"requests" poems
*The surf provides lullabies
as ocean echoes roll.
Too soon, the sunlight glitters
as the dawn turns gray to gold.
I wake and I rub my eyes
beside the sandy beach
My love beside me, languid lips
within an easy reach.
I whisper, sweet good mornings
as your dreams I brush away.
You stretch and yawn, responding to
requests to "come and play".
Lingered memories caress,
of last night's rising moon
with silver waves and ripples,
beyond the dark lagoon.
In shades of colors that mix and smudge
you take your time, no rush
My ******* tingle, at the thought
upon my skin, spreads flush.
In reverie, flutters reminisce,
your wanton body on mine.
Whispered moans in my ear, you ******
"I'm yours", I hear on rewind.*
Oct 12, 2017
Oct 12, 2017 at 12:37 AM UTC
The night is young
& full of rest
I can’t describe the
way she’s dress’d
She’ll pander to some strange
requests
Anything that you suggest
Anything to please her guest
13.9k
In the silence of a day like today
In the wake of yesterday's dreams
Forgetfulness feels like noncompliance
In a world where defiance still seems
Like a benign inaction of innocence
Though it feels like a stabbing of spite
Willing to kneel to your Goddess
Yet unable to yeild to Her might
There is no weakness to worship at Her altar
It takes strength to relinquish control
Relax and trust in the knowledge
Acquiesce and watch it unfold
There is freedom in the smile of an angel
There is love to be had all around
There is power in making Her smile
Don't be the sadness beind every frown
Inaction, as innocent as it seems
Breeds disappointment that infects every smile
And all those little requests
Will stop being wanted after awhile
See, for all the deeds left unfinished
And all those tiny tasks left undone
Will chisel away Her hearts desire
Leaving Her another invisible no one
An empty shell of a Goddess
Whose glory, in your heart will remain
While She curses her very existence
Languishing in true-love's refrain
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 4:01 AM UTC
(the gate is a crowded mess, please no special requests, be thankful you got a seat, this flight is sold out and I’m beat.
I get up and stand on my chair and say)
*I give thanks for:
the uncommon greatness of common sense
for the steady approach of that wondrous day when
kindness is neither random or unexpected,
but the rule, not the exception
for our opinions and deeds, that are our own,
derived without coercion, born from our thoughts and observations and that
we are equal to both
owning them and to
changing them
that we live in a time that friendships can grow just through the quick exchange of words leaping bounds
for eyes that see deep deeper than skin,
ears that hear
what those ashamed wish you didn’t, hands that grasp regardless of distance,
the taste of kisses that come easy sweet
for the day when I at last knew,
the pleasure of giving
so far exceeded receiving,
that giving and receiving became
synonymous
that I learned that the best skill to possess is
to anticipate
the needs of others
that my lucky position in this world permits me
to act on the things for
which I am thankful*
that someday I will need no longer inquire,
are you my poem,
for the answer will be self-evident to us both
Nov 22, 2017
Nov 22, 2017 at 12:51 PM UTC
Wake up. Breathe. Take your pill please.
Exercise. Work. Don’t ever smirk.
Wrong. Right. No need to fight
Live. Die. Why even try?
The Political cult leads the day,
It dictates what we do, what we say.
Thinking is a luxury we shall soon not afford,
No more choices, at least.. not of your own accord.
You’ll get the news from an IV drip,
Government lies go straight to the chip.
Notifications from corporations and friend requests from secret police
Refuse one or all, it’ll be your fall, and your contract with us will cease.
We’ll delete your name, and wipe all the files,
Deny any knowledge and bury you under the tiles.
You’ll never be heard from, you’ll never be seen,
You’ll never have existed, you’ll never have been.
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 2:46 PM UTC
"Hey, Charles! I won't be back."
His friend yells out before
Continuing to eat the face off
Of the young Latino he had met.
"Ok! I guess I can get home.. Somehow..."
He mumbles to himself, signaling to the
Bartender that he wanted to order
Something off menu.
He pays no attention to the trans
Woman who sits down beside him.
"I'll have a watermelon sangria, please."
he requests softly, but confidently.
The lady by him chuckles,
"Watermelon? That's odd."
Her voice is rich with flavor,
And humor.
"It is odd. But so am I." He mumbles.
"It seems that way, doesn't it? Well,
at least now I can call you Melon
Rather than ask your name!"
