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judy smith Apr 2017
It’s the tail end of fashion week in Paris, the busiest week of the year for fashion buyers.

When I meet Clodagh Shorten, owner of Samui, the game-changing boutique that put Cork on the fashion map, she’s already been here four days and is on her tenth buying appointment — there’ll be at least another five before she leaves in a couple of days time.

These appointments, private bookings with designers, allow her to get up close and personal with the clothes that have just been showcased on catwalks.

She’s deciding which pieces will best suit her customers.

Today, we meet at Schumacher, the stunning German label known for its easy chic look.

A beautiful white space, with lush cream velvet sofas, bare walls and white rails (nothing here to distract from the main event — the clothes), this room, prime space in Paris, is rented by the designer year-round just so they have the right venue to sell at Fashion Week.

It gives some indication of the power Fashion Week wields.

Clodagh is here with her right-hand woman, Samui manager Mary-Claire O’Sullivan.

There are two rails — the keepers and the ‘ones that got away’.

They’ve already seen this collection in London.

Today they are here to fine-tune.

This is unusual, Mary-Claire explains — at most appointments, they are seeing the clothes for the very first time.

“This is a big spend,” they tell me, and they’ll stay as long as they need “to get it right”.

Piecing together a collection is something akin to a jigsaw puzzle.

All the items are photographed — later they will be analysed back in the apartment they rent during Fashion Week.

The mix has to be right.

So the coats, a sleeveless waistcoat, are moved to the rail on the right.

They won’t make it to Cork.

Coats were already picked up this morning at another appointment.

Like I said, a jigsaw puzzle.

Two models are on hand to try on clothes when requested — I hear ‘can I just see this on one more time’ a lot.

There’s no haggling over prices in these sales negotiations — it’s all too civilised.

The price is set, as is the instore mark-up. These lauded designs must cost the same the world over.

Clodagh and Mary-Claire share a language and a wavelength. They can finish each other’s sentences and, while I don’t so much as sniff a hint of tension, they tell me they can disagree on buys.

“Clodagh doesn’t want a yes woman,” Mary-Claire says simply.

From Schumacher, Clodagh leads the way through the Parisian cobbled streets, phone held aloft, Google Maps to direct her.

Her wheelie bag is constantly behind her — inside there’s the laptop for orders and a camera for instant access to photographs of collections.

Her calculator is another permanent fixture in the showroom.

Today, Clodagh is dressed in an Australian label coming soon to Samui, Ellery. The lush black fabric sways and moves with her body; an outfit like that makes you really appreciate her eye for fashion. It’s sensational.

For this 5.30pm appointment we are heading to see another new label for Samui — Paskal (Clodagh will wear a piece from this line tomorrow).

The Ukrainian designer is looked after by an agency so in this showroom there are pieces by a handful of brands.

Again, the setup is the same — private appointments, models on hand.

Clodagh and Mary-Claire have to be more careful here — this is a new label and it’s more fashion forward so black is prioritised.

Not every client at Samui will wear this line. Every purchase, I realise, is a gamble.

“We’ve made mistakes, of course we have,” says Mary-Claire though you get the feeling that could be a rare event.

Pieces bought by these two women rarely end up in Samui’s sales rack.

They know their customer, plain and simple.

There is so much trust there, some clients are simply sent collections each season, allowing Clodagh to make the call for them.

So much of their day is spent discussing various clients (never by name in my presence) — what they might like, the best size.

It is effectively the ultimate personal shopping experience.

The number of items and sizes are limited, so customers know they are truly getting one-off pieces.

As we leave, kisses over, the agency head tells them, “you’re our favourites” and you just know it’s not empty fashion talk.

People genuinely love Clodagh and Mary-Claire. And they respect what they do.

Samui is open 16 years now. Clodagh mastered her trade at Monica John before stepping out on her own. Mary-Claire joined her eight years ago.

It has been one of the few boutiques in Cork to not just survive the downturn but to positively thrive.

