"presentable" poems
Three Minute Warning
A messenger delivers
A three minute warning
As I lay in bed at 10:30 am
(Resting in preparation for,
not from, our oops, early morning hike).
Breakfast will be ready in 3,
Get your **** in gear or else
It will be cold, I'll be mad,
And you will answer to a
Higher Authority.
No problem cause I already know
All I need is two.
Splash water on my face
Now I'm presentable
enough to the human race,
current company probably won't be happy,
But I ain't telling her, are you?
Shave! You crazed?
It is a three day weekend,
Every day a July Fourth,
Celebrating freedom from the European tyranny,
Of shaving smooth every day!
Splash water on my head, count with me,
Five brush strokes as you can plainly see
Is a classic case of overcompensating
In my geling n' hair stylin'
Brush my teeth, well,
I hope 2 full minutes of rinsing with CVS
Green stuff, mouthwash, will have to suffice.
Blast my deodorant both sides,
Long and strong, wearin' now
My bold blue *** husk of musk,
Cause I am a very considerate fellow
Who happens to really have stunk.
Clean T- shirt and shorts,
Yes, clean underwear too,
Leaves me a whole minute to write this scribble.
My flip flop noises coming down the hallway,
Are the butler announcing our joint arrival,
Me and my poem.
Lest you think this is paean to men
Another grand male boast,
Be advised this ditty be writty
By a man who, while no longer gritty,
Just put jelly on his scrambled eggs
And ketchup on his toast!
Mmmmmmm there might be a poem
Lurking in that too...
May 27, 2013
May 27, 2013 at 11:50 AM UTC
I want to write a poem.
No, like I really really really wanna write a poem.
Problem, stick it to me.
Pause
Poems have to be good.
Okay, so a poem doesn't have to be good
However, the point of the art is to have someone read
Those flippy little words that you pulled out
Of some intangible existence and pasted on
The Internet.
The Internet,
So you don't always put it online but,
Other people are "supposed" to read it.
To enjoy it, give you a pat on the back,
Maybe an "I see what you did there".
So poems are supposed to be presentable.
You've got to pay in sweat and ink but,
At least the words themselves are free.
What if I don't wanna have to make a "good" poem?
Okay so I really do want a pat on the back but
Sometimes I really like pasting things from
Intangible existences.
Fancy words right? Let me pat my own back.
Sometimes I just like putting my emotions on paper
While sounding like I read
More dictionaries than Webster.
Ha, ha, sigh.
There's a problem with having to be inspired to write **** down.
Do you think someone pays Taylor Swift's boyfriends
To break up with her
So she can write the
Next big hit?
I wouldn't doubt it.
My guardian angel should make the people around me
Say weird stuff such that I can write about
Walking on waves of shattered glass
Or
Singing of birds in circled flight.
Maybe I'd be better off being hit by a car.
That'd be some pretty touching poetry.
Some people write happy poetry too,
I don't know how they do it.
Sorry but, my world isn't flowers and butterflies
Enough to warrant discussion of
Staying in the fairy meadow of light.
Sorry, I'm just jealous.
Maybe I just like writing stuff down?
What if I just don't want to be forgotten?
Leaving a legacy in my words more indellible
Than a pat on the back.
Doubt it.
I just don't want to forget.
Brain, why don't you get it?
I'm sitting here getting all intimate with an idea and
The next morning Brain's got no clue what their name is.
Like really, even if we invite a friend over and get creative with
Our tongues and mouths,
Brain doesn't remember the moments shared between us.
Paper doesn't think very well but it's got a decent memory bank.
So I save up for a brand new poem.
I thought words were free.
Apr 19, 2013
Apr 19, 2013 at 12:22 AM UTC
I don't know much of anything about life or love or the grand "meaning of it all," but this I know: I hate the constraints society places upon us, ropes gathered up to knot relationships, tie them up and place them all in nice neat little packages with a cute presentable bow on top. We're supposedly in the "honeymoon phase" right now and we joke about how we'll know when it's done, when the real stuff has begun. But sir, the way I've spread my scars open, reopened all those old wounds for you to discover, evaluate, and assess, I refuse to believe none of this is the "real" stuff. Sure, maybe one day we'll have an actual, honest-to-goodness argument where our mouths become cannons for the shots we volley back and forth. But I can't believe, stubbornly refuse to even consider there will be a day I'll look into those emerald eyes of yours and not fall utterly in love all over again. I can't imagine a morning of waking up and not being grateful to have you next to me. Maybe love isn't constant perfection, and there's no way that every single day will be a dreamland fantasy, but maybe, just maybe when you've found a forever kind of love there isn't a "honeymoon period" at all. Maybe it just is, and that's enough.