"A rather odd nickname for an odd person."
And so their conversation continued.
It became all the more lively once
'Melon' had had a couple rounds.
Both drunk and desperate, they
Kiss passionately in the gay bar,
Paying no heed to the others
Yelling "Get a room!"
Roaming hands.
Stumbling up stairs.
Drunken giggles.
Broken speech.
"You're so beautiful." He whispers.
Skin against skin,
Burning hot,
Both mad with desire.
Panting.
Groaning.
Moaning.
Ecstasy.
It's late at night.
They manage to call
A taxi, and go home.
Home to Melon's apartment.
The next morning was spent
Drinking ****** Mary's and
Making an account of what
Happened the night before.
That, and more ***
Hot, ****** ***
Passionate, lively
And loving ***
Charles sits up in his bed.
He feels something sticky.
"Oh, that's disgusting!"
****** *** indeed.
He stands up to clean himself
Off in the bathroom, but he
Hears the shower running.
"Did I get laid last night?"
He peeps into the shower
And sees the woman from
His dream. "Eva?" He asks.
"Who else would it be?"
"Why are you in my apartment?"
Charles exclaims. Eva turns and
Raises an eyebrow at him.
"I live here, Melon."
"Since when? We hooked
Up just last night!"
"Darlin', we've been
married for 4 years!"
Apr 15, 2018
Apr 15, 2018 at 12:39 AM UTC
Translation follows
mahal kong tequila,
iniibig kita.
ako'y pinakamaligaya
kapag kasama ka.
at sa 'yong piling
ako'y nahuhumaling
walang ibang hinihiling,
wala ring nagsisinungaling.
mahal kong tequila,
mahal ka ngang talaga.
kung ika'y naging mura,
pagkain ka ng masa.
dahil sa 'yong piling
wala nang problema
calamansi at asin
ang tanging kasama.
masarap pa siguro
kung boyfriend kita.
aba, Jose Cuervo..
ang ganda pa sa mata!
*Rough translation:
My beloved tequila
I love you.
I am happiest
In your company.
In your embrace
I find extreme closeness appealing
No more requests,
No one lies.
My beloved tequila
I've paid for so dear.
If you'd have been cheaper,
The masses would cheer.
Because in your embrace
Problems are no more
Lime and salt
Are our only companions.
It would be a treat
If you'd be my boyfriend.
Hmm, Jose Cuervo..
The name fits!*
Jul 14, 2011
Jul 14, 2011 at 8:44 AM UTC
Retailers hope to net profits with the overlapping of holiday seasons.
Thanksgiving is yet to be history; but, out comes the Christmas trimmings.
No big surprise seeing holiday reminders arriving and filling mail box,
comes with pre-season, this early blitz of commercials on tv now the net.
Early arrival of holiday brings bell ringers standing between shopper's exit,
a failure to repeat and repeat donations, brings looks of extreme displeasure.
Each and every time you enter or exit discount, drug, and many retail stores,
shoppers face not only bell ringers; but, 365 days donate at register requests.
Most can't equal billion dollar give aways by Bill and Melinda Gates' circle.
Most work extremely hard and donate but also choose to live on budgets.
I donate and have nothing against charities; but, how much should one give?
Retailers, putting shoppers on the spot, asking for donations upon check out?
Never a pinch penny when it comes to sharing when there's an "actual" need,
generosity is always a personal choice, I let guilt not be my companion in giving.
Multiple donations to canister's of amnesiac holiday bell ringers? Wont happen!
Nothing against legit charities; but, giving until you're broke, you "will" be needy.
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 8:04 AM UTC
We are a deeply entwined vine
Growing ever more far apart,
But still attached at the roots.
He has rooted himself in myself,
And has become a part of me.
I dissected worms in high school,
But I don't feel qualified
To dissect our conjointment.
He has asked me to hand him the scalpel,
And I have become too accustomed
To his requests to decline.
We stare at each other,
Both of us too timid to cut the ties,
And go to bed side by side
With scalpels in hand.
