it has no taste of the
distillation, it is odorless,
It is for my mouth forever, I am in love with it,
I will go to the bank by the wood and become undisguised and naked,
I am mad for it to be in contact with me.

The smoke of my own breath,
Echoes, ripples, buzz’d whispers, love-root, silk-thread, crotch and
vine,
My respiration and inspiration, the beating of my heart, the passing
of blood and air through my lungs,
The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore and
dark-color’d sea-rocks, and of hay in the barn,

The sound of the belch’d words of my voice loos’d to the eddies of
the wind,
A few light kisses, a few embraces, a reaching around of arms,
The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs wag,
The delight alone or in the rush of the streets, or along the fields
and hill-sides,
The feeling of health, the full-noon trill, the song of me rising
from bed and meeting the sun.

Have you reckon’d a thousand acres much? have you reckon’d the
earth much?
Have you practis’d so long to learn to read?
Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?

Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of
all poems,
You shall possess the good of the earth and sun, (there are millions
of suns left,)
You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look
through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in
books,
You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me,
You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self.

3
I have heard what the talkers were talking, the talk of the
beginning and the end,
But I do not talk of the beginning or the end.

There was never any more inception than there is now,
Nor any more youth or age than there is now,
And will never be any more perfection than there is now,
Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now.

Urge and urge and urge,
Always the procreant urge of the world.

Out of the dimness opposite equals advance, always substance and
increase, always ***,
Always a knit of identity, always distinction, always a breed of
life.
To elaborate is no avail, learn’d and unlearn’d feel that it is so.

Sure as the most certain sure, plumb in the uprights, well
entretied, braced in the beams,
Stout as a horse, affectionate, haughty, electrical,
I and this mystery here we stand.

Clear and sweet is my soul, and clear and sweet is all that is not
my soul.

Lack one lacks both, and the unseen is proved by the seen,
Till that becomes unseen and receives proof in its turn.

Showing the best and dividing it from the worst age vexes age,
Knowing the perfect fitness and equanimity of things, while they
discuss I am silent, and go bathe and admire myself.

Welcome is every ***** and attribute of me, and of any man hearty
and clean,
Not an inch nor a particle of an inch is vile, and none shall be
less familiar than the rest.

I am satisfied - I see, dance, laugh, sing;
As the hugging and loving bed-fellow sleeps at my side through the
night, and withdraws at the peep of the day with stealthy
tread,
Leaving me baskets cover’d with white towels swelling the house with
their plenty,
Shall I postpone my acceptation and realization and scream at my
eyes,
That they turn from gazing after and down the road,
And forthwith cipher and show me to a cent,
Exactly the value of one and exactly the value of two, and which is
ahead?

4
Trippers and askers surround me,
People I meet, the effect upon me of my early life or the ward and
city I live in, or the nation,
The latest dates, discoveries, inventions, societies, authors old
and new,
My dinner, dress, associates, looks, compliments, dues,
The real or fancied indifference of some man or woman I love,
The sickness of one of my folks or of myself, or ill-doing or loss
or lack of money, or depressions or exaltations,
Battles, the horrors of fratricidal war, the fever of doubtful news,
the fitful events;
These come to me days and nights and go from me again,
But they are not the Me myself.

Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am,
Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle, unitary,
Looks down, is *****, or bends an arm on an impalpable certain rest,
Looking with side-curved head curious what will come next,
Both in and out of the game and watching and wondering at it.

Backward I see in my own days where I sweated through fog with
linguists and contenders,
I have no mockings or arguments, I witness and wait.

5
I believe in you my soul, the other I am must not abase itself to
you,
And you must not be abased to the other.

Loafe with me on the grass, loose the stop from your throat,
Not words, not music or rhyme I want, not custom or lecture, not
even the best,
Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.

I mind how once we lay such a transparent summer morning,
How you settled your head athwart my hips and gently turn’d over
upon me,
And parted the shirt from my *****-bone, and plunged your tongue
to my bare-stript heart,
And reach’d till you felt my beard, and reach’d till you held my
feet.

Swiftly arose and spread around me the peace and knowledge that pass
all the argument of the earth,
And I know that the hand of God is the promise of my own,
And I know that the spirit of God is the brother of my own,
And that all the men ever born are also my brothers, and the women
my sisters and lovers,
And that a kelson of the creation is love,
And limitless are leaves stiff or drooping in the fields,
And brown ants in the little wells beneath them,
And mossy scabs of the worm fence, heap’d stones, elder, mullein and
poke-****.

6
A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands;
How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more
than he.

I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green
stuff woven.

Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt,
Bearing the owner’s name someway in the corners, that we may see
and remark, and say Whose?

Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the
vegetation.

Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,
And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones,
Growing among black folks as among white,
Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I
receive them the same.

And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.

Tenderly will I use you curling grass,
It may be you transpire from the ******* of young men,
It may be if I had known them I would have loved them,
It may be you are from old people, or from offspring taken soon out
of their mothers’ laps,
And here you are the mothers’ laps.

This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers,
Darker than the colorless beards of old men,
Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.

O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues,
And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for
nothing.

I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and
women,
And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken
soon out of their laps.

What do you think has become of the young and old men?
And what do you think has become of the women and children?

They are alive and well somewhere,
The smallest sprout shows there is really no death,
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the
end to arrest it,
And ceas’d the moment life appear’d.

All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.

7
Has any one supposed it lucky to be born?
I hasten to inform him or her it is just as lucky to die, and I know
it.

I pass death with the dying and birth with the new-wash’d babe, and
am not contain’d between my hat and boots,
And peruse manifold objects, no two alike and every one good,
The earth good and the stars good, and their adjuncts all good.

I am not an earth nor an adjunct of an earth,
I am the mate and companion of people, all just as immortal and
fathomless as myself,
(They do not know how immortal, but I know.)

Every kind for itself and its own, for me mine male and female,
For me those that have been boys and that love women,
For me the man that is proud and feels how it stings to be slighted,
For me the sweet-heart and the old maid, for me mothers and the
mothers of mothers,
For me lips that have smiled, eyes that have shed tears,
For me children and the begetters of children.

Undrape! you are not guilty to me, nor stale nor discarded,
I see through the broadcloth and gingham whether or no,
And am around, tenacious, acquisitive, tireless, and cannot be
shaken away.

8
The little one sleeps in its cradle,
I lift the gauze and look a long time, and silently brush away flies
with my hand.

The youngster and the red-faced girl turn aside up the bushy hill,
I peeringly view them from the top.

The suicide sprawls on the ****** floor of the bedroom,
I witness the corpse with its dabbled hair, I note where the pistol
has fallen.

The blab of the pave, tires of carts, sluff of boot-soles, talk of
the promenaders,
The heavy omnibus, the driver with his interrogating thumb, the
clank of the shod horses on the granite floor,
The snow-sleighs, clinking, shouted jokes, pelts of snow-*****,
The hurrahs for popular favorites, the fury of rous’d mobs,
The flap of the curtain’d litter, a sick man inside borne to the
hospital,
The meeting of enemies, the sudden oath, the blows and fall,
The excited crowd, the policeman with his star quickly working his
passage to the centre of the crowd,
The impassive stones that receive and return so many echoes,
What groans of over-fed or half-starv’d who fall sunstruck or in
fits,
What exclamations of women taken suddenly who hurry home and
give birth to babes,
What living and buried speech is always vibrating here, what howls
restrain’d by decorum,
Arrests of criminals, slights, adulterous offers made, acceptances,
rejections with convex lips,
I mind them or the show or resonance of them-I come and I depart.

9
The big doors of the country barn stand open and ready,
The dried grass of the harvest-time loads the slow-drawn wagon,
The clear light plays on the brown gray and green intertinged,
The armfuls are pack’d to the sagging mow.

I am there, I help, I came stretch’d atop of the load,
I felt its soft jolts, one leg reclined on the other,
I jump from the cross-beams and seize the clover and timothy,
And roll head over heels and tangle my hair full of wisps.

10
Alone far in the wilds and mountains I hunt,
Wandering amazed at my own lightness and glee,
In the late afternoon choosing a safe spot to pass the night,
Kindling a fire and broiling the fresh-****’d game,
Falling asleep on the gather’d leaves with my dog and gun by my
side.

The Yankee clipper is under her sky-sails, she cuts the sparkle
and scud,
My eyes settle the land, I bend at her prow or shout joyously from
the deck.

The boatmen and clam-diggers arose early and stopt for me,
I tuck’d my trowser-ends in my boots and went and had a good time;
You should have been with us that day round the chowder-kettle.

I saw the marriage of the trapper in the open air in the far west,
the bride was a red girl,
Her father and his friends sat near cross-legged and dumbly smoking,
they had moccasins to their feet and large thick blankets
hanging from their shoulders,
On a bank lounged the trapper, he was drest mostly in skins, his
luxuriant beard and curls protected his neck, he held his bride
by the hand,
She had long eyelashes, her head was bare, her coarse straight locks
descended upon her voluptuous limbs and reach’d to her
feet.

The runaway slave came to my house and stopt outside,
I heard his motions crackling the twigs of the woodpile,
Through the swung half-door of the kitchen I saw him limpsy and
weak,
And went where he sat on a log and led him in and assured him,
And brought water and fill’d a tub for his sweated body and bruis’d
feet,
And gave him a room that enter’d from my own, and gave him some
coarse clean clothes,
And remember perfectly well his revolving eyes and his awkwardness,
And remember putting piasters on the galls of his neck and ankles;
He staid with me a week before he was recuperated and pass’d north,
I had him sit next me at table, my fire-lock lean’d in the corner.