As the economy spluttered around her, Clodagh very masterfully decided to go high end.

First came Moncler — the top people here had to come and view Samui to see if it was the right match for their esteemed label.

It was — and, increasingly, doors began to open.

Carven, Marni, Rick Owens — people really began to sit up and take notice of Samui.

Now labels are often vying for space on the shop floor. Still though, it takes work to secure the big new names.

Clodagh spends a lot of time on planes, networking, meeting the key players. And it’s not as simple as a visit to Fashion Week twice a year either.

These days pre-collections are key too: these pieces will be on the shop floor for longer.

So Clodagh and Mary-Claire travel in January to Paris for pre- collections, Milan in February for Moncler, Paris in March. The same cycle begins again in June for A/W pre-collections, with S/S Fashion Week in September.

Clodagh is always pushing, always striving for new.

She was devastated to say farewell to Transit, the brand with her from the very beginning. It was simply time for a change she tells me.

They love seeking out new labels, nurturing them, sharing them with their customers.

The next morning we meet at 9am for Dries van Noten.

Clodagh stocks around 50 different labels, most exclusive to Cork. This Belgian designer is one of them.

Here again is a very fashion forward line.

There’s a minimum €20,000 spend here, and that’s the amount Clodagh and Mary-Claire can play with.

This is a much busier showroom, a slick operation. Buyers are everywhere, the models weaving between them.

They are assigned a seller and a table, laptop at the ready to secure the sale.

Sophie, today’s seller, walks them through the long rails and talks to them about the collection, the fabrics, the colour, the catwalk, the vision.

Clodagh and Mary-Claire repeat the process a second time alone, a third time again with Sophie.

There are little standing breaks for coffee — refreshments and lunch are provided by the designer.

Clodagh and Mary-Claire know to carry snacks everywhere. The buying process can be a long one; Dries could be an all-day event.

The price point is much higher here so, again, each piece has to be carefully thought out. Checked and checked again.

These A/W deliveries will land in store in July.

Watching them make their Samui edit on that March morning, I just know the Dries selection will be a show-stopper this Autumn.

I leave them to sign on the dotted line, wishing them success for the rest of their gruelling schedule as I head for Charles de Gaulle.

“People don’t realise what goes into this,” says Clodagh. And she’s right.

None of us can possibly grasp what it must have taken for one woman to put Cork on the fashion radar.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses
nja Jan 2019
Filing errands makes you drowsy and nautious.
The tube dampens your senses.
The highrises make you feel down.
Your values are re-prioritised.
You become the binmen’s *****,
but all is not charred.
You have the chance to remember before,
and you grasp redemption as sand now sifts through your fingertips.
The stars awaken the you beneath the superficial.
The water nourishes your ignored thirstiness for passion.
Written while spending time in Mexico. I had just finished my first term of university and despite all the fun I had had, I was depressed. Away from evweything, Mexico gave me the chance to work on myself and recover.
A C Leuavacant Aug 2014
In the beginning the grass had died of embarrassment
The rain had dishonoured him
And eventually stopped pouring
after hearing the tale of it's demise
the flowers and their friends had decided that it was not safe where they sat anymore  

they hatched a daring plan
That would lead them far away
they would run away by moonlight
Then set off towards the northern star

The plan was thick and well thought out
But when it came closer to the time
They realised it was full of flaws
As they hadn't any legs to run upon

And soon the sun started singing again
And they did meet with their sad end
Soon they were just a lonely pile of dust upon the ground
Where once children had ran and kites wandered high
Now loneliness beckoned and the unknown lurked around every corner

The two biggest sandstorms in the land had had a disagreement
For one had claimed that dusty spot to start a family for his own
The other had prioritised a centre for his own defence
  
After a long and gruesome battle
Each had killed the other
They lay to rest amongst the dust where once the grass had grown tall
Now nothing grew
just more sand In a prison of freedom

Several years later the calm was disturbed by a figure
A man who had found himself in a terrible way
For reasons that are best unsaid
Time had caught up with him at last
Marked with the six gunshot wounds which rested on his chest
he had managed to fled for his final hour in peace

sand and dust floated past his head
It clattered and clinked as the wind slapped his dying face
Any breath could be his last
A speck of blood on the tattered sand
a mark of his final place of rest.