Jun 25, 2014
Jun 25, 2014 at 1:51 PM UTC
(and I cannot live
from with-out)
<>
a poem in appreciation to Rossella Di Paolo
<>
I, too:
- am an embryonic work in progress,
well into my seventh decade, with no ending in sight
I too,
live in the house of poetry, the address likely differs,
but suspect the innards of the houses differs little,
the decor, quite similar
- my house shrewdly requests a rethinking,
noting, it lives my artifice,
with in & with out
Then, we are a We:
- my cavities house her, She, Poetry is of Ruth (1) born,
- Poetry, She, reminds me, ”whither thou goest, I will go”
This duality:
- where the haunting of words providential,
emanate, both inhabiting & inhibits my breathing
She, a fearsome creature, a fearful-something,
for it tears me and shreds tears its demands be wrung
from with in to with out
She, Poetry:
- leaves me gaping, hollow, fills me with
depressurizing boreholes exposed to the elements of
externalities of an admixed atmospheres, that nature demands be refilled, fresh in, stale out,
for which the artifice trick is knowing which is which
when Poetry’s birthing:
- chest pounds, heart-rate beats heavy metal,
abdomen contracts, there then, no languid in my language,
no help untangling the alpha-bet jumbling,
product of the screams of pushing,
squeezing it forth*
*you’re hoping to quick-catch newly formed combinations,
for if you fail, a poem
noisily crashes to and through the floorboard cracks,
where poetry’s chaotic glinting etes
maliciously glimmer~winks at me
with a sarcastic thank you*
*“ah, too bad, another creation stillborn,
gone to rest, biting the nether dust,
without hope of resuscitation…”*
just another unfinished work in progress
periodically
a survivor clean caught, transcribed, edited to be finished,
amniotic fluids cleared,
poem resurrected
blessed with eternal life,
readied to be shared and delivered,
affirmed
and you say to no one and to everyone:
this poem will be our poem,
wither it goes, ascending, descending,
all live in the house of poets,
one house,
many apartments,
each poem a god,
and
my God will be our God,
your God, my God,
in the House of Poetry
Jun 21, 2023
Jun 21, 2023 at 5:55 PM UTC
Read random books
And take some pics
Eat bacon, soup and.. oh a Sandwich
Add it to your story
And add stickers, lips
Drive a BMW and sing a silly song
Of?
Not even the words of
Your "speachless" mind
Don't forget to talk out loud
Start a live
While going out, mad
Add "thinker" to your bio
pretend
You're different than the others, oh not my dear lad! Eww
Go to the gym
Take pics of your body,
Hola!
Isn't that a dream?
Make some more friends
Then make them cry
For your fake pains
Dance with the "kiki" song
Post it somewhere (mostly to girls)
Make sure
You are walking on *** son
Send follow requests to some **** barbie girls
Do not accept guests, and
make fun of fat nerds
That's your life Bro!
Did I ever protest?
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 7:02 PM UTC
Spring blossoms gentle acceptance
Of vagaries of desperation
Like variegated autumnal leaves
From the core of the stone of floods
Undeclared truths
Affirmative requests
There is chaos as a whole
In the expanse of the unending.
Fear fades mystically.
Death and boredom leave your lungs ...
There. Exists
Justice and pleasure... .
.... thoughts of living, laugh in the face of Death.
all the thoughts of failures
Conglomerate and are cast away
Into a deep trench
the soothing currents lull
Sinking green verdure.
Embraced by the biosphere
And forming a reef,
Thereby even your failures succeed.
Even now your image is being painted on the dull white canvas of my love.
Violent storms may rend the world
scattering lesser unions,
There is endurance in our madness...
Laughter, the golden bird, with bejewelled feathers,
Leads to the oasis of truth, in this desert of deceit
Reciprocation of sensation
Every intention to remain
And the rapidly ascending choir of broken angels sing the song which massacres despair.
And the body I wish to settle
Caressed by the deepest dark of night
Birth of the morning
The genesis of pleasant daydreams
Calm, hope ...
..... And a sense of success
Blue morning justice cascades
With dispelled illusions, and realized wishes.
Everyday upon wakening
I discard hate
As love, is mildly colored supple flesh
Withdrawn and plunged, into the crack of a stoney heart
Space infinitum opens before us,
On the petals of the lotus
Space through which two beings connect
No matter the distance.
We know that beneath this dull white nightmare
Dwells a vibrant black dream,
That is neither evil or good,
But just is.
On the workbench of despair,
Disassembled hearts are heaped.
In this pile I dwelled for an age of pain,
Until you plucked me from the pile
And made me whole again.
Aug 24, 2012
Aug 24, 2012 at 6:14 AM UTC
I have things
to say-
but there are
276
requests
for my silence..