11
Twenty-eight young men bathe by the shore,
Twenty-eight young men and all so friendly;
Twenty-eight years of womanly life and all so lonesome.

She owns the fine house by the rise of the bank,
She hides handsome and richly drest aft the blinds of the window.

Which of the young men does she like the best?
Ah the homeliest of them is beautiful to her.

Where are you off to, lady? for I see you,
You splash in the water there, yet stay stock still in your room.

Dancing and laughing along the beach came the twenty-ninth
bather,
The rest did not see her, but she saw them and loved them.

The beards of the young men glisten’d with wet, it ran from their
long hair,
Little streams pass’d all over their bodies.

An unseen hand also pass’d over their bodies,
It descended tremblingly from their temples and ribs.

The young men float on their backs, their white bellies bulge to the
sun, they do not ask who seizes fast to them,
They do not know who puffs and declines with pendant and bending
arch,
They do not think whom they ***** with spray.

12
The butcher-boy puts off his killing-clothes, or sharpens his knife
at the stall in the market,
I loiter enjoying his repartee and his shuffle and break-down.

Blacksmiths with grimed and hairy chests environ the anvil,
Each has his main-sledge, they are all out, there is a great heat in
the fire.

From the cinder-strew’d threshold I follow their movements,
The lithe sheer of their waists plays even with their massive arms,
Overhand the hammers swing, overhand so slow, overhand so sure,
They do not hasten, each man hits in his place.

13
The ***** holds firmly the reins of his four horses, the block swags
underneath on its tied-over chain,
The ***** that drives the long dray of the stone-yard, steady and
tall he stands pois’d on one leg on the string-piece,
His blue shirt exposes his ample neck and breast and loosens over
his hip-band,
His glance is calm and commanding, he tosses the slouch of his hat
away from his forehead,
The sun falls on his crispy hair and mustache, falls on the black of
his polish’d and perfect limbs.

I behold the picturesque giant and love him, and I do not stop
there,
I go with the team also.

In me the caresser of life wherever moving, backward as well as
forward sluing,
To niches aside and junior bending, not a person or object missing,
Absorbing all to myself and for this song.

Oxen that rattle the yoke and chain or halt in the leafy shade, what
is that you express in your eyes?
It seems to me more than all the print I have read in my life.

My tread scares the wood-drake and wood-duck on my distant and
day-long ramble,
They rise together, they slowly circle around.

I believe in those wing’d purposes,
And acknowledge red, yellow, white, playing within me,
And consider green and violet and the tufted crown i
Mokomboso Aug 2014
Dear Emma and the rest of the Sumatran orangutans of Chester zoo

To you, today was just routine. To you, in your bubble of a world, just another friendly face came to talk to you again. To me, this visit was bittersweet, in fact I would say 80% bitter. In seeing you, in meeting your gaze the guilt and shame ripped through me like like a tiger's claws. Ah yes, the tiger, 7 years have past since they had disappeared. People have all but forgotten already, there were plenty of tigers safely locked away right?
You probably don't know this and I doubt that you can read this, but I write this letter to you anyway, do what you want with the letter. Look at the photograph I have included of your Asian relatives that I took during my travels nearly 20 years ago. Or you could discard it, tear it, eat it I don't care as long as you receive this. For nearly 2 centuries your people have been captured and killed and we destroy everything you know. Our growing population pressurised us, we strove for urbanisation, painting a thin venire of chrome. Our colour of comfort, but we made it worse for ourselves as our most important livelihoods were replaced by dust villages and starvation. You were not immune to our pillage I'm afraid, from that first time Charles Darwin met Jenny our blessing became your curse. 3 weeks ago the last of your Asian brethren died. We saw your demise coming, some of us tried our hardest to halt or postpone it, setting up rescue stations and reserves. But the mindless machine wirred on, it wasn't until the last 90 miles of forest remained that the Indonesian bigwigs realised what they had done. In a blind panic they planted new tree seedlings, maybe somehow in the hopes that more bears, frogs, birds and orangutans would materialise from the roots? It was already too late but perseverance drove them to try everything. Everything. Nyaru Menteng offloaded their remaining 8 charges to Western facilities where artificial habitats had been created. The rest of them watched over and monitored the remaining native population, sending out vets and human doctors to keep them alive at all costs. I watched every second of it, followed the blogs and the news. It hurt so much I didn't think I could follow anymore, grief stricken with each "progression" but I was compelled to carry on. And finally, there was one.
A male, Gregory. He never grew his cheek flanges because he had no competition. No drive to find a mate. He knew as much as we did that he was alone. No one knew why they kept him there, all knowledge of reproductive biology was forgotten and replaced with superstitious magic. We kept him there, stayed by his side, fed him and doctored him until finally at the age of 39 he died of a heart attack. The news was like a punch in the guts for all of us. It was announced as breaking news all over the world, pongo pygmeus and pongo abeli officially extinct in the wild. A minority mentioned that many captive orangs still remained in zoos and sanctuaries and that we should not be so sad. But they were quickly shushed like an outspoken attendee of a funeral. Those remaining would not last forever either once inbreeding became too rife, plus, their artificial living arrangements meant these fat, shut in orangutans would live a second rate life, plagued by the same mental ailments that the rest of us urbanites suffer. They would never know the joy, fulfilment, danger, even, of the wild. And these zoo populations were like ghosts or holograms of what used to remain. 
I was afraid for the last 3 months to visit you again, incase you knew and you would turn your head away from me in disapproval. Your disgusted expression would render me speechless. But logic told me this would not happen and I had finally plucked up the courage to see you again. As always you brachiated towards the window and pressed your face against it while I talked to you and pretended to stroke your hair. You were oblivious and ignorant, I envied you. I cried and you wondered why, other humans understood and some looked forlorn themselves. I could see you and your granddaughter looking in concern at our apparent sadness. I tried to look brave for you, I played with your granddaughter as normal. 
Though I had no direct influence over your demise I feel just as remorseful as the loggers did, I was careless in my choices. Living such a sheltered city life and not realising until my second decade the true dangers facing you. I chose too late to be mindful of my grocery shopping, avoided palm oil, never watched films with trained animals in. My few actions made no difference, until very recent years I was still the minority. Don't mistake me for someone self pitying, I don't want you to think I was thinking only of my own feelings and being a martyr. If anything self loathing, I've always been a misanthropist but as of late I've abandoned my species altogether. Apart from my immediate family of course. You were not the only ones that went, Asian elephants too disappeared around the same time. Mackaws of South America have almost completely been depleted. The once hopeful 200,000 chimpanzees whittled down to the last 5000. Bonobos gone already from the wild since the last 100 were taken to sanctuaries and zoos to "rebuild the population" but there were very little captive bonobos to begin in. Gorillas: 1000 (only mountain gorillas are left, ironic isn't it? We focused so much on that one race we neglected the rest). African elephants: 4. Giraffes: 100. The list goes on. And we too, **** sapiens, the most numerous of large mammals are feeling the pinch. It started with Japan over 20 years ago, people retreated more and more into the office, no longer caring to build families and the population declined. The rest followed suite, bursting at the seems we could no longer steal more land for ourselves, more destruction meant less air to breath, less food. People have started to fight their reproductive urges, like the Japanese, retreating into a single life in a cubicle. Sitting by the screen. We are committing a species wide, slow suicide. I consider this a blessing, the rest of nature can finally get even. Some are scared and upset, others relieved. The divide is equal.
I have come to visit you every 3 weeks since I was 21, I am 40 now and in that seemingly short space of time I have seen the world change dramatically while you sit and climb and think your own isolated thoughts in your little bubble. 
Please accept my sincerest apologies. No matter if you read this or not. I am so so so sorry. On behalf of myself, on behalf of my species. Please forgive us.
Yours Sincerely,
Sophie
You know how I said I wasn't doing any more primate ones? I lied.
Not a poem but... this a hypothetical future (19 years from now) and the orangutans have become extinct in the wild.
The Calm Jul 2016
This is America for Petes sake

Black lives don’t matter here

They say they’re being treated unfair

But they’re the one’s drinking up all the welfare

And we even pay for their health care

Poor black folk shouting black lives matter

But they don’t matter

The only thing that matters is the fat cats getting fatter

Build a school or a jail?