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 4:59 PM UTC
It's funny
How a simple black line,
A pigmented powder,
And a plastic line glued to my eyelid
Can make me feel pretty
Makes me feel presentable
It makes me feel like I'm worth something
But even so-
It's false.
Synthetic.
It's all a lie.
Oh how I wish I could stop lying.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 6:10 PM UTC
How beastly the bourgeois is
especially the male of the species--
Presentable, eminently presentable--
shall I make you a present of him?
Isn't he handsome? Isn't he healthy? Isn't he a fine specimen?
Doesn't he look the fresh clean Englishman, outside?
Isn't it God's own image? tramping his thirty miles a day
after partridges, or a little rubber ball?
wouldn't you like to be like that, well off, and quite the
thing
Oh, but wait!
Let him meet a new emotion, let him be faced with another
man's need,
let him come home to a bit of moral difficulty, let life
face him with a new demand on his understanding
and then watch him go soggy, like a wet meringue.
Watch him turn into a mess, either a fool or a bully.
Just watch the display of him, confronted with a new
demand on his intelligence,
a new life-demand.
How beastly the bourgeois is
especially the male of the species--
Nicely groomed, like a mushroom
standing there so sleek and ***** and eyeable--
and like a fungus, living on the remains of a bygone life
******* his life out of the dead leaves of greater life
than his own.
And even so, he's stale, he's been there too long.
Touch him, and you'll find he's all gone inside
just like an old mushroom, all wormy inside, and hollow
under a smooth skin and an upright appearance.
Full of seething, wormy, hollow feelings
rather nasty--
How beastly the bourgeois is!
Standing in their thousands, these appearances, in damp
England
what a pity they can't all be kicked over
like sickening toadstools, and left to melt back, swiftly
into the soil of England.
4.9k
how we dress up the imperfect parts of ourselves
presentable flowered smile. lies
cracked porcelain good morning
in a broken jaw breakfast line
barefoot pipeline running the secret underfoot
the railroad's coming and ain't nobody talking
no, ain't nobody telling a soul
sell off the parts of you that you have no use for
but where does it stop sticking to you?
memories, residual dew of choices and transitions
clarity of the third person, but who is that?
wandering the sleeping shores of Sunday
on cracked feet and torn sails flowing strong
in the strange wind blowing through the trees.
sail my ship to shore by candlelight
reflected endlessly across the water
cavernous echoes echoes in the depth
don't lose your heart in the caves of tomorrow
searching for sunshine again
with a lingering song in my heart
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 6:50 PM UTC
On the first day, he was pushed
robust in his stance, the other forced,
this boy down the spiral staircase
of the Catholic church, the school
had renovated, the Spring before
Isaac had begun his studies,
at the high school.
Ballet was his passion, Latin was the
language that so effortlessly, fluently
was spoken from his lips in class
as he smiled at his Professor, another
victory accomplished in academia
so proud were his parents, of their
blue eyed boy.
Jonah was the reject, the older brother
he had been kicked out of school,
not once, but twice, and was often
found with a joint, his unshaven face
wrapped around one of the girls,
from the all girls school that ran
alongside Isaacs all boys.
Issac was hurt, a further blow to his
stomach, rendered him broken
as a waterfall of tears ran down his
bruised and cut face, so ashamed
as other pupils laughed, staring, pointing
until the final bell rang as they fled from
the high ceilings and narrow corridors.
Wrapped in a ball, he waited for all
halls and students to clear, and as
he rolled over, picking himself up
he took to the washroom, knowing he
needed to be presentable for his mother
waiting for him at the school gate
brimming with pride, at her boys scholarship.
All his dreams, mystical and serene, Romeo and Juliet
fluid streams of poetry of Elliot, Poe, Hughes
and of course Wilde and those love letters of Beethoven
math, biology, all paled into insignificance
he was born a writer, a dancer, a drawer,
sketching and typing his heart to a page,
prose a future love would read.
