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Mark Jun 2020
A COLOURFUL FRUIT BLAST        
From the 1st diary entry of Stewy Lemmon's childhood adventures.            
            
Hi, my name is Stewy Lemmon and I’m your normal, everyday, friendly, country boy, who lives about 2 hours away from the big city lights. My family’s home is nestled amongst the trees on a hill in a little country village called, 'Shimmerleedimmerlee'.

It's located just a little north west from the famous town of Bearfeet Ridge. Famous of course, because of the mysterious and rarely seen yellow tailed bear family, that is said to inhabit the nearby treed mountain range. The town's people have even given the rarely seen bear family sightings, a nickname called, 'Bearfeet Yellow Tales'.            
              
My family is made up of one much younger brother, named Lemmy; two much older, identical, twin sisters named, Emma and Jemma, and my proud parents, Archie and Flo.            
              
On Christmas day this year, I received a pet mouse as one of my presents. I quickly named him Smoochy, after he suddenly jumped up and kissed me on the cheek, then fell into my top left-hand side pocket. From that moment on, I knew that Smoochy and I, would have such fun times and great adventures together.            
              
This Christmas afternoon was especially hot, so my Mum Flo cut up some healthy and yummy assorted fruit for the family, as a snack and placed it on the table, which was placed in between, the two large trees in the backyard.

I especially love bananas, apples, oranges, grapes and lots of watermelon mixed together in my bowl. I named this creation 'A colourful fruit-blast'. It’s so much fun to eat, although, my little brother Lemmy only likes bananas in his bowl, with a dash of sweet honey.            
              
My two much older identical twin sisters named, Emma and Jemma, love to eat only green celery sticks and plain yogurt on hot days. Smoochy also ate some of my delicious, colourful fruit-blast and even drank a little of my icy, strawberry flavoured, thick shake, through his very own, home-made straw.

My Dad Archie, is very handy at making things out of wood, metal and even plastic and loves to paint unusual designs on whatever he makes. Dad does all of his, building and painting in his unusually built and outrageously painted backyard, outback shed.            
              
So, after he had some of Mum's afternoon fruit snack, Dad built a mouse house, for my grouse, new pet, mouse called, Smoochy. Dad even hand painted it with such colourful flair, from using his artistic nous. But, when I placed Smoochy, into his newly painted, mouse house, the paint wasn't dry enough, and he got yellow paint all over his, oh-so-cute tail.  
  
After my Dad Archie, had finished the grouse, new pet, mouse house, he thought, what could he make for me, as a New Year’s Eve surprise present. He quickly thought of a great idea and headed off to his, unusually built and outrageously painted, outback, backyard shed.            
              
Dad was busy for days, coming and going from his backyard shed and snoring so loudly, while taking short naps on our backyard hammock.            
      
Also, Dad kept taking pieces of Mum's colourful fruit snack, but only very small amounts at a time, from her ever so clean kitchen. Then, sneaking it all back into his, very hard to say shed. You know, the one in the backyard.  
  
My Dad had finally finished building my surprise present, just in time for New Year’s Eve. Then, because we were hosting a party at our house, at about 11.50 pm, my entire family, neighbours, friends, Smoochy and I were all waiting outside, in the backyard for the clock to strike 12.00 midnight.
  
With only 10 minutes to go my Dad, rushed off to his, you know where. Yes that's right, his unusually built and outrageously painted, outback, backyard shed and brought out my surprise. You will never guess what it was, for it was radically recycled, rather refined, remarkably robust and really red. Have you guessed correctly? Anyone? No? Okay, I will tell you what it was. It was my very own really red, reusable, retro rocket.            
              
When I saw the rocket that my dad had built for me, I was over the moon with happiness and I had a smile on my dial, that felt like it was almost as long as about a mile.            
    