In a place like Baltimore, those black kids are already bound to fail

Let’s not forget from whence we hail

We came from abroad to build this house

This was never meant to be a game of cat and mouse

They don’t know their power, so they will never see their hour

Cause you see white people are only safe when those animals scared

White people are only safe when white people are feared

When black people are teared, and on their face is smeared the blood of their ancestors, on the altar that is prepared

The altar that was broken down when we ended Jim Crow

Since then look how low our country did go

But at last at last now again we can make America great

Now again we can end any debate , about what it means to be free

Cause when Trump is in charge I’ll tell you, you won’t tell me

When Trump is President you'll put your hand over your heart for the anthem, not take a knee

When Trump is President, You’ll be satisfied , you’ll lower your fist and you’ll be

You’ll be gratified, you’ll shut your mouth and watch your people die

You’ll watch them bleed like Alton Sterling,

You’ll stand there you’ll cry

And then you’ll wonder why,

why does the color of your skin decide whether or not you win

As you kneel before me thinking about your next of kin,

ready to feel these bullets in your body as your reality sets in

This country was never your own

We brought you here as slaves, you call out for a savior but

Abraham Lincoln is dead so you can put down the phone

Martin Luther King is dead so you can put down the phone

Malcom X is dead, you see,now you’re all alone

We’ve infiltrated your culture and now that seed has grown

As we watch you destroy each other and continue to postpone anything that looks like freedom

Cause you see freedom isnt free

We gained ours in 1776

Your ancestors were still in chains but here today you celebrate with me

Thinking that you’re free

But you will never be free

Harriet Tubman freed a thousand slaves

And she could've freed a thousand more but they were cheering for Trump in his rallies

Because they can’t grasp what it means to be free

And that mere truth is the key

So we won’t say their names

We won’t feel their pains

Cause this is the United States of America , and white is right, we still hold the reigns
The sad views of some Americans. The reality that some face every day. The Hurtful ideals that make some view black people as Animals. American culture to some can be something to be proud about. But to some, it is full of hurt and pain. This piece is written to express some things I've heard from white people whether on the news or to my face at my college in Southern Maryland. I hope it makes you uncomfortable. One can not grow in a comfortable place. Enjoy
MU Oct 2018
Postopone the trip
To help another
Continue the journey

Postone the trip
Embark a new one
With your soul

You are the mistress
Of the path
From tears to fight
Repenting missteps
All your way
By filling others
With delight

Postpone the trip
And understand
The real purpose
Of all travels

To find a truth
Not reach a place
Inside your mind
Not on the map

Postpone the trip
And you shall find
The source of light
Inside your heart

Postopne the trip
You are your home
Regardless of
Where you shall leave

Be the destination
You want to see
Be the change
You’re looking for

Postpone it
And you will realize
The end is you
It’s always YOU...
Understanding the real purpose of travel
Joseph Schneider Dec 2014
Our earth has turned
Our lives are torn
We are able to see light no more
If only for a second we shine bright
We are reminded of our destiny
That of which is death
We strive to survive
We strive to stay alive
Being surrounded with demons of flesh and bone
Demons who are torn
Tattered
Look defeated but are actually reborn
Reborn through blistering scorn they rise
Their numbers are growing
We do nothing for god is showing
Showing his hatred for our kind
Showing his secret and sacred mind
We scream
We cry
For he gives no sympathy
We scream
We die
For he gives no sympathy
They feast off our loved one's limb by limb
We hear their screams as he dies
As she dies
No goodbyes
Just demise
Torn eyes
Black skies
Reaching at us from above tearing our hope from our chest
Our dreams as we rest
Our lives as we suppress
Suppress who we once were
For that is no more
Only for so long can we hide our screams
We will be found
We will be desecrated
Piece by piece
Our mothers torn and brothers death through scorn
Our wives see blood and flesh before being reborn
Now one of them they fight it but only postpone
Postpone the inevitable
The inevitability of turning
Turning from who you once were to a demon
Your birthdays
Weddings
Memories become waist
As you see through the devils eyes you hunt to feast
Inoperational your emotions become
Through the eyes of evil you become ****
No way out
Our end has begun
Our god has given up
On our petty existence we call success
Given up on the killing
The thievery
The ****
The pedophiles
This is why we die
This is why black takes our sky
Why evil is now his ally
Why we are ripped apart before we depart into hell
We become the hatred we once rebelled
The hatred we once repelled
Your children ask you why
Ask you why we have to die
You look into their eyes knowing they will once too be deleted
Deleted from existence
The tattered flesh and blood is insistence
Insistence of his wrath
While we beg to his knees
He returns to his kin with this disease
This plague
This is why we hide
The conquering he takes with pride
Vague emotions to hell we ride
This rapture has become our end
This rapture has become our end


-Joseph B Schneider
© Joseph B Schneider. All rights reserved
Spenser Bennett Apr 2016
Maybe life will be everything I thought it was.
Maybe this ain't the escape I dreamt of once.
I need to slow down, maybe say, "pause".
Take the reins, pull over these lost thoughts.

It gets better. It gets better.
I wear my mood like the weather.
It gets better.
Right now, Fall is my favorite sweater.
Bright orange reminds of the day I first met her.

True colors finally show just before the snow
Shoulders shrug before they get cold
I should've known.
I wore my coat to postpone fresh grown sorrow. I should've known.

And I'm thinking back to Summer's plenty
Forgetting the day she left me
And the way it blessed me
Now I'm drunk with my feet up, breathing in real serenity.
Silent Thoughts Jun 2014
I wonder what it would be like if the tables were turned
You could have all the knowledge that I’ve learned
But hurt in a way that wasn’t earned
Swap you’re heart for one that yearns

I wonder if you hurt like the ones who are alone
The ones they would disown
A reality you can’t postpone
All the more real when you are grown

I wonder if you spent a day ignored
Feeling like who you are just makes them bored
Everyday leaving you floored
Alone in the world

Would you stand up for yourself
Or hide behind a smile
What is easier?
Facing your fears or letting the pain compile

Or you could just give up
Not give yourself another day
But that’s no solution
There has to be a better way

Some might pray
Some might run away
But you can choose to love yourself anyway
Beth MacDermott Oct 2012
I was made for abandonment.
Like a sea turtle left in the sand to hatch on her own and bravely voyage into the ocean,
Escaping her idle life in a pure, white shell for a treacherous journey into a polluted, dark ocean.
She will encounter beasts who will attempt to postpone her self-actualization.
She's alone, but brave.
She knows what she must do
With the sound of the ocean and the light of the moon as her only guides.
She pauses at the shoreline,
The tide comes in,
Sweeps her off her feet and welcomes her in a beautiful embrace.
However...
I am still struggling with the beasts who promised me an easier life
Away from the mysterious ocean;
Idle in their arms.
They led me astray before I realized that while the ocean tides change, they follow the beautiful, definite pattern of the moon.
Lillian Harris Dec 2015
The Weary, they wander
Tempest-tossed
Onto my
Lonely shores,
Sailors with
Shipwrecked vessels,
Travelers grim with
Soles scraped sore

They seek to quell
Their solitude
Ill fated and alone,
And finding me
Beside the sea
Lamenting,
They postpone

I welcome them
With flames alight
Inside the hearth
Of my heart
Although I know
They never stay,
That soon they will
Depart

Every time that
One arrives
The feeling sprouts
Anew
He'll leave me
And I know it,
But there's nothing
I can do

I am Calypso, cursed
To long for love
That is unchanging
No solace rolls in
With the tide
The tempest, still,
Is raging.
Allen Wilbert Sep 2013
The Rhyming Shuffle

Feeling all alone,
life is on postpone.
No one seems to care,
time is now to beware.
Stick me with a fork,
in my *** is a scented cork.
Farts smelling like a rose,
watching bodies decompose.
Climbing up Jacob's ladder,
peeing a lot cause of my bladder.
Calling me an Uncle Tom,
shaving my hairy palm.
Addicted to Candy Crush,
brain turning into mush.
Tired of always snapping,
I deserve some ***** slapping.
Grass is always greener,
with the little old lady from Pasadena.
On board the love boat,
left me with a sore throat.
Saving money is impossible,
spending is just unstoppable.
Writing rhymes is all I know,
all my ducts are in a row.
Going fishing without a pole,
one to many hits from my bowl.
Dying of old age,
took my final bow,
on the center stage.
mvvenkataraman Jan 2013
Postpone not a good deed due to laziness
That temperament will spoil your mission
Always punctually execute your decision
This will help you a lot in life and business

Any good intention must be soon acted upon
Before your mind makes a negative move
Your worth, only your deed will finely prove
Wisely use the opportunity before it is gone

While taking steps, difficulties will crop up
But, we should not lose heart feeling diffident
We must face all the blocks feeling confident
Without playing, how to aim for the golden cup?

Life means only problems and lots of troubles
Happiness may show its face occasionally
Our happiness alone must triumph finally
Due to will-power, troubles become bubbles

Concentrate to achieve the desired result
Let determination be exercised in full swing
Glory and success, only hard-work will bring
Efforts alone tie achievements to one's belt.

mvvenkataraman
Do not delay and lazily stay, Please start today to find a way, Display your talents when you play, As hard-work will pay, Before starting, please pray to fall not a prey.
Dorcus Ramaphala May 2017
Lets use your silence as a knife
cut the heart into two
and smile as we watch my blood flood the room
lets make love so i can forget I'm slowly dying
say you love me babe
hear my voice as i beg you
please say you love me
those words can be a band aid to this heart
they will postpone my death
wont ease the pain or stop the bleeding
but they will postpone my death
or our death
Loving always felt like death
Ella Dec 2009
Just a random poem To postpone my english essay,
I guess it's not very good but I'll upload it anyway,

I guess I should tell you a bit about me,
Very nerdy, curly hair, I need glasses to see,

People think they know me- think I'm easy to judge
but they don't, and well, I don't hold a grudge.

I'm the unpopular girl who everyone talks to,
I look quite happy, but you don't know the heartbreak I've been through.

My poems are mixed, but mostly sad.
I guess I should stop writing now- this is getting quite bad

My punctuation isn't good, although I'm getting A's and A*'s,
My head is always in the clouds, I'm maturer than my friends by far.

I'm going to stop writing- so you can move on,
I'm EllaUmbrella and this is my song.
It may be impossible to perfectly portray,
How joyfully you walked the meadow away.
To sit against your reading tree on a beautiful day,
Oh, the words of love I could not bring myself to say.

How close might we have grown?
If in that moment I had known,
To kneel, to beg God to postpone --
An illness unseen, a fate unknown.