'Only a matter of time'
Thought the fly
As he followed the dying life to his knees
For he had long since excepted the fact
That the only thing death meant for him was a full stomach
It was the sick cycle of life

The dusty wind brought tumbleweeds
and a few moe grains of sand
The fly perched high
watched as life escaped the lonely figure  
On the ground, he might as well have been sand
For all the good it would do

Flying down like an underestimated dragon
The fly landed on the tip of the man's nose and surveyed the scene
'What a sad day
to have such great happiness'
Thought the fly with a tear arriving at his eye

Before long a noise was heard up above
A swoop and a stamp
A shriek from on top of the fly's tiny head
And the Buzzard landed on the other side of the corpse
Quick and to the point

What a terrifying sight the Mighty bird was to the fly!
For he had been unaware that such monsters lurked so near
But the fly did not think to run away
He was better than that for sure

The Buzzard had began to feast
On bits of flesh that had been left
The fly approached him and cleared his throat
The Bird stopped and looked down at the tiny speck of black
And after a booming laugh
He opened his beak

The two sat upon the man
Each with itself in gravest mind
For each did treasure their families
And wished to make cruel gain of the tragedy

Eventually the mighty bird acted
He was pleased by the death
And believed that what the desert offered was worth fighting for

The fly however was humble
He could see the sadness attached to the sight
And as both of them sat upon the greatest and worst part of each of their days
They stared into each other's eyes
And in that moment they both understood

They both took a glance at the disaster and both flew away in different directions
Leaving the man quite alone
Alone and peaceful

The rain had been watching the two creatures
decided that too many lessons had been learned from it's absence
And before long the grass and flowers had rose again

A few days later the fly was swallowed by rich bullfrog
Who forgot to wash him down
The Buzzard headed north and was met by a boys claim to manhood

In the end the grass did sing with delight at being home once again  
And all this time never did anyone stir from their beds
They might as well have been dead
I've been writing this for a few days and can't seem to get it quite as I want it to be. I still consider it a work in progress.
Mahima Gupta Jan 2014
The words got scattered
Like stardust
The kites soared high up
Reaching infinity and beyond
The thoughts remained
Unchanged
The people remained
Voracious.

She read the manuscripts
In her dreams
There was a hiatus
That changed the way
Broken paths
And
Shattered dreams
It Made her think differently
For good or for bad
Is still something she is caught up with
For joy or morose
Is something
She has to decide
For every turning point
In her life
Makes her soul
Robust
And every ray of light
Reinforced a new thought

Things start and come to and end
People left and things were prioritised
Somewhere in the middle
Of this hiatus
She learnt how to
Live.
Sam Anthony Jun 2017
Love is a funny word

I can love my wife, my friends and my kids
Willing to sacrifice my sexuality, my time and my very life
I can love a political idea, my job and my country
Willing to sacrifice friends, family and unity
And I can love sausages

Maybe the Greeks had it right to use various words
It’s hard to know the difference between
“Hiya, luv!”
“Are you alright, love?”
“This is luurve,”
and
“OH YES, I LOVE IT!”

Loving things, people, ideas and experiences
The same and different
Important and prioritised
And what unifies people as well as love?

Love is a funny word
Let’s use it some more
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2017
hypochondira and hyperactivity,
misguiding nouns.
                vinum bonum et suave,
bonis binum, pravis prave,
ave mundana laetitia!