Nov 9, 2016
Nov 9, 2016 at 11:15 AM UTC
I’d heard about social networking,
And how it was the next big thing,
So I just had to take a look,
And ended up on Facebook.
It only took me a little while,
To fill out most of my profile,
But I have spent many a night,
Figuring out the rest of the site.
I never realized I had so many friends,
The friend requests never end,
All the people I can’t stand at work,
And now the biggest high school ****
I have to admit I’ve learned a bunch,
I know what all my friends eat for lunch,
And it really helps me that I know,
Everyone’s favorite TV show.
The work on Facebook never stops,
I have to water my imaginary crops,
Send get-well wishes to Farmville quick,
My friend’s imaginary cow got sick.
I now realize my chances are dire,
Of ever building a Mafia empire,
And perhaps it is a bit of a shame,
My It Girl will never go on to fame.
My kids' statuses tell me of their life,
At dinner time I get poked by the wife,
I try to keep my friend count nice and fat,
So, I even signed up the dog and cat.
I guess you can say my life’s complete,
I have more friends than I’ll ever meet,
On Facebook I can roam far and wide,
And I never have to go outside.
02-19-11.
Jan 2, 2012
Jan 2, 2012 at 7:39 PM UTC
.*i can think of one cool job... a nighttime DJ on a radio station... anything more cool than being a DJ between the hours 12am through to 5am? honestly... can't think of a cooler job... all the song requests are gone from the classical.fm show between 3pm and 5pm... now one is telling you what to do... **** me... as a kid... either a veterinarian, or an owner of a music shop... now? an insomniac DJ... they would never play Christopher Young's Something to Think About in the afternoon... sorry... i'm a Hellraiser cult-follower of the first two movies... and that song? why? i just can't be bothered with listening to that Braveheart over-scratched Song of / for a Princess... it's good... once in a while... but, come, on!*
just one of those nights...
having listened to the scoops
from the alternative...
worried your to hell
about not having *******
enough concerning
the previous day's load
which would make the pleasures
of **** *** look tame...
perched on a windowsill -
solving a sudoku -
and listening to
Frank Zappa's occam's razor...
and wishing:
making sure it was never
hot in the city
by Billy Idol,
or Kiss' crazy nights
to usher in the night,
and the watchman...
why?
it's not your standard
guitar solo...
it's a medley...
big difference...
guitar solos are bound to
a strict return to the rhythm
section...
they are caged beasts...
composed of a restricted
time constrain in a song...
but a guitar medley?
**** me...
it's what obliterates
a need for vocals...
the guitar medley is
the vocals substitute...
and that aspect of music?
mm... gummy bears...
jelly in the knees...
which is why i like
the fact that jazz is the antithesis
of classical music symphony...
sure... i get the Schubert / Schumann
piano duets...
nice...
but jazz?
the breakdown of the quintet?
**** let me count...
piano, drums...
bass... horn... sax...
yep, a quintet...
that moment in a jazz
song? where each instrument
player gets his solo?
genius!
the same with a guitar medley...
neither solo,
nor the rhythm section...
what a beautiful opening
to what i expect to be,
a beautiful night:
as the watchman once said.
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 6:34 PM UTC
THORNED CROSS OF SCARLET TEARS,
OH HOW THY HAVE KNEELED TO THOU THROUGHOUT THE YEARS.
THOU SMOOTH BEADS THAT SWIRL AROUND THOU NECK OF THE HOLY SON,
OH HOW THY HAVE REPEATED “OUR FATHERS” AND “HAIL MARYS” FOR THOU PATRIARCHAL CREATOR ABOVE.
LOVING HANDS THAT SHALL SHOW THOU THE LADDER TO HEAVEN,
OH HOW THY BELIEVES WINGS WILL PREVAIL OVER THOU TAIL OF SATAN.
CIRCLES OF GOLD AND ASCENDED WINGS,
OH HOW THY AWAITS FOR THOU REDEMPTION THOU SHALL BRING.
FEMININE CANDLES TO AWAIT THOU FEMININE ACT OF BIRTH,
OH HOW THY LIFTS THE FOUR CANDLES FOR ALL THOU IS WORTH.
THE WINE THAT CAME FROM THOU WATER,
OH HOW THY SHALT TELL THOU MIRACLE TALE TO THOU DAUGHTER.