All of a sudden, all of my family members, neighbours, friends and I started screaming out 10,9,8,7,6,5,4,3,2,1. We all shouted out together, at the top of our voices HAPPY NEW YEAR. Then my Dad helped me light my, really red, reusable, retro rocket surprise and we both stood back, to see it take off and fly into the sky. My Dad told me, it was especially built to create, a fireworks display in the night sky and then return back to us. All so we could reuse it again, for next year.
  
All of a sudden, it took off so high into the night sky, I thought my new, radically recycled, rather refined, remarkably robust, really red, reusable, retro rocket surprise, was going to the moon and may never come back down to earth.            
              
But then we heard a loud bang, the top of my rocket separated from the main body of the rocket and exploded into bright colours all over the night sky.            
              
After a while though, my entire family, our neighbours and our friends, felt things dropping onto their clean party attire. People had red blobs on their backs; yellow splats on their shirts and even some on their skirts; small orange flecks on their faces and a few people had small black bits, dropping into their top, left-hand side pockets.            
    
"It's my colourful fruit snack, coming down from the night sky", yelled Mum. So she went searching through the crowd for my Dad. When she found him, he was chuckling with laughter.

He told us all, ‘That he had packed the radically recycled, rather refined, remarkably robust, really red, reusable, retro rocket, full of Stewy's favorite fruit. Also, because fruity, firework explosives would really make the sky, so much more colourful to the eye, and ever so tasty in our mouths’.
              
My Dad wanted to make as many colours as he could for the fireworks display. He used some of Mum's colourful fruit, which included, apples, bananas, watermelons, grapes and oranges.            
              
Even Smoochy was getting hit by the furiously flying, fast falling, fantastically funny, fabulous family fruit by Flo, through the small gaps, in his newly built, freshly painted, grouse, pet mouse, house. It was the best surprise I have ever seen, come out of that unusually built and outrageously painted, backyard, outback shed.            
              
Oh, what a fun and tasty New Year's Eve party we all had, on that, oh, so wonderful and colourful fruit blast of a night, in my little country village of 'Shimmerleedimmerlee'.
© Fetchitnow
20 October 2019.
This children’s fun adventure book series, is only for children from ages, 1-100. So please enjoy.
Note: Please read these in order, from diary entry 1-12, to get the vibe of all of the characters and the colourful sense of this crazy mess.
Moon Humor Apr 2015
~Many people rely on the convenient, easy ways of living in this age of fast food, plastic packaging and rapid development. Most people do not care to see why they live the way they do or what it takes to live in such a way. Toxic pollutants leaching into our earth and water should not be worth the convenience! Third world women working in dusty, cramped factories to make designer purses for fifteen year old girls. Garbage is America’s biggest export and it ends up in China, on the coast of Somalia... anywhere that American citizens won’t be bothered to see it.

~What does it mean to buy a pack of plastic razors? Some metal, some chemicals, some plastic, more plastic for packaging. Use a razor a few times and toss it in the garbage. Somewhere, maybe at La Chureca, someone will pull the rusted metal and plastic from the landfill. They might make one US dollar per day collecting scraps of aluminum, glass, plastic and other scrap metals. What does it mean to wear deodorant? The plastic stick isn’t reusable. The ingredients are highly toxic. Aluminum-based antiperspirants have been linked to Alzheimer's and cancer. Soap comes in plastic bottles, coffee makers made of plastic, water bottles made of plastic… hell, my plastic shower curtain came wrapped in plastic packaging.

~Americans are lucky. Indoor plumbing with quality water. Green lawns and exotic flower beds. Buy and use, throw away and repeat. Big corporations pay off politicians to pollute. Industrial waste, land erosion, low air quality, pesticides. Why are we so quick to trust an artificial sweetener being promoted by a company that makes poison? They call you a hippy, a conspiracy theorist. They tell you that you only live once and to stop being so worried about it all. I ask them, how can you look away? Deforestation and destruction are all around. Those that profit are not concerned with what happens to the land after the loggers and miners have left the ground scarred and desolate.