          łyski - whiskey -
  łysy... itching to slap a skinhead...
so the question:
  what are the ad hoc parameters of
cogito ergo sum?
           i so wish to be given an
ad hoc clarity for certain maxims...
   in most instances they're bibles,
obscurity riddles them a hymnal status,
and that said: holy.
                i wan't to be given the ad hoc
instruction manual for certain
   eurekas...
               i'm told that the already stated
prefigures subjectivity...
            and that the subconscious
isn't merely a bystanders' experience of
puppetteering...
   insinuation sphere...
            just like i might add third party
inquisitors demanding of me that:
every dream has a hidden meaning behind it.
       so many have died trying to
create the uncoscious contraceptive...
this mental *******...
  this exploitative subconscious insinuation
puppet motivation...
                  the subconscious only exists
to create the other's drone capitalisation
   of fragility...
   the synonym of the subconscious
   within groundwork of making choices,
acknowledging ethic, is insinuation,
  spies and the alphabetical fixation on
  subversion, and all other subs- congregate.
           and it really does sound like nonsense
once the enemy's tongue is waggling...
                      some even called it the
omnivore safehaven...
   when in fact so much was prioritised
for dietary requirements...
                               that became bouldered
anorexic grey-areas;
    synchronised skeleton army
         tugging the chimeras of crimea,
shortened to the word: Krym.
knowing this tongue, i should be apt at
      forging any and all ethnic linkage with it
being expressed: i should be gagging
for a forthnight spent in las vegas!
                   but there's me, dreaming of a tartar steak.
John McCafferty Oct 2021
Continue to process the words in your head, extracting these whispers which simply linger and listen to each of those gifts delivered.
Pick up on the frequencies which ring in sync, with a tone clear to hear that's felt from within, risen up from our chest to the head as it spreads.

Draw in a line between each speckled dot, removing the fog to make sense of our self, helping unclog built up tears often hidden. When we try to grasp traits from silent ideas, varied trickle effects help let go of the fear.
Prioritised tasks edge out further unclasped, where the forward thinking sinks in amongst us.
Contemplative thought of feelings less said,  as helpful hints given are informed well ahead.
(@PoeticTetra - instagram/twitter)
Peartini Jan 2017
Finally , I realise you do not feel love for me, nor will you ever.
We speak the type of words that are cordial, fake to each other.
Difficult for me, forced for you.
We had lunch and you were hardly present with me.
I have never felt more removed from your equation than sitting across from you at that table.
You refused to share a meal with me... And the most difficult thing for me, is when you attack me from a side that is not relevant between us, politics.
I have never judged your wealth, your ethics or your politics. I have never loved you less for your arrogance or for your wandering eyes and tedious political platitudes.

I am suffering. Deeply wounded.
I take consolation that this too shall pass into memory eventually.
I think you suffer as well.
I don't think you intended to not love me.
I think your ideals were set long ago and I just didn't fit into them.
But you received love from me in way that was unconditional.
A way you haven't felt maybe ever.
So, I don't  blame you for keeping me around.
Although you may think you were selfish... I think you were thirsty for love, and I, having so much love and devotion to give...I was irresistible even to a perfect person such as you.

It will never be my fault that you were desperately seeking anything when you met me.
I was not desperate.
I looked for you, liked, wanted and decided on you.
I stopped seeing others because I chose you.
I take it as a personal insult that you think I chose you in desperation.
I found you incredibly stimulating then.
I thought you were, still think you are, exceptional.

I even believe your relationship concepts are possible, but it would have to be eyes wide shut on her part.
I don't know how to close my eyes.
I am flawed for you.

Still-
You made me happy.
You woke me up and gave me thoughts and pleasures I haven't known before.
You also gave me doubts and shame so deep I can not reconcile them.
To be with you, I resigned to the idea that I should do as you say... Not do as I please.
I have never done that before. I never put someone before me that high up, on the priority scale.
For all that I did, it was not enough.
You still left me... As I knew you eventually would.
I realised you did not love me and never will, for the second time, the day you told me I was so dark and you were white and you asked "what are we doing here?!" You were drinking and your filters were down.