As your head -- fell to rest,
I thought no other could be so blest.
As to nap in the place they loved best,
Though your heart lay idle inside your chest.

There, in the meadow - beside your tree,
Is where I placed a rose for thee.
For it was your favorite place to be,
And where I keep you in my memory.

When you came near I always fled,
My heart felt love, while my brain saw red.
And now my hands hold my head,
'I love you, my lovely dead'...
Hear this poem: http://youtube.com/poetryspoken

In the Meadow by Nathan Elliott Stephen Green
is licensed under a Creative Commons
Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike
3.0 Unported License.
Came home late To postpone the hate To forget the wars That is behind closed doors. To forget the hurt To forget the pain But it doesn’t matter   I got it all the same The door has closed in the night And the feelings  gave me a fright For he kicked me in the head Told me he would make me dead Yelling kicking screaming Saying why is I so late “your grounded get to your room. Picked myself up from the floor And wiped my bleeding lip Held my hands on my side Another broken rib Stumbled on the stairs It hurts and I am numb Closed the door in my room And reached for the gun BANG ! I took my life I am not prisoner her now As my soul floats to heaven I am finally free now
If Fate should seal my Death to-morrow,
  (Though much I hope she will postpone it,)
I’ve held a share Joy and Sorrow,
  Enough for Ten; and here I own it.

I’ve lived, as many others live,
And yet, I think, with more enjoyment;
For could I through my days again live,
I’d pass them in the ’same’ employment.

That ‘is’ to say, with ’some exception’,
For though I will not make confession,
I’ve seen too much of man’s deception
Ever again to trust profession.

Some sage ‘Mammas’ with gesture haughty,
Pronounce me quite a youthful Sinner—
But ‘Daughters’ say, “although he’s naughty,
You must not check a ‘Young Beginner’!”

I’ve loved, and many damsels know it—
But whom I don’t intend to mention,
As ‘certain stanzas’ also show it,
‘Some’ say ‘deserving Reprehension’.

Some ancient Dames, of virtue fiery,
(Unless Report does much belie them,)
Have lately made a sharp Enquiry,
And much it ‘grieves’ me to ‘deny’ them.

Two whom I lov’d had ‘eyes’ of ‘Blue’,
To which I hope you’ve no objection;
The ‘Rest’ had eyes of ‘darker Hue’—
Each Nymph, of course, was ‘all perfection’.

But here I’ll close my ‘chaste’ Description,
Nor say the deeds of animosity;
For ’silence’ is the best prescription,
To ‘physic’ idle curiosity.

Of ‘Friends’ I’ve known a ‘goodly Hundred’—
For finding ‘one’ in each acquaintance,
By ’some deceived’, by others plunder’d,
‘Friendship’, to me, was not ‘Repentance’.

At ‘School’ I thought like other ‘Children’;
Instead of ‘Brains’, a fine Ingredient,
‘Romance’, my ‘youthful Head bewildering’,
To ‘Sense’ had made me disobedient.

A victim, ‘nearly’ from affection,
To certain ‘very precious scheming’,
The still remaining recollection
Has ‘cured’ my ‘boyish soul’ of ‘Dreaming’.

By Heaven! I rather would forswear
The Earth, and all the joys reserved me,
Than dare again the ’specious Snare’,
From which ‘my Fate’ and ‘Heaven preserved’ me.

Still I possess some Friends who love me—
In each a much esteemed and true one;
The Wealth of Worlds shall never move me
To quit their Friendship, for a new one.

But Becher! you’re a ‘reverend pastor’,
Now take it in consideration,
Whether for penance I should fast, or
Pray for my ’sins’ in expiation.

I own myself the child of ‘Folly’,
But not so wicked as they make me—
I soon must die of melancholy,
If ‘Female’ smiles should e’er forsake me.

‘Philosophers’ have ‘never doubted’,
That ‘Ladies’ Lips’ were made for ‘kisses!’
For ‘Love!’ I could not live without it,
For such a ‘cursed’ place as ‘This is’.

Say, Becher, I shall be forgiven!
If you don’t warrant my salvation,
I must resign all ‘Hopes’ of ‘Heaven’!
For, ‘Faith’, I can’t withstand Temptation.


P.S.—These were written between one and two,
after ’midnight’. I have not ‘corrected’, or ‘revised’.
Yours, BYRON.
Jamie McGarry Jan 2011
God made us brown so we'd be hard
to spot upon his fertile soil,
to hide from the birds...which he made as well...
to cower, dodge, to postpone hell.

But slug does not hide, or flinch back.
His coat?  Uncompromising BLACK.
He turns defence into attack.
Oh slug – oh glorious slug.

God gave us shells to weigh us down.
Without them, we would HURTLE round,
so common sense suggests.  Who'd beat us,
across a distance of ten metres?

But slug, dear slug, you have the grace
to not rub freedom in our face,
to slow your stride to match our pace.
Oh slug – oh glorious slug.

God made us quiet, thoughtful, wait.
He taught us manners, and restraint.
He taught us not to stay out late,
we're model garden citizens.

But slug, he DEAFENS when he speaks!
He goes out seven nights a week!
Beer-swilling, hard-living, party beast.
Oh slug – oh glorious slug.

I'd sell my soul to be like him.
Vacate my shell, and dye my skin.
I'd go twice weekly to the gym,
if doing so would let me in

to doors in town that say 'slugs only.'
But slug accepts no fake, no phony.
I'll love, but I will never be
a slug – oh glorious slug.
(c) 2009 Jamie McGarry.

Some artistic license has been taken with the colours of these animals.  In my world, snail = brown, slug = black.  I like to keep things simple.
irinia Jul 2016
This is now. Now is. Don't
postpone till then. Spend

the spark of iron on stone.
Sit at the head of the table;

dip your spoon in the bowl.
Seat yourself next your joy

and have your awakened soul
pour wine. Branches in the

spring wind, easy dance of
jasmine and cypress. Cloth

for green robes has been cut
from pure absence. You're

the tailor, settled among his
shop goods, quietly sewing.
Geetha Jayakumar Jan 2015
Suicidal thoughts often flashed across my mind.
I might have lived and died million times.
I searched for the way to reach suicidal point
Short cut, long cut any cut to reach.

But I couldn't get one
So I just postponed it for an hour.
My thoughts went on traveling too far
But it hanged between
If, that and this.
What will happen after this?

So I went on postponing
For days, months and years.
If I announce,
I will be self imprisoned
With charges of penalty and some punishment maybe,
For keeping such thoughts with me.
It's just illegal and burnt of shame just adds another one.

If I bring into action and I am dead
I will be just buried down dead with few tears shed.

If alive after all these stunts
A severe punishment on self
And I may come into the notice of many
Ashamed and chopped I will
Be whoever sees me!
It's as good as being buried alive!

For time being everything stands Postponed!

Though the topic is too harsh and rough,
Based on reality.
Such things happens when one looses control on self.
Be in a light mood while reading this poem
As you may also love
And I request you to postponed
If such thoughts you are keeping  in your mind!

Postpone it for sometime!
Just see you may find another way out
As some minute changes in our life
Can bring a lot of difference in our thoughts
I know its just easy to spell be positive
Just postpone it for time being for you aren't going to loose anything
As the life is too valuable and precious which can never be reverted back
Once dead.
Just wait and watch patiently.
Sure a sun will rise in your way as it did for me too!

©ALL RIGHTS RESERVED BY GEETHA JAYAKUMAR 2014
Geetha Jayakumar
Fiona Mae Dec 2014
I didn't know him, the boy who died today.
I didn't know the blonde of his hair,
the smell of his cologne,
or the way he spoke.

I don't know why he removed himself from this world,
and I don't know why he took a piece of me with him.
I think of his family, the friends who cry out on social media and how they've begun to grieve.

Then I think of the scene.
The blood in his hair,
the smell of ruddy iron,
and the silence of the room.

There was something he felt he had no other escape from,
some cage that forced his hand to trigger a release.
So close to Christmas,
so close to a new year,
so close to a new start.

They say that as life goes on things get better,
through every struggle, they say to wait.
Wait until life changes,
wait until you reach a new stretch.

But life doesn't get better as we go,
not if we just recoil and wait.
Life does not bring us a reason to live,
we must find it.

Experience creates happiness.

Throughout our existence we journey to find substance to keep us alive:
People who brighten us, ones we have not yet encountered.
Lifestyles we may not yet know to exist.
Love like no other that leaves us sure that this is it.

We cannot give up on life so quickly.
It requires endurance and endeavor to collect these treasures.
We are oblivious to what is yet to come,
maybe one is right around the corner.
Diane K Pak Aug 2018
I know this is not the same, but it not sane to say I’m okay for days.
You said I was the hello to your goodbyes..
All I heard is the other side of no lies.
But I sat there and can’t cried because I would feel like I’ve died to try.

People said it seems that I can’t get all of you out of my head.
Where it’s nowhere to put my love in a some paper bag.

Suffocate and throw away the best I had, again my heart said no I said.
Tell me why not so, but it’s because you and not I that had know.

I feel it that letting go does more damages then causing the damages to let go.
To say I won’t let go of my heart, but the love was loving you than better then we even start.

To forget of wanting my love without loving you.
I needed to change this to only just knowing him not wanting you.

Still falling for your big bubbles eyes.
Yet, I couldn’t hide.
So, i found myself without I.