~Modern living is a hoax. Yeah, you get around quick in your car but at what cost? Carbon dioxide, greenhouse gasses choking us and everything alive that lives with us and cannot speak. Can’t you walk to the corner store? Can’t you grow a few things in the garden or in the windowsill? When was the last time you saw a sunset and didn’t take a picture of it? Dairy cows packed together so tight they can’t turn around for your glass of milk. The disconnect is everywhere. Overpopulation. Overconsumption. People don’t care.

~They can choose. They can choose paper over plastic. They can buy a water filter instead of 20 plastic bottles. They can bike to work. Anyone can lessen their impact, anyone can think more deeply and live more sustainably. But we’ve made it so easy to be lazy. We’ve become so dependent that we’re forgetting to use technological gains to make the way we do things better. We’ve come so far that we’re forgetting what brought us here.

~

‘We are slaves in the sense that we depend for our daily survival upon an expand-or-expire agro-industrial empire – a crackpot machine – that the specialists cannot comprehend and the managers cannot manage. Which is, furthermore, devouring world resources at an exponential rate.’ Edward Abbey

‘In the developing world, the problem of population is seen less as a matter of human numbers than of western overconsumption. Yet within the development community, the only solution to the problems of the developing world is to export the same unsustainable economic model fuelling the overconsumption of the West.’ Kavita Ramdas

‘Water and air, the two essential fluids on which all life depends, have become global garbage cans.’ Jacques-Yves Cousteau

‘Globalisation, which attempts to amalgamate every local, regional, and national economy into a single world system, requires homogenising locally adapted forms of agriculture, replacing them with an industrial system – centrally managed, pesticide-intensive, one-crop production for export – designed to deliver a narrow range of transportable foods to the world market.’Helena Norberg-Hodge

‘Throughout history human exploitation of the earth has produced this progression: colonise-destroy-move on.’ Garrett Hardin
Quotes from: theguardian.com
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
where was i? right, anywhere but here,
listening to some medieval music,
i sometimes sit in one place,
fade, and then find myself sitting
in the same place with a question
on the tip of my tongue: where am i?!

hard not to notice:
heaven reigns supreme with
a "st." michael coming down
with the sword...
depiction, please!
where's satan?
  coming from below armed only
with a tongue...
fair fight, by anyone's standard:
i'm dripping sweat from both
ridicule and sarcasm...

st. michael comes down with a sword...
satan rises up with a flaming tongue,
does satan lick michael's sword
to draw the blood required for
running the heart factory?

               medieval people and their
"nuanced" explanation...
so many images contra words
contra literacy of the people outside
the realm of monks...

   satan rises from the depths of
     hell saying: i wish a socratic dialectic
with god...
god replies: michael i will send armed
with swords...
who ever said: the quill is mightier than
than the sword,
implied: when the tongue has
to be necessarily silenced? then!

      das schwart,
          das feder,
    das zunge...

       how many definite articles are
there in deutsche? das, der, die?
too many or too few?

         always with "st." michael armed
with a sword...
and satan... armed with only his tongue!
i guess, the tongue becomes a tank,
while the sword becomes a feather's
tickling effect...

    angehoben das teufel von der
    tiefe: und gab sie namen...

  (raised the devils from the depths:
  and gave them names)...

why is satan only armed with a flaming tongue,
while "st." michael is armed with a sword?
is god, the god-dialectic / theology
so afraid that it has to remain topped
with unchallenged imagery
                         of sword contra tongue?

ich werden anfangen:
   ich werden treffen du hälfteweg...
            im schreiben...

                  satan rose to a depiction
with "st." michael: disarmed...
  tongue in mouth: which should have been
his hand, "st." michael descended with
a sword... come to think of it,
with satan's tongue cut off...
it still spoke to "st." michael within his
hand...
  the sword overcame the medium...
and so writing was born...
once upon a time when satan's tongue
in his hand began licking the sword
of michael...
            and? if the contemporaries
should hope to know:
writing is the res extensa medium
of res cogitans:
            writing is an extension of thinking:
it's not an invitation to speak...