WHITE AND BLUE ROSES OUR LADY OF HELP REQUESTS AT HER FEET FOR HER BIRTHDAY,
OH HOW THY BUYS FLOWERS FOR THOU NEXT TIME THY AND THOU MEET.
HEART PROTECTED BY THE SHIELD OF THE HOLY SPIRIT’S GUIDANCE,
OH HOW THY NEVER BECOMES A VICTIM TO SUBSIDENCE.
WATER THAT SWIRLS INTO THE BLOOD OF CHRIST,
OH HOW THY REMEMBERS HOW THE SON SAVED US IN SIGHT.
BREAD THAT ENTERS THE BODY AND THUS THE SON HIMSELF,
OH HOW THY REMEMBERS TO REFLECT IN THYSELF.
EYES TOWARDS THE SKY IN HOPE OF MIRACLES,
HOW THE LIGHT IN THY VISION RETURNS SYMMETRICAL.
PAIN THAT DISAPPEARS LIKE THE AIR FROM THY LUNGS,
OH HOW THY REJOICES WITH THE WORDS THAT ROLL OF THY TONGUE.
PRAYING FOR THE HOPE THAT THOU SAVIOR PUSHES UNTO THY SOUL,
OH HOW THY GETS CLOSER TO THY GOAL.
REMEMBERING THE GRIM THAT THE CRUCIFIXION CAUSED THE SON WITH GRACE,
OH HOW THY IS STRUCKEN WITH TEARS DOWN THY FACE.
INVISIBLE MORTAL WINGS THAT SHALL ONE DAY BE SEEN AND RISE ABOVE,
OH HOW THY BELIEVES IN THE REDEMPTION BY THE DOVE.
Oct 8, 2018
Oct 8, 2018 at 6:52 AM UTC
During the war, I was in China.
Every night we blew the world to hell.
The sky was purple and yellow
like his favorite shirt.
I was in India once
on the Ganges in a tourist boat.
There were soldiers,
some women with parasols.
A dead body floated by
going in the opposite direction.
My son likes this story
and requests it each year at Thanksgiving.
When he was twelve,
there was an accident.
He almost went blind.
For three weeks he lay in the hospital,
his eyes bandaged.
He did not like visitors,
but if they came
he'd silently hold their hand as they talked.
Small attentions
are all he requires.
Tell him you never saw anyone
so adept
at parallel parking.
Still, your life will not be easy.
Just look in the drawer where he keeps his socks.
Nothing matches. And what's the turtle shell
doing there, or the map of the moon,
or the surgeon's plastic model of a take-apart heart?
You must understand --
he doesn't see the world clearly.
Once he screamed, "The woods are on fire!"
when it was only a blue cloud of insects
lifting from the trees.
But he's a good boy.
He likes to kiss
and be kissed.
I remember mornings
he would wake me, stroking my whiskers
and kissing my hand.
He'll tell you -- and it's true --
he prefers the green of your eyes
to all the green life
of heaven and earth.
2.6k
“What can a poem do?”
—————————-
***”A poem
is a not a tourniquet
when you’re bleeding.
It’s not water when you’re thirsty
or food when you’re hungry.
A poem can’t protect you from an airstrike,
or from abduction, or from hate.
It’s hard to write when our words feel
like they’re not enough—they can’t do
the real, tangible work of saving lives,
or making people safer.”***
(see (1) Maggie Smith)
<~>
as is my wont,
I write,
as is my Natted~inhabited,
retiring to the local watering holes of
Cerebrum & Cerebellum,
them regular haunts,
where all requests are mailed, processed, satisfied & marked;
‘return & render to the sender, who’s on a cerebral ******
and that request?
‘give me the words’ (2)
those ‘to do’ words, floaters, direct to top of list,
those ‘can do’ words, that can effect the affect,
spare the despair, realize the fungible, concretize cures,
soften hard waters, giving a worsening worn life fabric a
curated baby blanket feel, a 4-ply human tissue of
‘words that tell me everything’ (2)
salve solution verbs that bounty-wipe spills in entirety,
vacuum up spillage spoiling of 17 days of terrible nouns,
uncovered-unknown rages caused by inflicting prepositions
released a hatred rising,
safety rebury it deeper, drug & destruct the sleeper agents,
and let me start over again with
‘telling me everything by saying nothing’ (2)
the pausal silence, the quieted spaces tween the heartbeats,
where ‘reflection,’
the noun,
and its world of alternations,
reflection,
the noun,
look inwards, but shining outward,
this, this!
is where the poem goes to do!
enervating & arresting
its contradictory powers
rock you into wild docility,
possessive and submissive,
contradictory interferences,
smoothing the roughness,
closing the gaps it opens,
healing the caused truthful cuts,
with words that tell you
everything and nothing,
open the holes, filling the gaps,
that is what a
poem do,
in and by
the manner it is spoken…
<~>
“Sometimes a poem is the stone you carry in your pocket—the one you rub when you’re worried. Let’s fill our pockets with poems.”