What can I do to found you in you again?
“I’d rather be a novelist than a filmmaker.”
“The novel’s dead.”
“Well then I’d rather be dead.” The man said.
“Do you mean that?” asked the woman.
“Yes.”
The woman stared blankly. She didn’t want to, but she cringed a bit, and then the man’s face softened up a bit.
“Well, but I suppose I can’t be dead right now, so I’ll just have to be a filmmaker, right?”
The woman smiled.
“Right.” And then she served herself another drink. As she sat back onto the couch, she turned her body so that it faced the man again, and brought her legs up so they rested comfortably beside her waistline. “So tell me, Mr. Famous Director, what’s your next movie going to be about?”
The man finished his whiskey. A dead novelist, he thought. “I don’t know yet.” He said out loud.
In the morning, the man woke up, and the woman was already awake, cooking them both eggs for breakfast. She was also doing work, and had her instrument strapped to her back. The man stood up and walked over.
“Don’t make mine scrambled.” He said. “I hate scrambled eggs.”
The woman turned.
“I’ll make another batch.” She offered.
“Never mind, scrambled will do.”
The woman stopped and thought for a second, and then she swung her guitar back to the front of her body and played a few chords on it. She hummed a tune, and the man ate his eggs, and when she was done humming, she ran to her room and scribbled something onto a small notebook.
“Watch the stove for me.” She warned the man, and he stood up and moved the pan a bit. He turned the gas down and opened the fridge, and took a swig from a carton of orange juice he saw, but there wasn’t much juice left in it, so he finished the carton and threw it out. That night, he would want something to drink besides water, and he would regret that decision, but at the moment, as he saw it, it was the right decision to make.
“When is your next show?” The man asked.
“Thursday.”
“That’s the night of the premiere.”
The woman stopped her playing and scribbling, and she came over and sat down.
“Oh my god. I forgot.”
“Never mind, I don’t have to go.”
The woman giggled, and got up again.
“That’s silly, of course you’ll go. And I’ll go with you. Besides, I’ll just be at a little coffee shop, and you’ll be at a world premiere! I’ve never been to a world premiere for a film before.”
“You’ve been for something else?”
“No. But I’ve always wanted to go to a premiere.” The woman stopped. The man looked at her, and then picked up the paper, which was on the table, and turned to the sports section. The Knicks had lost again, but the Yankees were on a roll.
“I’ll call to cancel my show now.” The paper came down.
“Don’t do that yet.”
“Why not?”
“Trust me.” The man said. “I might rather go see you.”
The woman smiled because she thought that meant he loved her.

In the afternoon the man went to the bookstore, and he bought himself two novels, a book of poems, and some coffee. After, he walked around Union Square for a while, and looked at all the people on their way to and from work. There was a musician by the statue of George Washington that played guitar and sang like Jimi Hendrix, and he sat down and listened to him for a while. He’d seen him before, and he liked how he played, but since he was shy, he never spoke to the musician, who he called Moonman in his mind (because of a big pair of boots the musician wore, and also because of the way his eyes were – one always facing the earth, and one always facing the sky). The man dropped some money in Moonman’s guitar case, and he walked back to his home on the lower West side of Manhattan. He took the scenic route, because it took longer, and he took his time, because he wanted to.

“It’s going to be big!” raved Ned, the man’s friend and producer. “Real big, man, probably the biggest premiere that we’ve had yet, if you’ll buy it!”
“I buy it. Why not.” The man responded.
“Do you realize what you are doing here?”
“What’s that?”
“You’re blowing up, man!” Ned was ecstatic. “We’ll be rich! Maybe win awards! Who knows man, aren’t you excited?”
The man looked around at the room he was in. He was excited, it was true, but this excitement was buried under a blanket of other emotions. He was morose, he was nervous, and he was overwhelmed, most of all, with a feeling of nothingness. So he had finished a movie, so it was premiering on Thursday, so it was getting good reviews, so he might make some extra money—so what? He thought. Time to move on now, isn’t it?
“Sure.” The man responded. “I’m excited.”
“Well of course you are!” Ned answered. “So are you bringing that chick to the premiere? The brunette, the one that sings?”
“Maybe. She has a show to play that day.”
“Well, so what, tell her to come anyway. She can postpone, can’t she?”
“She could.”
“Good. Unless you’d rather bring somebody else?”
The man stared.
“No, I like her.”
“Good, then!”
“Good. Yes.”

The woman came to visit again, around noon the next day. She brought her instrument, like she always did, and brought some food in a bag also.
“I knew you wouldn’t have eaten.” She said, and she proceeded to take all of the food out, and she was right, thought the man, so he got plates out and had lunch with her. They watched TV and he explained all of the shows to her, because she didn’t have a set herself, and so she didn’t know the plotlines, and after some few hours of watching, the woman played some of her new songs for him. They were beautiful, but more importantly, the man could tell she cared about them. The woman stopped after one song, and she turned the page in her booklet.
“What’s wrong?” The man asked.
“Nothing.” She said. “I just feel weird.”
“Weird about what?”
“Nothing. I don’t know.”
“Is it a song?” asked the man.
“Yeah. Sort of.”
“Well can I hear it?”
“Sure, why not.”
The woman played for the man then, and she played beautifully, and though she never said it, and he never asked, the man was taken by a feeling that the song was really about him. He turned red when he heard it, but he was quiet and never took his gaze off of the woman. She sang timidly, and the man wanted to hug her, but she was protective with her voice, so he sat and listened only. When she was done, she turned away, so that her hair kept him from looking at her eyes, but he reached out, and he brushed it away, and then he kissed her, and didn’t say anything. They went into his room, and they made love, and they came out, and when the man sat down and turned the TV back on, the woman was not offended, but instead sat next to him, and dug her head into the soft patch that stretched between his shoulder and the middle of his rib cage.
“You should play that song at the premiere.” The man suggested.
“I have my show.” The woman retorted. Then, “You told me not to cancel it.”
“I did.”
“Yes.”
“Well then.” The man lit a cigarette. “I guess it’s too late now.”
“Do you want me to try?”
“No. It’s okay.”
“Lend me a cigarette?”
The man lent a cigarette to the woman, and lit it for her, and they stopped speaking for a while, until it was time for the man to explain the TV shows again, and he did, even when the woman fell asleep and wasn’t listening anymore.

On the morning of the premiere, the man realized that he had to go, and that he didn’t want to go unless the woman came with him. So he called her up and asked her to cancel her show, and when she told him that she couldn’t, he asked to go over to her place. He found her sitting on her bed, playing guitar and eating carrots. He begged her to go with him, but in the way that people who know each other well beg, which doesn’t look like begging at all, but more like reaffirming things that both parties already know to be true, as if their truth can change and become a new truth through this process.
“So it’s too late, huh? You can’t come with me?”
“I asked you so many times! Now it’s the morning of!”
“You’re right. It’s too late, then, I guess.”
The man was good.
“Don’t do this.”
“What?” the man asked. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be selfish.”
“But you are, and you know that it’s working.”
“Never mind. I’m sorry. If it’s too late then it’s too late.”
The woman laughed now, and she dropped her head, so that he hair covered her face up and made a tent, where she was safe from him. She brushed a strand back and looked through the space this created, and then she let the strand of hair fall back and seal her up once more. The man lay down.
“I really can’t.” said the woman.
“I’m sorry.” Sighed the man. She kissed him, and he let her, but then he pulled back and closed his eyes. “I don’t really want to go.” He said.
The woman leaned over the man, and this time decided to include him in her tent. She pressed her forehead against his, and when he tried to move, she held him.
“Why are you like this?” She asked him, but he had no answer.
“What do you mean?”
“Why do you hate yourself so much?”
The man pushed the woman’s shoulders back, and released himself from her tent. He wanted to respond, and bite back, but instead he laughed. He started laughing hard, so that he could barely control himself, and after a while, the woman began laughing too. She didn’t know what was going on, but she laughed freely, and when he started to kiss her, she let him, and when he moved to take her clothes off, she only stopped him in the beginning, to make him feel like he had to try. He kissed her all over her body and he looked at her with a look that was mostly grateful, as if she had given him some compliment, but while they made love, and he held her ****, they never spoke even a single word. Afterwards, the man held her, and they both fell asleep on top of the covers.
When he awoke, the man was sweating. It was six o’clock, and he knew he had forgotten to call Ned, but instead of calling, he lay there a bit longer, staring at the ceiling and pretending to still be asleep. The woman woke up too, and she reminded him of the things he had allowed himself to forget, and as she got ready for her show, he put his pants on and made some phone calls.
He called Ned, and set up how he would get to the premiere, and he called his mother to make sure that she and dad had their tickets. He called his sister across the country, and he chatted freely about everything with her, and then he called his best friend Matt to brag about the things that he was doing. Finally, the man got dressed, and left the woman’s place, and when he did, he called Francesca, a girl he’d met a few weeks earlier, and a girl that he was hoping would be able to go to the premiere with him.
Of course, Francesca was, and though she had “nothing to wear”, the man picked her up at nine, and she looked stunning in her dress, though the man barely let her know it. They drove to the premiere, and when they got there, the man was very distant.
“Lighten up, you look miserable.” Commented Ned off to the side. Then, “Where’s the other girl, I thought you liked her.”
“She couldn’t come.” Replied the man.
As the night progressed, the man started to look progressively more miserable. He went from talking only rarely to hardly communicating with anyone at all, and at the end of the screening he got up and left before all the applause had ended. At the after party, he was worse, and though Francesca tried to coax him out to the dance floor for a tune with her, he glumly sat alone at his reserved seat, and drank more.
It didn’t take long for the man to get drunk that way. After his fifth scotch and soda he began to realize how he was acting, but by that time it was too late, and even when he tried to cheer up, it didn’t work. Francesca sat on his lap and made him kiss her and he did, and when she suggested that the two of them go back to the car, he complied; but even then he felt that sting in his stomach that he had been feeling all night. The man said his goodbyes and he went back to the car, and for Francesca’s sake he kissed her, and when they were done, he said he wanted to go home. She offered to come home with him, but he told her that he would rather sleep alone that night. Francesca was upset, but she said she understood.
When the man dropped her off at her house that night, Francesca tried to kiss him one more time. She wanted him to come inside with her, but though he kissed her back for a moment, he pulled away quickly, and asked her to leave. How strange, Francesca thought as she walked back to her house, but for some reason, she was attracted to this peculiarity, and before she went to bed that night she thought how much she would like to figure out that man.