My heart was drowning in sorrow so deep, I knew you couldn't see yourself with me for the long term.
I'm not your ideal.
I don't fit into your white-knight-saves-single-white-mother-submissive box.
I would give anything to fit into your ideal...
-To change myself
-To be in you good graces.
-To be loved by you.

I have given so much of me... So much I'm confused as to how I should continue...
I don't want to continue this way.
I feel a deep, volcanic anger.
I am reckless in it and there are no brakes in this frenzied state for me.
I act Tyrannic, Impulsive and Trite.
I am dangerous now.

So why do you let me be around you?
Have *** with me?
Provide for me when I need it?
Your sense of duty maybe?
You have no duty to me.
You owe me nothing.

I gave you my love in total surrender... trust and love is steeply priced.
I pushed people away, I prioritised you and me...
I moved closer to feel your protection.
I believed you when you said you loved me. That one time... Forever engrained in my head... The day you had me show my body to another for his pleasure and to prove to you I would do your bidding even against my better judgement.
I did not like it.
You lost part of me on that day.
I began to fear you.
I never said it.  
A mistake on my part.
Still I love you and thought I could get passed the humiliation with this love.
I was wrong.
I can not love enough for the two of us.
So I have made sure this road slowly, surely, comes to a fork and I choose right and put you left.
I choose to never see you again.
I choose to end all communication.
I choose to cut off all ties and when the time comes I will move and forget this mountain ridge outside my door ever existed and I will forget you.
But worse, I shall never forgive you.
Because you told me you created the bedroom and the apartment for "us"... And I naively believed you.
Because "Chip would never mislead me."
I yelled this to my mother and father once...
They told me it was not real.
That I should not be with you. And I went against their wishes.
I hurt them.
That's why I can not forgive you.

It seems all who deal with you emotionally get burned or they flee your company.
I did not understand why they would leave you if you're in love with "them".
I don't know who they are... But I should've learned from them.
Get away. Far away. Oceans away and never return.

The fork in the road is here.
I stand on the right and to my left, you become smaller and smaller. As I move forward...
You become smaller and the fissure in my heart widens.
Kenya83 Jul 2017
I feel inspired when I read your poems
When I look outside
Or see the ocean
When my dog glares in to my eyes with love
And the other waits insistently for a fuss
When I rescue the bumble bee from the conservatory
And place him back on a blossoming tree
When the sun is shining down on me
And we hold hands
Reminiscing of those golden sands
Dreaming of adventure in foreign lands
I feel inspired from wise old words
Of Rumi, Dalai Lama and Shakespeare's verse
At times my sensitivity is a curse
It pains me to see suffering
My innocence diminishing
I can't harden to the harshness of a gluttonous world
Prioritised by numbers, income and yield
They say eyes are windows to the soul
The rest just shell and beating heart
My view from here is pretty **** smart
Life's to short to not get lost in art
Don't dwell in past pains and misery
When there's a great big beautiful world to see
Mindfulness and understanding myself better helped me see inspiration in even the worst situations.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2017
and in all - who deranges the work of thought? no one - in its weaker endeavors, it merely deranges itself th(r)ough the false desire for public validity.

and has not all anglophone intellectualism
been nothing more,
or become nothing more:
than a case of validation?
it just seems a validation for a sorry
case: of a club of plum kidneys
poached in punches...
  ******, you cry one more time,
i'll add another worth's of harvest...
oh, i'm not apprehensive of
violence, i sometimes punch myself
in the face to test the mercedes glee -
might as well, it's worth the wait.

they, these people talk so much,
can i make a suggestion?
the the 1st 2nd amendment?
i.e. you are free to speak,
but you're also free to get
a leech knuckle punch -
  can i introduce the freedom
of thought, as the higher
prioritised base concerning for law?

it's what kierkegaard wrote
as the antithesis for the american
constitution:
people complain about a "freedom"
of speech, yet so little managed
to concern themselves about
a freedom of "speech":
that ambiguity, that's thought.