writing cannot be speaking,
however much commentaries you leave
behind...
writing is an extension of thinking:
it's not an invitation to speak...

it's no disguise...
    in terms of the depiction...
enough of Milton and Dante and...
satan came to the summit
  without his armour without his weapons...
the summit of the plateau...
tongue in gob and joke in cheek...
while "st." michael descended
wit a sword and a missing tongue...
it would appear that god cut out
"st." michael's tongue before his descent
while arming him with a sword to
cut the conversation even shorter
than it was supposed to be, to take place...

the aspired to monotheistic monogamy
of king Solomon,
to imitate swans...
    Muhammad's lost enterprise of
the: greatest harem the world has ever
seen... sorry... Muo-Mo-Hammie:
the macedonian alexander beat you to
the count of 365 concubines...
as did genghis khan...
           so many pakistanis with khan
as a surname...
             your failed harem ambition?
compared to the otherwise world "greats"?
with the ******* promise of 72 virgins
post-mortem? that ship is sinking in my head...
muhammad failed in the ambition
of averaging a 100+ concunbine **** fest...
so he promised 72 for those that believed in
him...
   and if he was ever competing with
king solomon? look at solomon...
         he chose monogamy in the end...
i guess it's a noble enterprise to come back
among the lizards...
to spawn from an egg: from an womb
made external by an egg in the form of a bird...
birds: half mammal half lizard...
            muhammad failed at having
an envious harem...
                which makes me a little bit envious
of him... compared to the others...
he's quiet honest...
        but if he was illiterate...
    who the **** wrote the Quran?
    what's that book, in praise of older women?
andrás vajda...
   who would have written the first
verses (if not the last) of the Quran if not
khadijah **** khuwaylid?

i'm sorry to say: the feeling of conversation
soon turns into a feeling of conversion,
me, beer in hand, park, bench,
an old pakistani walks up to me...
flips out a digital Quran,
tries to convert me...
     opens the book on surah al-baqarah...
i point at three words...
what are these, i ask?
he replies: oh... only allah knows...
really?! really?! i ask myself...

    the three words?
   alif. lam. meem.

           allah knows?!
guess i'm allah then...
given alif: أَلِف  (α, א) a-lif
                 lam: لاَم (λ, ל) l-am
   and meem: مِيم (μ, מ) m'eem...

so yeah, "god" knows...
   how was this old pakistani going to convert
me, supposing i was simply some european
"drunk" sitting on a bench, drinking beer,
assuming i was ease target for
isis propaganda?!

    "god knows"... when it comes
to old pakistanis trying to
             recruit young europeans...
god knows ****!

if this old pakistani was seeking an easy target
like some paedo, he was much mistaken,
what does a pumpernickle (has) to do with
a windmill?! zilch!
i'm not going to exactly crawl out
of my walther von der vogelweider:
        palästinalied
that much easier...
i won't....
   i just think:
the yids have tight defences
against proselytes... they abhor converts...
islam, welcomes them,
at their own peril...
          and there i was thinking that
urdu was "superior" to sanskrit...
an old pakistani tells me "god knows"
in relation to alif. lam. meem.

             i guess the quran has an inbuilt
proselyte defence mechanism:
in reverse... ask a muslim what alif. lam. meem.
means... if they tell you: only god knows...
ha ha...
              hello stupid...
                            is the islamic world playing
a jewish game of gematria?
are the three letters supposed to represent
some sort of "covert" message?
A.L.M.?
        what, based on the hebrew alphabet
where "a" is not an an A but a consonant(s)
akin to ayin and aleph?!
the gay genesis?
          
                really?
                 we: the europeans were perhaps
the barbarians in the medieval years,
harrowed by the cold...
lucky us: lucky me: we did learn to read...
so ignorant of the pakis to presume
such and such...

             that we are still unable to read
and will fall for the next sort of *******...
look at us! we even began to question
christianity with the unearthing of
the nag hammadi library where
jesus played chinese whispers with
st. thomas!

   next time i'll be listening to a camel jockey
or a magic carpet ride aladdin
i'll ask them: you dehydrated, or something?!
oh forget h'america,
their evangelical ******* is worth
as much as a free microwave or a toaster...