Johan saw his mother's car pull up
as he raced and giggled with Saskia
leading her astray, he promised her all
the things those boys always did, and of course
not to break her sweet sixteen heart, unlike other boys
as his mother smoked another Camel, the two lovers
jumped into his truck, Johnny Cash blaring from speakers
laughing hysterically, the world at their feet.
By 4pm, Isaac was ready to leave school,
tentatively walking out the main door, down
concrete slabs as steps, no predators in sight
he couldn't hide the dark circles under his eyes
that formed as bruises, knowing he was fortunate
to have not been damaged further
by the haunting before last period.
Walking to the gates, he listened through
headphones; Tchaikovsky
his release
his home
his saving grace.
© Sia Jane
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 6:53 PM UTC
Change your pants, change your shirt, look presentable! That's all I ****** ever hear from you! I'm not good enough and I will never be good enough for you. No I'm not your prissy princess, no I didn't graduate, no I don't have a job. I'm done saying sorry, because I'm not. This is me, so deal with it. You don't have a ***** ***** *** daughter that wears pink and curls her hair with fake fingernails and smile. You have me and if you don't like it, than i won't have to be your daughter, OK! I'm my moms daughter who excepts me for who I am and not what I wear. So you know what? **** you! **** you to the way you want me to be! **** you to the way you never had me! And **** you for trying your hardest to change me, it's not going to happen!
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 11:10 PM UTC
Black & Yellow
– for Wiz Khalifa ✌
*“Stay high like I’m supposed to do, that crown
underneath them clouds, can’t get close to you.”*
On the first day, he was pushed.
Robust in stance, the other forced,
this boy down the marble stairs
of the Catholic church, the school
renovated the Summer before
Khalifa began his studies,
in junior high.
The ballet was his passion,
Latin was the language that so
fluently was spoken from
his lips. The Professor smiled,
another victory accomplished.
Khalifa’s mom was so proud of
her blue eyed boy.
Rapped in a ball, he waited
for all students & halls to clear.
Rolled over, picked himself up
took to the washroom, knowing
he needed to be presentable
for his mom stood at the school gate,
brimming with pride.
All of his dreams, mystical.
Don Quixote & The Nutcracker,
fluid streams of poetry;
Elliot, Poe, Wilde. The love
letters of Ludwig van Beethoven.
Born to dance all Principal roles,
a lovers’ prose.
By four, he was ready to
leave school. Tentatively walking,
no predators in sight, out
the main door. Leaving behind
a haunting first day. Listening to
Tchaikovsky; his release, his home,
his saving grace.
© Sia Jane
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 10:38 PM UTC
My blue skinny jeans,
And creamy white shirt.
I got ready to go on a road trip.
Just as I sat in my car I applied my mascara
And drove away.
As the car stopped near my college,
I took a last glimpse of whether I looked presentable or not.
Well I did !
I was a little tense.
Then there came MISS-OH-SHES-SO-PERFECT.
She was in a red dress.
I mean are we going on a trip or to a ball ?
But that is the only thing that worried me,
Now she'll be the center of attention.
My crush won't even know I EXIST !!!!
My best friend
reminded me I look the best,
And that my crush would certainly see me.
I felt a little confident,
But in the end she got my crush.
And me ?
I'm only left alone,
Singing 'Lonely I'm Mr lonely.'
From that day onwards I NEVER had a crush !
Aug 18, 2015
Aug 18, 2015 at 7:39 AM UTC
Its hard to believe to listen to
The sound of silence through layman's ears
For silence,an unestablished thought
Rides the young hearts only through fear.
Maturity, an understanding through beneath
Sediments like evils srata
For if you conquered,it only leads
To the sound of silence,every data.
For as we stare, me and words together,
Silence redeems through the pages
Every drop of ink forever
Can spell the words through all the ages.
The silence that lingers between
Begs me to hear it closer
Its trying to express the unwanted enclitic
The words that will fade never.
And now as i cherish this conversation of silence,
I realize that ink has a spirit
And to know the mistake i have committed
Which on my face like a bright light lit.
And to know the spectacular reason
I'm astonished myself, i must say
Ink helps us when we are not thinking
Flowing on paper without delay.
This sound of silence that i have gathered now,
Must be of great help all through my life
It will let me hear all those unsound-able things
And help me to decide when to stab a knife.