am i really the one to care?
      we talk as much *******
as we think it,
   who cares about hearing the raw
herring flappers stinking with
ultra-caviar perfumermery?
    cheque please!
i'm this close to about to: puke.

oddly enough i'd revive a state of
politics with:
      you have the freedom to think
what you want...
oh right... the claustrophobics...
apparently thinking is a congested
place, or some sort of claustrophobia
hell..
       were americans claustrophobic
to begin with, feeling their egos
and thoughts couldn't fit
into their heads?!

   priests always, so far, always derail their
train of believers with their sermons,
does that matter?
  it matters on the grounds of secular
terms...

and yes, my life is like an art gallery
with only one painting in it...
     i have a canvas,
              i have a painting,
i have an inanimate object either side
of the painting,
      there are the inanimate objects within
the pain-taking (painting) observation,
then there's the observer, who also
looks like a whooped hoping pigeon
on one leg pretending a tango -
        only if in your life does there
emerge a canvas, can you start to form
yourself into a true observe -
  a true observer in that you paint:
by being the unobservable unobserved -
"telekinetic" in the sense of:
                        the unavoidable change -
taking place, without surprise or
warning...
           then again i live in a telekinetic zoo...
i change without want or will,
  on the carousel of seasons...
                a *work of thought
, as ever,
is hugely undermined,
      since this "work" does not eventuate
in the zenith of telekinesis...
           and as any fancy -
     psychology fakes "progress" by attaining
telepathy - psychology is just shy of
attaining telepathy -
  but it does so, nonetheless, by its rainbow
of pathologies exhumed from the crypts
of the unconscious;

summa summarum:
psychology deems to call telepathy -
         dialogue,
                a one sided case of
      the psychologist being the narrator -
and the patient, as any patient,
       only a julien sorel in stendhal's work...

i find that all psychologists are
psychopaths -
               they're atheists for the most part,
who deal with the logic of the pathos of
a psyche (the workings of the ailing of possessing
a soul) - they're like cyborgs asked a moral
question...
                  they deal with the pathology
of a non-existent soul - or otherwise they
try to treat asthma -
  another term for breath in grecian -
         or some other variant of the debate...
don't know, don't care, i have a dinner to cook:
meatballs in tomato sauce with rice and
beetroot & cucumber pickles; sorry.
Arlene Corwin Feb 2021
Memory: The Reliable & The Unreliable

Echos of a past that roll around
And called to mind from deepest ground
Behind the mind…  
Ambiguous or accurate -
Can you trust that what you bring to view
Is true?
Age three to eight…early or late?
What how and when do you recall the then?
When does cementing start? ,
How much and what was taking part?
Did you see it because you must?
How much is there, is there to trust?

We know that those who witness
Accidents and tragedies,  
Give testimonies contradictory -
Eyes, brown, no, green,
Height, tall, no teeny,
Fat, round, thin, face.
When and what took place - erased.

Often spoken, joke invoked, the anecdote
Snoringly or boringly jacked up:
Do we know that we repeat?
All the time collecting, re-connecting;
Predilections and renditions
Gathering and bathing; simply put, projecting -
Putting self onto the world -
Of change, of never-stops,
Of dreams, of ‘props’
Which being built to fool are worldly tools.

Memories and memorize.
Words that though alike in size,
Words containing wish and prize,
Faculties essential to our mental health,
The endless wealth of whats and whys.

Final question:
Do you, do you not -
Knowing well that times do rot,
Trust in memory and memories,
Knowing that each one is but
Prioritised interpretation, information?
I do not, but live the knots that days present
Giving each minute to a past.

Memory, The Reliable & The Unreliable 2.5.2021  Nature of & In Reality;Arlene Never Corwin
Big Virge Oct 2020
So What’s Coming Next... ?
Now That The PRESIDENT...
Has Caught This VIRUS... ?!?

Will The Don’ End Up Dead... ?
Or Will This Put An End...
To His Reign of MADNESS... ?!?