_

hell man...
    i mean my neighbor smokes
16 8ths in a spare of the week...

wha?
    ****...
   i remember i used to smoke
an 8th over the week...

yeah... an 1/8... of an ounce...
he smokes two ounces
in a week,
  
gets the **** on discount...
but still has to cough up
over 100 quid for the stash...

but... but... these organic
cigarettes you're pushing?

ha ha... **** me... holy basil
(tulsi leaves) -
and the peppermint and green
tea leaves?
   in ******, whatever you want
to call it, rolling paper...

i've seen the inner sleeve -
big fan of hunter s. thompson,
i suspect...
   otherwise you wouldn't
have used the second, plastic
filter...
  
   tell you what... don't put
that plastic filter on every cigarette -
halve it...
     or provide two or three...
it's reusable -
        i smoked one of your
placebo marijuana joints...
  and then i'm going to smoke
a red Indian cough-up...

   ah... these blue Indians...
Vishnu centrists -
   beyond blue blooded,
more blue skinned herbalists...

dunno... the effects are subtle...
you can only tell the difference
if you actually smoke tobacco...

but sure as hot **** on a street
in Calcutta -
    it beats the Arabic portable
hookah pipe...
   i.e.?  
         vapping - or vapourißing -

i'd say less a cure for tobacco smokers,
and more a cure for
the dope-heads...
    he (my neighbor) smokes
2 ounces a week,
   and somehow manages to stay
down on a job...

    no ******* way...
    he says it helps him to sleep...
like me...
   a liter of ***** and two
paracetamols,
    or one naproxen (if i'm lucky),
or two paracetamols
  and one amitriptyline (25mg)...

sorry, what? sound of mind?
sound of mind to the point
where i'm mindful of grammar
and spelling?

            **** man...
  the content is transcendent
    of whatever the receiving end deems
it to be...

i might actually buy into
this... placebo marijuana -
given that i am a tobacco smoker...
  ha ha! holy basil:
  like Basil Fawlty...

   as you see...
there are people, and there are "people",
there are neighbors,
    and there are "neighbors",
i don't see how the natives
can dictate universal laws of
     private property ownership...
esp. over such... trivial...
meaningless...
          sitting down on a cactus
****-naked "problems"...

i hate being mean,
   i hate telling someone to *******...
i really do...
    i compromised -
i stopped smoking cigarettes
out of my window...
  but yesterday's confrontation?
over a ******* barbeque...
    oops... the compromise
has just been revoked...
  
   music blasting into my ears
through my earphones...
the next thing my cuntish neighbor
will "hear" is sign language...
  
oh yeah... that primary school
lesson:

(a) WHY     (b) DON'T  
        (c) YOU    (d) ****    (e) OFF

(a) index + middle fingers
    slapped on the left palm knuckles up

(b) index + middle fingers
    slapped on the left palm knuckles down

(c) scissor index + *******
   into the side of the left hand

(d) fist, vertical slam onto the left
  palm

(e) thumb's up moving away from
  the palm of the left hand...

because?
      i just can't be bothered trying
to reason with some people...
     they might as well be put in zoological
confinement, and put under observation...
but i'd feel sorry for the chimps
and other animals, have to share a close
proximity.
Thescientist Aug 2015
Hear Ye, Hear Ye!

I have never been one to do things usual,
wet down and reusable
straight up delusional,
sometimes confusing all,
******* useable.

So juvenile.


Between you and me,
this girl is overly irreverent,
open book intelligent,
in need of saving reverend,
whose arrogant,
most relevant.
I'm typically benevolent.
It's evident I'm heaven sent,

REPENT!