The coffee shop was closed when the man showed up, and though he had the woman’s number, he decided not to call it, and instead go have another drink. He stepped into a bar by Union Square, but decided not to drink there because it was too bright and he could see all of the furniture’s imperfections far too clearly. Instead, he decided, he would buy a bottle by his apartment, and drink at home, where nobody could bother him.
The man asked the car to go back to the premiere, and to drop him off where he was, because he wanted to walk. He stopped at a grocery store to buy some cigarettes, and he smoked his Luckies one after the other, and when he was halfway to the Village, he decided to take a subway the rest of the way, even if it would be only two stops.
In the subway station, the man put out his cigarette, and as he sat down he realized that there was a man playing music next to him. It was Moonman, and he was happy to see him, and when he put some money in Moonman’s guitar case, the man was greeted by a “Thank you.” Which he took as an obvious conversational invitation.
“Are you happy?” The man asked, to Moonman’s surprise.
“How do you mean that?”
“You know. Are you happy?” he asked again.
The Moonman put his guitar down and sat next to it. His eyes still floated independently of each other, but the man could feel that they were looking at him.
“No, but how do you mean that?” asked Moonman once more. “Happy is relative, and it’s judged differently by different people.”
“I want to know how you judge it.” Replied the man.
“Well then, I guess so.” Moonman shot back. Then, “Why do you ask, man? Why do you care if I’m happy?”
The man thought about it for a second.
“I want to know how you do it.”
Moonman stared at him, as if he were waiting for him to say more, as if this answer had not been enough for him, and then he sighed.
“Man, you must be crazy.” He laughed. “What are you asking me for?”
The man was silent.
“Look at me man, I’m playing music in the subway. I’m wearing boots I don’t know who wore before me, and I’ve got an eye problem. What would a guy like you possibly want to know from a guy like me? Ain’t you happy on your own?”
The man shook his head.
“Well there’s the problem then. What do you do man?”
“I’m a filmmaker.”
“And you’re not happy?”
“No.”
Moonman grabbed his guitar and started playing.
“Well, then I guess you better do something else.” He said and smiled. The man turned to look at him. “Hey man, listen. I got my problems just like you do. But I’ve got something here most people don’t have. I do what I want, and what I do is make people happy. It works for me. May not work for you, but it works for me.”
“I wish I could do that.”
“What’s stopping you?”
“Me. That’s the problem.”
The two were silent for a bit. The Moonman laughed. The man looked at him, but then he started laughing too. They laughed until the man’s face hurt, and until his eyes started to tear. Moonman was crying when the subway came, and when the man got up so did he, still crying. The man stood as the train rushed to a stop, and he looked over at Moonman and stuck his hand out to be shaken.
“Man, you do you, ok? You’ll be alright.” Moonman said loudly, and both men shook hands and the man got on the train and he left for his apartment.

When he got home, the man realized that he’d forgotten to buy himself that bottle, so he stopped by Barrow’s Pub to have another drink before he slept. When he walked in, the bar was empty, and there was music from the jukebox playing some country western ballad. He sat down at the bar and ordered a beer, and he asked for a napkin that he could write on while he drank. On the napkin he wrote his thoughts, and was surprised to find how very few of them there were. He only knew that he had them, but he had great trouble articulating them, even on paper, which had always been his specialty.
An original short story by Andoni Elias Nava 2010
Sarah Jystad Feb 2010
A Moth rests on your nose for your solace,
Disoriented by anxious breaths instead.
Still your lungs.
Postpone your life for another’s,
an insect that lives for an average of three days is worth
more than you of eighty years.
It has less time to live and
So is forced to live each nanosecond as its minute.
Hold your breath for a second and give it thousands of moments
To study the purpose of your pores, the nature of your nostrils, the message of your mouth.
It is a blessing that one who has such a blink of a life should choose you.
Its tentative, exploring antennae acknowledge your existence
For that moment
You are its universe.
You
Are the mountains, and underwater caves, the forests, the savannah, the tundra, the planets.

You
Are the suffocating suburbia, the twitchy towns, the neglected neighborhoods, the seductive cities.
You
Are sighing waterfalls, lighthearted hills, free-spirited skies, heartwarming dreams.
If god was the universe,
Then you’re set for heaven.

Except

The Moth flies away
Leaving you to take its place.
11/09
HannahAlex Moody Feb 2013
London. January. 7:45pm
A bench possessed by a single gem
Thinking obsessing over a single thought.
Of the last argument they ever fought.

The saxophone player blowing his tune.
His only audience the shining moon.
Trying to earn some last needed dough
Wondering why he even puts on this dumb show
The other street acts already home
Now he stands, alone.

Southbank market nears to an end
Time runs out between two friends.
The spark has gone- the light is out
Now every mind is filled with doubt.

Her mind starts to wander as she contemplates
On all the things she has to complicate
A kiss, a hug, a humorous lie
Did they even try?
Her eyes start to fill with the water of a tear
She fails to keep her mind clear.

She stands up and leaves
Walks away.
She doesn’t know where she’s going
Or why. Or how. Or how long she can postpone
But she still walked. Alone.
Susan Hunt Aug 2013
DESTINY IS A S0N OF A ***** 01-22-11

Destiny most certainly means death
But down here, ***** murders are allowed.
A Low profile is seen as weak, soon
slaughtered by their predators.

Truth: Oakland gangsters are serous.

They bang it for the colors,
colors of their territory
collateral damage lay dead
in the street; the rotting innocent.

This conflict, this senseless war
between three colors, blue, red and black
is why violent Oakland is now called
..... "Baby Iraq", yep you heard me: BABY IRAQ

a ****** occurs every three days
....over red, blue and black.
They say they fight over turf and colors.
I think they're the same damm thing.
Thier colors mark the poles like dogs.
The scent of the enemy is evident.

Intel from the neighborhood walls
reveals the constant dissonance
and the unwillingness to lose.

A grenade of spray paint,
criss-crossing, the others' lines
until it's time to get some respect,
Ya feel me?!?

I hear this phrase so many times
it hardly phases me anymore.
Yeah, I feel ya, dude,
now whatcha gonna do?

This one boy's eyes had me mesmerized.
As he talked softly into the distance.
He began to rock in a sad back and forth,
as his homies began to surround him

He was the wise one, the shot caller
even with  his weak form peeing in a bag
hanging from his wheel chair.

Javier was wearing black, the color from his hood
He was just a gang affiliate until color blue
( or was it red?)pulled up and shot him...
he's no longer walking, in a wheel chair instead.

He was beautiful I fell most in love
with his angelic face with an elf's chin
coffee with lot's of cream color skin
He was smooth as porcelain

He had a youthful moustache
and a memory of a war veteran
He is a gang member now,
in the middle of a warzone.

"Be Bait", "Play Chicken",
take chances, on the enemy's
turf, become victor or victim

Names of games, dangerous,
and fun provoking the violence
passed down through each generation
Some sort of genetic adrenaline.

The series of small deadly battles
leaves a smell of fresh gun powder
asphalt and blood spilled iron
three colors pouring out,
turn into the color of wine.

Hopelessness is proven out
by the swollen death count,
mounting up, the line of corpses
waiting to be thrown off gurneys
entering the morgue, then
tossed into the freezer
with the rest of them.

Baby Iraq has become
a force of its own on the street.
If they ever figured that out,
They'd be running the nation.

They are too caught up
in their fathers' hatred
History repeats, written line by line
Raw power in the clutch of stupid minds,
begins and ends with small apocalypses.

In dire situations, they eat their young,
like ******
The gobbling up of offspring is
nothing new or unsacred.

It's what they do to
postpone their own fate.

Any beneficial gain is not felt yet
but will be, in the events that
did NOT happen

They don't get it
there is no benefit.
They all just die.
Jeffrey Pua Mar 2015
I could lie, and lie hard, about looking,
And looking hard for the perfect blue,
A certain force of blue that castles
The white sand beaches of the South,
Of the Visayas region, somewhere
In your eyes, beloved, while they only echo
The whisper of that brown coffee blend
You infinitely adore, or that proud tan missing,
Always missing out on a red bikini.
But my heart can't nor simply can't.
There's this something about my lineage
That resonates within me, that my soul, wet,
Would always want to travel back
Like a driftwood drifting back.

I do not demand the burn nor the fire.
I am completely fine in smoke, shadowing you,
Shadowing me and the scars,
Making love, perpendicular,
Out of a night perpetual, and postpone sleep
Over our mutual moon beaming.
There is none left for silence, but us,
Only our lives. (Listen.)