(see (1) Maggie Smith)
Oct 24, 2023
Oct 24, 2023 at 10:10 PM UTC
I'm a greet-you-and-meet-you professional
I get straight to the point and don't mess around.
I'll ask you how your day is,
If you found everything okay-
And if you prefer paper or plastic.
Like a superhero from a comic strip-
I'm out to make you smile in five minutes
or less.
I have the super power
To turn you away from your favorite alcoholic beverage
Or turn you on-
It all depends if you can pass the test,
the secret code to a top secret nuke shelter-
No pass, no go.
I'm like a greeting card,
Everyday; a new message.
Sometimes I'll hear about the weather,
Other times,
I'll hear intimate details which I really don't care about-
But I'll pretend I do...
Things like-
What you're having for supper,
How much wine your sister likes to drink
Or the fact that you make the best homemade sauce.
I'll get to know you the more I see you,
And like an app on your smart phone,
I'll remind you to come again.
I'll see your kids at their worst-
Moments their grandparents don't get to see.
I'll learn about your financial status,
Your marital status,
Or the fact that you don't have a status at all.
I'll take all of your complaints
And sometimes pass them someone else-
I'll hear all your requests like an overworked DJ
And if you're lucky...
Your wish will be granted.
I am a food slinger,
A cash ringer,
A handle-your-food winner,
I am grocery store cashier.
Jan 6, 2013
Jan 6, 2013 at 5:33 AM UTC
I used to sing to the morning but it's at the end of the day
I used to sing to the mountains but they all washed away
I think of the lessons I've learned along the way
When my memory fails, they'll all slip away
I had a dream but the morning came to pass
Clouded up my mind with nothing but the past
When you've fallen in love, you'll always remember that
When you fall out, you feel like you'll never get it back
I played to the millions all with empty eyes
I played to a friend who sat and cried
All is forgiven with a kiss and a sigh
When the realization hits that life passes by
I cared enough but it only brought me down
As long as I'm alive, I'll always be around
Send me requests and I'll carry them out
I'll be your friend until all your lights go down
Mar 24, 2016
Mar 24, 2016 at 2:51 PM UTC
Death can do strange things,
like time-lapse photography,
undress those quite bored, or
make a patron saint out of a fool,
turning sleek idiots into monks
more mysterious than Rasputin.
What a place to drink, the casino
death runs, nothing fancy or beautiful,
a blind man called Dark Island
taking requests on a piano with keys
worn dull as bone handled knives.
A place the lost can find work, graceless
and not made in America without a living,
all these odd jobs death can do, like art,
factory smoke blown in the eyes of women
in Senegal making overalls for Walmart.
Aug 12, 2016
Aug 12, 2016 at 9:47 PM UTC
Youth has lost it's sweet seduction,
Yellow lemon heads have grown hard and sticky,
No longer resting upon our eager tongues,
But instead gathering lint in forgotten pockets.
Dreams of astronauts and ballerinas
Only exist in dated children's books
And hospital emergency rooms.
There isn't room for foolishness anymore,
Not here. Not now.
Childhood has shrunken into a tiny ball
That would fit perfectly into the hands
Of anyone brave enough to grasp it.
Yet, instead it has rolled off into a corner somewhere,
Out of the reach of subway tickets and smart phones and deli sandwiches and fake leather boots.
Sitting there, stagnant and unnoticed, it festers in the disregarded possibility that is life.
We all grow up and forget this,
We fall into the routine of tooth paste and parking meters and 160 character love notes,
We forget about the astronaut and the ballerina and the president who all once lived inside us,
We shut them away in our minds and starve them,
Only giving in to their innocent requests in the dark of the night,
Where time and responsibility dance hand in hand in blissful oblivion.
Ashes, ashes we all fall down.
Jan 16, 2013
Jan 16, 2013 at 3:15 AM UTC