Through my youth scores, a bunch of thirty
Led me through a rugged terrain,
And now i want a plain surface with lots of pleasure
To lead a life, to be truly sane.
The sound is like a hand i want
Which helps me to walk in young years
Through the blasphemy, through humanism
It will strike away all my fears.
Does one realize that i said
The words of silence through every phase
The crumb of bread a beggar needs
The food of life heaven feeds?
They can't be realized by screaming though oceans,
They can't be realized by ending a story
For they are the curse of hearing unknown thoughts,
The sound of silence one and only.
My heart beats are frantic now,
As i have reached the harmonics of music,
Sweet and presentable they are now
Tapping your life like your feet.
They are many fellows who can't sing
So they make you suffer the sound of silence
With every teardrop longing for supper
Fighting their way through all the violence.
For those who have a great voice
It doesn't mean that they have to be proud,
For it may break any time
Like breaking a stone, like rumbling of clouds.
And i may not be an instrumentalist
And i may not be a teacher,
But i can stop the silence and let them hear music
And make them smile, not to suffer.
Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 4:24 AM UTC
I laid there staring
at the insanely
bright and rude
fluorescent light
that
mocked my suffering.
The cold concrete
floor felt
good against
my screaming aches.
My body was
pleading with the
Gods for just a
taste of what
had been taken
away.
My bowels were as
controllable as
a teen aged
beauty.
With a ****
I brought my
burning face
toward the cool
silent cold metal
toilet.
Ugly yellow bile
that only a tired
and tortured
body could
produce
spewed forth.
A moan and a wipe
then a hollow knock
on the graffiti
covered cell door.
"You made bail"
an almost robotic
sounding voice
says.
With a thousand tiny
swordsman stabbing
at my face I
managed to smile
into my own bile.
I looked at the
mustached uncaring
face in the
small window.
"You look like Death Pal"
The mustache says to me.
I spit the acrid taste
of day old *****
and ****** resin.
Then rise and run my
sweaty palm through
my hair in an
attempt at looking
presentable.
The mustache opens
the door and
as I walk out
I look directly at the
rogue hairs
protruding from
the mustaches nostrils
and say.
"Death Is Beautiful"
The mustache holds
the door as I walk out.
I'm feeling better already
"Oh Yea well so was my Xwife
look at how much trouble
she still causes me".
The mustache says
Every step
I take down
the institutional colored,
masonic checkered floored
hallway causes
my body
to scream with hope.
I can feel the sweat
roll down my face
but I refuse to let
this mustache
see my suffering.
We stop at the
property window,
I sign a half
of an X where it
says signature.
Then before
I gather up
my belongs
and head
back out into the
night I looked
over at the
mustache and said
"You had a Wife?"
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 5:03 PM UTC
The very second I put down my pen,
I began my process all over again.
I've been getting up at 7 o'clock (am).
Why?
Such a dangerous question.
If I were to wonder why
I comb my hair, I'd have the answer.
If I asked myself why eat meals
at 7:30, 12:00, and 5:00,
I'd have an answer.
But I don't know why I have answers.
Why do I care when I eat and
how presentable I appear?
I fear someday I'll wake up and
ask why I should wear pants, or
why even stand?
That day, I might crawl to the
front porch, and carry a
newspaper and slippers to the dog.
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 8:21 PM UTC
My mother recently took me to another doctor
she said, ‘her condition is becoming outrageous ,
she hasn’t laughed in a year, avoids any talking,
never leaves the house until the night draws in. ’
And I think the sun should rather concern her.
Burning things don’t make good companions.
Bought a ticket for a train, northbound at night,
my eyes hurt from the condolences of daylight.
Went back south in September, I surrendered,
had to promise to be good again and presentable.
Indifferent on life, did I suffer from depression?
It’s not been an illness but a philosophic decision.
One Sunday, it was quiet during breakfast time,
somebody from town recently took their life.
Rised brows behind the newspaper’s edges,
secretly, I admire the courage and recklessness.
But I act eager and am polite with relatives,
at holiday occasions I behave and give kisses
until one proposes a toast to life being a gift.
I say nothing in exchange, I feel guilty to exist.
It all changed one day, when I found me a lover.
He sins for amusement while I sin to self punish.
I love that he’s mortal, of a perishable texture,
hope to be buried, rot with him in the graveyard.
We agree on senselessness without any pity,
he watches me fail life and thinks it’s poetic.