I can't help but love that eloquence,
Your tenderness, a roof
Out of your hands. Your comfort
Is where I rest and wake up to.
Say something, anything, for it speaks,
And is pleasure, a poetic treasure,
A novel or a story. I love the way
You nag. Be candid for me,
And especially for you.

I would enormously love to burst
In a quiet laughter, simply because someone
Made me so with a crafty subtlety,
In me, from the inside out.
I would trade my poems for a woman like that,
Like you, and I would love a kiss,
A kiss for all of that.*

© 2015 J.S.P.
Pale, divine light clothing
a hundred people laying like carcass –

a thick fist of people
   punching into the system of failure,

unrelieved, dismayed. Faced with
  downfall, tracing point A to B without

any other in tow but luggage,
  they annulled the flight so we pull

an escape when it rained – it taught us
where to hide, where to run,
what to do when we are soaked in sound
of rain pummeling the rooftop,
what warmth to share

on a bed meant for two with
  only one     dent.
SøułSurvivør Jul 2015
Tribute to my childhood hero
Joni Mitchell

The album covers beaten
The player old and worn
The needle barely tracking
From all the scratches borne
Upon the vinyl surfaces
Of albums that were stored
Unlocking wonderous worlds
Of music I adored

I would lie in cloistered darkness
To hear a voice so sweet
There I'd usher in the nighttime
To worship at her feet
Struck by earthy lyrics
But somewhat strange
Unearthly tunes
To trace with disconnected fingers
The most sensitive of wounds

How sad that good songs
Unsung heroes
Like "Morning Morgantown"
Wouldn't live forever
To "buy your dreams a dollar down"

Recall "Big Yellow Taxi"?
You can rest assured I do!
And "Ladies of the Canyon"
And her epic album "Blue"
Most folks recall a song
Entitled "Both Sides Now"
'Bout clouds and love and life
But they do not know
Her poetic expression
Unearthed deep jazzy riffs
Elitism. Hypocrisy.
And "Summer Lawns" that "Hissed"

At the pinnacle of greatness
Her album "Court and Spark"
Will always be a touchstone
For purity in art

A deeply troubled woman
At certain times in life
Loving truely... deeply
In the "Industry" meant strife

A versatile genius
Her lyrics resonate
Fot the very thing that scarred her
Also made her great

---

At times I'd sit and ponder
A self-inflicted crime
But I would postpone the act
To hear her one last time
Her songs touched me so deeply
Places only she could know
With her voice to guide me
I found a place to go
She became my inspiration
My metaphor. My muse.
Joni Mitchell told my heart
To write of its abuse

I aspire to higher standards
A perfection as it were
And should my work be recognized
I owe it all to her.
Though endlessly I search
For perfect sense of art
It's brought on by

INPERFECTION

But a kind and loving heart.

What I saw in her self portrait
Was a humble, gentle face
She was the greatest mentor

a human life could grace


SoulSurvivor
(C) 10/14/2014
Rewritten
(C) 7/17/2015
Judy Collins. Joan Baez. Carol King.
Just to name a few female
Singer/songwriters of the 60s and 70s
But my favorite was Joni Mitchell.
Her songs "spoke to me".
I was often suicidal as a teen.
But I would lie and listen to music
and let her voice talk me out of it.
I loved her poetic expression
And she is why I am a
poet/songwriter today.

---
Salmabanu Hatim Sep 2020
You cannot postpone love and death,
They both come without knocking on your door.
11/9/2020
Katie Day Jan 2014
You
Part 1;* *Love

I want to climb inside your skin,
Make a home in your brain,
And listen.

I want to know more about you than anyone,
To predict what you’ll say,
But to listen regardless,
Because I love the way you say it.

I want to understand,
To feel each line on your skin,
And scar on the walls of your heart,
And to know the stories that made them.

I want to know you so well,
That sometimes we forget we’re two people,
When it’s late,
And we’re awake,
More comfortable together
Than we are in our own flesh.

Let me in. Let me wear you.
Let me know what it’s like to suffer your downs,
And ride your ups,
And I’ll show you my wounds,
And expose to you my thoughts,
Until we know each other
Better than we know ourselves.

Part 2; The Boy

If I am careless,
if I allow my mind to wander,
I sometimes still
taste
the smoke from your lips.

It’s the wrong place,
and the wrong time,
but my heart still
jumps
into my throat
when I remember your touch.

If I could pick up the phone,
and tell you how I miss those
stolen kisses,
I would.
But jeopardy terrifies me
and I’d rather not dive headfirst
down that whirlpool just yet.

Part 3; The Reconciliation

I know that we used to be
so different,
so full of life,
so full of love.

That you were once
energetic,
excited, and
enthralled,
and I, for a time,
was compassionate,
caring and
considered.

I know that we were once
different people,
with different stories
and different hopes.

We may have lost our way,
become somebody we wouldn’t even have
recognised as being
us,
if we met ourselves 5 years ago,
but remember that
we recognise each other now.

I know your innermost
thought
and your
deepest distaste,
and I will
never
ask you to be anybody but
who you are today.

We might not be the same people
we were when we were 15,
but we are people who have
grown together,
and laughed together,
and loved together,
and we are people who have shared
so much
it would be impossible to leave this partnership
whole.

We have fused souls.

And as much as we may reminisce
and remember who we
used to be,
let’s just tonight remember
something more important.

Let us remember
who we are now,
and that it would be more
difficult for me to
tear myself from you
than to tear myself in half.

Part 4; The Decline

Postpone.

The silence at home
kills me,
so what’s the harm in
one more smoke,
anyway?

I spent more time
travelling miles to see you,
than I would ever care to
admit,
battling on bikes,
through sleet and snow,
to spend 30 minutes
over coffee.

Where did that go?

Now my house is not
my home,
because space to breathe is
scarce
and I am breathless just thinking
of the travel to my front door.

What do you do when the foundations
become unglued?

Nothing can rebuild
something that’s not demolished,
but destitute.

Part 5; The End

I can see our future,
Clearly,
For the first time,
And I hate it.

There are no fuzzy young faces,
No unknown sticky fingers,
No pattering of
A strangers’ feet
That somehow sound like
Home.

All I see are false smiles
And fake conversations
And the knowledge that
I’ll never
Know you
Again.
This isn't part of my challenge.
liz Oct 2012
For you to understand your self-destruction
must I demonstrate
sweet sugary ellipses
to help initiate dreaming
but what if I postpone
and begin to
talk of inanimate objects
ramble meaningless words
would you call me
as I continued
while you goodbyed
must I demonstrate
force fear upon your intestines
for your eyes to open
from your ellipse induced daze?
maybella snow Jul 2013
i can't believe
          it took me this  l o n g
   to actually    
                                 fight back
Sometimes, to scream seems like the only hope i have for eternal life; to scream and have the vibrations reverberate throughout the universe until it vanishes. How terrible it is that this hope is so callously dashed in the next sentence. How terrible that the universe will end. Will humans be there in the end? I suppose not. It seem we’re not very likely to make it past another generation or so. Oh well-- it wouldn’t really matter, then, if my scream did reverberate forever and the universe never ended; there wouldn’t be any humans to recognize it, analyze it and understand what it is that I was saying. To be honest, I wouldn’t even be able to explain if someone were to hear me the second I was screaming-- they probably would’t ask me either. I’ve only screamed a few times in my life. The ones i can remember were late at night on the side of desolate roads where i wouldn’t be asked to give an explanation; which was haunting. I almost wished the moon would pivot in space, reveal a mouth, two eyes and ears then ask me “now what’s all this about?” In either instance, my answer would have been alternating uncertainty about my future and loneliness. I might have even expressed discontent in my life condition. The moon might have responded “you control your own conditions,” but that’s only becase the moon represents society and the generalized other. I’m glad the moon just stayed the moon; a lifeless, crater-riddled celestial body incapable of empathy. I was jealous of it.
But here i sit now, tense and distraught. I’m not taking initiative in my life; what makes this worse is that if i were to set any goals for myself they would be social constructions of what other people value. My entire being is dependent on these others and what I think they want from me; without them, I couldn’t conceptualize myself. But, as it is, I see myself as a lonely, scared, miserable wretch. This is because I am not living up to their expectations-- or at least I assume not. My father tells me that all he expects from me is to “be happy” and “be the best you can at whatever you are,” whatever that means. I think I’d rather be expected to become a convicted felon than a “happy” person; at least felony is a definable and achievable condition. The only word more vague and meaningless than “happiness” is “love”.
So, I’m not happy-- I’m roughly the opposite, although that is a contradiction of terms. I don’t try to be happy, because I know it’s impossible. The people looking for happiness have just transposed the term onto the concept of God and made a religion of hedonism. They give offerings to their God in the form of unrealized self-disdain and misunderstood feelings of guilt, and most of them lack so much in introspection that they still attribute this to original sin, i.e. being human. They don’t even feel foolish when they worship the old gods. They don’t realize that human existence is that of God-in-Becoming; even though they relate to themselves as such.
It is this becoming God that troubles me and makes me want to scream. It is the desire to Be and to Know. Because we are conscious we cannot escape it, but we are liable to hide ourselves from this truth. Our individual-self (the Ego) only insofar as it is experienced by others. It is their reaction to this experience which enables us to make hypotheses as to our actual existence, and our behavior is the way we test these hypotheses. We are desperate to understand how others experience us because it is the closest we can come to experiencing ourselves. The only way, however, to run a successful psychological experiment is to maintain a control group, and in our private experiment, the Other (society) is seen, contrary to nature, as such. We treat it as a static monolith from which we read our name and Being. It tells us what we are and can become, but we look to individuals in our life to refute what the Other is telling us about ourselves. This is our second misstep in our search for the the true Self (Being), because we alter the random sample, deliberately or otherwise, to demonstrate not the truth, instead merely the opposite of what the Other has said. We do this out of necessity, in order to create meaning for ourselves and the only way to create meaning is by transcending the contingencies of Being and Consciousness. We use our consciousness of the Other to create our own Being and since this Self is unconscious and mute, we ask individual others to view it. Our Being thus becomes a shrine to the Becoming-God our Consciousness wants but can never realize. It is an empty shrine, where we wander until we forget the Being’s relation to the Self.
In essence, I am at the shrine of my Becoming-God tonight. And instead of lighting candles or screaming, I am wondering why I have come because I fail to recognize my Self at its alter to destroyed contingency. In the past I’ve laid down decisions I have made, actions I have taken, as so many animal sacrifices and lit them on fire. I’ve consulted my Being as to what to do and what to think about my life. Tonight I am unconcerned with this. My notion is to burn down the temple; vanquish my Being through overwhelming Consciousness. I want to deny my Self and its inevitable destruction in an unfeeling universe by destroying it through contemplation. Why should I slowly creep toward death, when it seems the only moment in life which is coherent and understandable? Why extend life? What is worth experiencing? What drives me on? The answer, again, is the illusion that I will once and for all deduce the Self from my interactions with others and recognize in it a transcendence of Being and Consciousness. I want to profess my Godhood, and in so doing enable myself to postpone death, until the final end of the Universe. I see my death as oneness and God, the gentle ebbing of all energy in the Universe into nothing, which is the ultimate meaning of life. All meaning is destroyed in the burning out of the Universe, and in my becoming-God I witness the destruction of all meaning, the only true meaning. Until that moment, the end of my human life is simply the snuffing out of a candle, or Consciousness. Forever after, my body is a waiting room to annihilation.
To destroy the shrine is to delineate nature and its synthesis with the human mind. This is not a cognitive parlor trick, but an active acknowledgment of reality using the body. I stand beside the charred ruins of what I built in my mind and am unaware of this fact as it simultaneously ceases to exist. This forgetting is impossible in death, because death is without Consciousness and there is no sense of loss. Therefore, I can only appreciate the fact that I have destroyed my Self in becoming something new while I live; a different, untested Self. I have thus oscillated to the opposite of Consciousness and become Being. I can no longer view myself and depend on others reactions to establish my new Ego. At the same time, my Consciousness is outside my Being, gathering stones for a new temple. My Being will take on the sheath of Consciousness at the entrance and commune once more in the act of becoming-God.
MMXI
*This is a journal entry
Third Eye Candy Jan 2013
rickety  minutes twitch in wood stained cabinets;
mittens in a bin .  birch tones postpone in mauve
twilight... an unfinished diorama.
clandestine. a small glitch in a good rain... cabbages
smitten in mist.  a thirst groaning; long bones caw
fully reclined...  as timeless Brahmans.