Or... Will This Now Bring...
A World of NEW STINGS...
With... Political Links...
From Names Like Mike Pence...
Or Biden To TIGHTEN...
... Human Existence... ?!?

It’s A Future UNCERTAIN...
WITHOUT Iron Curtains... !!!

But Are Those Words TRUE... ?
Cos' Who Now Has A Clue... !?!

of Who NOW...
CONTROLS WHO... ?!?

Because It’s DISPUTED... !!!
That... Vladimir Putin...
Is Moving And Pulling...
The Strings of These Muppets...
... Political Puppets... !!!

When It Comes To Selecting...
Whose Winning Elections...

It Seems That Infections...
Are Being Directed...
To Money Collections...
of Cash For Protection...
From New Age Recessions...

And What Is...
... Coming NEXT... !!!

Like... Traffic Directives...
Where Roads Have ONE Entrance... !?!
And Yes Just Like Brexit'...
Have... Only ONE Exit... !!!

To HINDER Collectives...
From Using Back Streets...

NO More Moving Freely...
Conspiracy Or... Theory... ?!?

Well It Now Seems To Me...
That Stopping This Disease...
Is NOT PRIORITISED...
Like Pandemics Should Be... !!!

Could It Be One BIG LIE...
To Gain... DOMINANCY...
of ALL HUMANITY...

So That TECHNOLOGY...
Can Replace Human Beings... ?

Or Is That... FALLACY... ?!?

A Nightmare Or Dream...
Or Simply... POETRY... !?!

That’s Asking Some Questions...
About Where We’re Heading...

Cos' It’s All So CRAZY... !!!
That People Now Seem...
UNWILLING To Stand...
And... REJECT Policies...
That Will Now Leave Humans...
Being Tracked CONSTANTLY... !?!

What’s NEXT May Just See...
A Breed That’s So WEAK...
That They No Longer Seek...
To REJECT Being Meek...
And CONTROLLED By Money... !!!

It’s A SAD Thing To See... !!!
How The Rise of CORONA...
Has Hit Folks Like Boulders...
Thrown By Thanos’s Soldiers... !!!

It Seems Minds Are In Comas...
And Are No Longer BOLDER...
Than Type Faces Seen...
That Feed Internet Screens...

While Corona Has BREACHED...
The... WHITEHOUSE To Be... !!!!!!

A THREAT To America’s SECURITY... !!!

While It Seems The Chinese...
Want Taxis... DRIVERLESS...

It’s A World of Progress...
Or Something SUSPECT...
That HASN’T COME YET... !!!

Which Now Begs The Question...

“So What’s Coming Next ?”
Not a bad question to pose right now....
G Vermeulen Aug 29
Sometimes I feel like a candy wrapper
Found in a lot of places
Seen but not recognized
Never prioritised

All about the unwrapping
See how far they can get
Without shredding
But it's not about the padding

Then to be used
For their filth
To be added to my insides
And wrap back around all my sides

Once I've been toyed with
It's done for
Time to throw me away
Doesn't matter what I say

Simply, trash
Nomadic poet Apr 2020
Its hard to let go
Its hard to walk away
After all these years
All this pain
Love
Confusion
After all of it
I still have to walk away
All because
You never prioritised me
All these years
I was truly yours
But you were never mine
6 years and 1 kid later and i still end up alone
c May 2020
a best friend,

too caught up,
in her charm, beauty, need.

backhanded compliments,
bringing people down
so she didn't go down alone

guilt,
not doing good enough
not being there enough
never being enough

a friendship,
that was so glorified
that seemed so good
so pure

gone.

toxicity,
masked by feeling as though we need each other
that we need to hold on
as though it was the world
and us

emotionally drained,
after putting your problems
to the back of your mind
not being prioritised
when you needed to the most

red flags everywhere,
slowly being picked up
by people around you

but you're too busy,
being manipulated
torn down
to stop,
to notice

a friendship that has been buried,
six feet under
at last.

— The End —