We can’t hurt since there’s nothing to heal from.
A physical love wich in it’s essence is platonic.
Feb 9, 2022
Feb 9, 2022 at 5:54 PM UTC
We start the shift at the same pizzeria
Then we must go on deliveries
And individuality is born
Through varying methods and differing destinations
But distinction is mostly born through tips
The start of the drive is almost always somewhat positive
Unless you know you're getting a low tip in advance
The transaction is the singular event
It's outcome determines your demeanor for the drive back
To the store that is our equalizing ending
Deliveries are over at that point
The beginning and end are the same store
The middle is our transaction
Delivery drivers have lived a thousand lives
If they have delivered a thousand pies
Often getting low tips and asking why
I maximize the radio's volume
To avoid hearing
The roar of my engine
Indicating the speed of my delivery
But the lyrics
Sound so similar to my engine's audio
Tears form in my dreaming eyes
I wipe them away
To be presentable to the customer
Who doesn't tip in heartbreaking fashion
As I return to my vehicle
Tears are no longer available
Only silent contemplation
My thoughts void blaring music
As the reality of my delivery has been discovered
And the nature of my drive back dawns on me
I'm compelled to rush to the end of the journey
So I might possibly start a new delivery
Instead of the one I'm on
Wishing I had gotten better tips
Jun 18, 2017
Jun 18, 2017 at 10:17 PM UTC
There is something undeniable about this new aesthetic:
Barefoot and barely presentable
as I slow-dance in the kitchen at 3am
Nobody but me, my shadow and a gentle grey kitten who patiently watches me pour another cup of coffee.
I stir in cinnamon,
a taste that's heedy and all too sweet against the roof of my mouth.
So strong it makes me want to gag,
and yet I sing under my breath:
old tunes I have no business remembering
and lullabies brought to me on the wind
[singing] all you have is fire
-and the place you have to reach.
My mother wanted a girl she could put together like a jigsaw.
A girl who would sit still and patiently endure
the effort it took to construct
the perfect plat, perfect updo
perfect winged eyeliner, perfect blush
perfect poise, perfect dress,
Perfect daughter.
Instead she had me
a muddled and confused thing
with a tangled mess of curls and eyes that couldn't quite look away.
Something with ***** fingers that knew the give and take of every leaf and blade of grass
something that couldn't sit still on creaking church pews
because for all the beauty they pursued, she'd seen the unmatched grace of rolling thunder
and the indisputable life of the ocean.
While other girls watched the boy chase the girl to a perfect kiss
she worshiped the women who took up their weapons and refused to keep their peace. - A child raised on a steady diet of Victorian poetry, Greek myth and poison. Stitched together with images of Artemis, Scottish women and a heathenish name.
My mother would lead me in prayer each night before bed, hoping against all hope to change what was in me. But my father made me wonder if I could be a knight one day, taught me to sing their vows of honour and justice during those ungodly hours when sleep was far.
The hours when his blood called to us both in its ancient tongue. The hours where his stories became my Bible. The hours when the smell of lemongrass and rain filled the house.
The hours when I would be barefoot and dancing in the kitchen
Barely presentable yet undeniably free.
Jun 18, 2020
Jun 18, 2020 at 7:01 AM UTC
I used to
Drink my face off
'get lost' to this world
I'd stare at my insides,
My red raw meat
Up to full speed
I wiped more off my chin
Than most others drink
Life was going down the tube
And I wasn't helping the situation none
Everywhere I went I wore out any welcome
My rude, angry self, had no restraint at all
The face left me
Was nothing I could live with
I had to clean my act up,
Make me a more presentable me
Blend in with those I chose as my peers
Imagine that,
No more 'Bums Rush'
No more bloodied noses
No more " Here's your Hat, what's your hurry"
May 29, 2015
May 29, 2015 at 11:14 AM UTC
squinted eyes, glaring, peering, or just looking
inwardly and not really seeing me
and sometimes there is a little more ****** hair
just maybe i will take the time to shave or at least trim
enough to be presentable
every morning i look in the mirror
darkened eyes, with deep circles of worry and stress
questioning not only my life choices but even my very sanity
just what i need, more acne, pimples, black heads
what happened to this going away after the last signs
of puberty faded from my voice
every morning i look in the mirror
twisted smile half convincing more than knowing
where i have been and what i have gone through
where is my toothbrush and toothpaste
its not like i can blame someone for moving them
i am the only who uses this bathroom now
every morning i look in the mirror
tired eyes half closed and open just enough to see the light
as sunshine creeps in from the window
and you know its time, to wash the sleep from them
and face yet another day in her world
knowing understanding realizing
every morning she looks in the mirror too
Aug 25, 2012
Aug 25, 2012 at 9:17 PM UTC
sadness is what the girl feels,
hopeless as her fate is sealed.