old beams of light stack like gold bricks in a humidor;
mittens in a bin.  black  birds comb rogue stones then.... [ pause ]
triffids... blemish barnacles.
crystalline. a ball of lint in a storm drain... vanishes -
bitten out of sight.  at first, toning old gongs... wind
chimes... earth's most wanted.
Sophia Oct 2010
If I could have any ability in the world I would not want it to be the ability to stop time.
In the beginning I would use it to get work done or to get a little extra sleep before work or to get all of my tables their drinks and meals in seconds.
But it would not take long for me to start abusing it.
Suddenly I would find myself in a difficult position. I would convince myself that it was okay just this one time to postpone it just a little, to gain my thoughts, to mentally prepare but once would turn into twice. Twice into four times.
Four times would lead to eight.
Suddenly I would avoid every problem.
Every stumble.
Every single rough spot in my life would be a blink away from being paused.
Who is to say that it wouldn't become indefinite?
At some point I would become so obsessed with stopping time and avoiding every hardship that I might actually stop it
forever.
I would never let anything else hurt me
but would I smile or laugh?
I would never hold someone’s hand or wake up completely well rested with a breeze coming in my window and the smell of breakfast swimming under my nose.
The worst of it all is I would discover that in the end I was avoiding all that pain only to create on much worse;
the pain of not living.
Super powers are left to movies, comic books and my dreams yet people try to stop time
every day.
They do it by ignoring a phone call or avoiding a certain store or restaurant so they don't have to "deal" with some issue they are dreading.
But the truth is that those problems,
those things we work so hard to ignore are the best things that could ever happen to us.
If I took every negative thought and experience and eliminate it from my history, would I really be any happier?
Would I even know what happy is if I didn't know what it was like to be sad first?
Sam Cardinale Mar 2011
Scrambling to get to the 81st floor.
Outrageous? Yes. But who could ask for more.
My coffee spills as I fly through the office door.
But it's worth the price, I can't live poor.

My office is the best. $10,000 conference table, oak cabinets, view of the financial capital of the world.
Five assistants, three for my organization, one for coffee, and the other is best kept secret, so the wife does not find out.
I make more than I can spend, yet all expenses are paid for.

Some might call me lucky, I disagree, I call myself hardworking.
Some might call me lucky, I disagree, word came in that my flight tomorrow morning will be postponed.

This means that I will have to postpone my meeting with my biggest client. But it's ok, because he needs my business.

I guess I can come in to work tomorrow morning.
It will be one more step to the top, to become number one.
As my calendar reads September tenth, two thousand and one.
Once there was a man who had only one friend.
Every day, just before the demise of a cyclamen orange burning ball on the horizon ~ he swam to the shore, waving with a magnificent tail, blowing bubbles and bundles of water and air into the wide open skies.

Under the darkening heavens, he sang the muffled song. Tempting his beloved. . .reaching magic, farther then any sonar's ability. Abnormal coldness froze Icelandic Beauty. But beneath the surface, life was warmer without wars. Dwarf seals were jumping into the laced ocean; trying to cry each time they were cut off the Earth's gravity.

This Mighty friend of an old man, was his only link to the global world. The man was old-fashioned; had no telecommunication facilities, his radio were gulls, stray cats, shepherd dogs and sheep on a green hill, behind his wooden hut.

Sometimes he looked over his shoulder, only to determine whether his elderly donkey is able to follow. . . or do they both need a little rest, just to postpone the books from the saddle for later and spread the beautifully ornamented Indian carpet under the great great grand olive tree ~ to take a reviving little nap in the shade.

When he woke up, the old man lit his wooden pipe, puffed few beautiful rings of indigo smoke, smirked to a buzzing bee and found that the air is still pure enough. The pressure was normal, the wind was playing with wave foams in the neighbouring bay.

Under the olives, hanging from the tree canopy, the quietness was fulfilling the old man's heart. Motionless peace was heard. Tranquility.
And the motion of a Humpback Whale. Leaving.
Imagined by
Impeccable Space
Poetic beauty
~~~~~~~~~~
August Jan 2013
Keep in mind that I'm attempting to keep this simple
Today I realized that I'm quite bitter
I also realized that I'm a terrible quitter
But I also decided that when I'm feeling down
I'll make a compilation to get me off the ground
Of things I love, because I know there are many
I apologize if you don't feel like reading plenty
I shouldn't postpone this any longer
I need to make myself realize that I'm stronger

So, things I love.
I love hot long showers
I love photographing flowers
I love a hot steaming cup of tea
I love walking only 6 blocks to go to the library
I love the feeling of a cold pillow on my face
I love plugging in head phones & disappearing without a trace
I love it when a person plays with my hair
I love Chicago, did you know I'm moving there?
I love paper cranes
I love filling up picture frames
I love the smell of old books
I love walking around town, alone, finding hidden nooks
I love deja vu, which I'm actually having this instant
I love writing poetry, hearing your guys' opinions, even if they are ever so distant
I love the long drag of a skinny cigarette
I love standing by the back door after a sunset
I love marbles, elephants, old dusty cameras, & boba fett
I love finding lovely people that I've never met
I love going to sleep at a decent time, which feels like never at all
I love putting up quotes that make my heart flutter on my wall
I love reading books that make me feel changed after I'm done
I love cooking for everyone
I love doing things by myself, no matter how hard
I love the fact that I'll never own a credit card
I love that it makes me happy when I get compliments
I love, also, that if I'm insulted, I couldn't give a ****
I love the emphasis on curse words that comes with them
I love tasting words in your mouth again and again
I love websites that feel like the are created for me
I love whenever I can remember my dreams
I love meeting a handsome strangers glance
I love that even though I meet it, that I will never have a chance
I love taking breaks
I love when people don't know I know they are fakes
I love experiences
I love watching as someone dances

I love all of these things, and so many more
I'm sorry if you didn't want to read all the things I adore
This piece isn't meant to be elaborately written or read
It's only purpose is to flow & to solve some problems in my head
Maybe I sort of want to make the reader feel better too
Realize that the things that you love are full of value
Maybe I suggest you write some of the things you love
Before you push away everything good with a violent shove
I really hope that I helped you as much as a I helped me
Read these & appreciate the simple things, I hope you'll see

I think I'll do more of these in the future.
This was very beneficial. I feel so much better now. Writing is such a wonderful therapeutic tool & sometimes it is just so hard to focus on anything but the negative.

— The End —