every decision made by other people as she is forced into classes challenging and difficult,
though she knows that she cant revolt.
sadness grips her by the throat yet again by those who push her around,
the teachers, the parents, her boyfriend, the students, even the class clown.
everything is expected of her,
she is someone that people prefer,
due to her level of education and inability to say much in anything,
often not part of any deciding.
sadness pierces through her body as she lets her boyfriend hurt her with broken promises,
never making any compromises.
so many cancelled dates and broken promises lay before her as she hides her feelings,
though she cries at night and stare at the ceiling.
sadness threw her on the ground as her mom forces her to look presentable to the world,
no one likes a weird girl.
her father teaches her to fight,
oblivious to anything but whatever is on his mind,
he forces her and her family to do whatever he pleases,
unaware of any of her family's grievances.
sadness haunted her at school as her friends call her strong but are unaware of her grief,
then run off to do their usual mischief.
cant anyone see her unbearable sadness?
cant anyone get her out of this mess?
how long will it take
for her to break?
questions she ask herself everyday,
wishing she had a say.
until finally it got to her, as she held up a knife,
the one that she planned to end her life.
as she stared at it, she hesitated,
then threw it away.
she couldn't, she knew that.
because if she did, it would only bring up the one painful, heartbreaking fact.
even in death sadness is something she couldn't escape,
because that was her unbreakable, painful fate.
Jun 27, 2012
Jun 27, 2012 at 2:29 AM UTC
You've become the vine
that creeps
up
the side
of my brick encased dwelling,
breaching every
crack
and
imperfection
you've stumbled across,
managed to conceal them,
and make them presentable.
You've overtaken an entire wall;
teal
and lavender
petals,
like crayon shavings,
scattered
against their dark background,
bringing with them
the color
my house
so desperately needed.
Now,
when friends and onlookers
pass by,
they see this great green and brick
marvel,
covered in leaves,
and petals,
and vines
that stretch from every awning,
down to the cement blocks
of the basement.
We have all the neighbors
whispering about
how your greens
compliment my reds
and how bright your flowers
bloom,
even on the grayest
of mornings,
so that everyone
is in envy
of what they see.
Dec 20, 2013
Dec 20, 2013 at 9:43 AM UTC
For once, I would like to pretend
that my hair looks fine and my thighs are slim.
For once, I want to feel as if I could walk outside
without regretting my taste in clothes.
For once, even if it'll only last for a single, fleeting moment,
is it too much to ask to feel pretty and presentable?
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 10:20 PM UTC
cha-ris-ma
/kəˈrizmə/
Compelling charm that can inspire devotion in others
Can you imagine?
Being so fluent with your words, so ably presentable that you could encourage and influence people to take action?
Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 11:15 PM UTC
Like a house of cards I pile one thing on top of another. To someone else, I am presentable and strong,realistically, I'm at my breaking point.
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 10:49 AM UTC
It's really humiliating
To be shaking a cup
24 hours a day
And people just look
At you like you're
Some sort of ***
I go to fill out applications
They look at me and
I'm not looking presentable
And then they
"Well, we'll call you
Leave a number"
But how can I leave a number
When I don't have a phone
It's just a struggle
I've had people
walk past me and
Say "get a job you ***
And I said "wait a minute"
"I'm not a ***
I'm a human"
And, it's hard
After the end of the day
When people go home
I just feel so bad
That I can't be
Going home too
Sep 12, 2021
Sep 12, 2021 at 5:44 AM UTC
She blooms in the darkest season.
She is the light you crave.
She gives all she has
To be beautiful for you,
To be presentable,
And to be joy in darkness.
She stands in grace,
Trying to fulfill every expectation
Set before her.
But even the amaryllis
In all her beauty,
Soon grows tired
And hunches
And sighs
And dies.
Feb 23, 2017
Feb 23, 2017 at 12:33 AM UTC