I'm unsusceptible to rules,
except on days like April Fool's.
I'm orthodox, I kid,
you wish.
Unorthodox, reborn,Jewish

Foolish.


I have never been one to do things usual,
Chained up? Refuseable,
tied down and doable,
funked up and beautiful,
French words excusable,
the next line unsuitable.
Matthew Mar 2014
Who knows tomorrow?
Who cares about yesterday?
I love you today.
july hearne Jul 2018
after the crossroads
the wrong turns
and taken risks not worth taking

there came a time in my life
when nothing came next

no highways calling out for me
just painted rainbow crosswalks
for staying put

i stayed inside a lot
the more i hid
the dirtier the carpet got

it was cheap and poorly cut
to begin with, the dirt i was daring to become filth didn't help

the more i hated the cost of living
the dirtier the carpet got
the richer jeff bezos got

so stupid i thought

it was a daily thought
my own personal seventieth seven

antichrist and nothing
but crowds to fill his headquarters
hairless cat of a shepherd and his reusable sheep
i stayed inside a lot

so stupid i thought
the more i hid
the dirtier the carpet got
we can only hope
a subsidized rocket ship
can only launch so high
Babu kandula Jun 2014
Everyone
Everything
In this world
Can be raw material
For
Our writings
They are
Reusable
They are
Renewable
Which makes our
Life Revivable.
Dedicated to all writers
Love your creativity
I want you to write
As much as possible
Give us your essence
With your writings
Thank you
Some changes from beryl Sir
Thank you
meggie
was thumbing
through her
fair trade
“style with a
conscience”
holiday catalog

eyeing
baby organics
indulgent Alpaca’s
green gear for guys
dining as nature intended, and
the best reusable shopping bags, period!

“What do you want for
Christmas Dad?”

“just be a good girl, meggie.”
I answered.

“I’m gonna get you a pair of socks
for Christmas Dad.”

“I don’t need an expensive
pair of socks.  megs...

After a couple of washes
one always gets lost
inside the bottomless
tumbler.

Leaving only one to lay
inside a chest of drawers,
in the company of
happy matched pairs,
waiting to warm my
Lamisil wanting toes

One sock
alone and unhappy
its a really sad story.

Radio Arcade: Socks Song

Suffern
11/8/13
jbm
Nat Lipstadt Jan 2016
the surprisingly sweetest clementine

amidst the marble and stone pillars
of the museum's fifth avenue grand hall,
a woman grows faint and woozy,
and the Egyptian artifacts five thousand years old,
re-proved as reusable, sustainable,
as leaning-against-posts
for the dizzy

the boyfriend well familiar
with dehydration side effects,
from pocket pulls a natural pill of
a sweet clementine,
restoring the well
to the good

she marvels at
how came I
to place a survival kit in my
coat pocket?

smiling, he confesses
his fondness for
providing
for all her needs,
known and unknown

even carries an inventory,
with back ups to back ups,
assorted sundries,
he calls it,
proving his point too well,
reaching into the other
pocket and offering
yet another,
a second helping
for his,
oh my darling,
sweetest clementine

she, undecided,
laugh or cry,
both equally attractive amazement solutions,
says only:

I love you for reasons,
known and unknown,
now,
take me home
for reasons
now known,
and others,
as of yet,
most happily,


unknown
a  true story.

P.S. he hates carrying anything
g Jul 2013
I was shy, my crooked-teeth, glowing front didn't fool anybody.
I was the type of awkward that made people run.
You were a typewriter: an electric storm sewing letters together,
ornate, pretending your weaving was something
that could ever be taught.
You wrote about all my wrongs.
Asked me to meet your mother.
Told me my drinks were too sweet, you were surprised I had ever
been drunk I wrote something cliche,
like how no sugar could ever match up to your coffee stained tongue,
to me you were so sweet.
I never liked poetry that rhymed.
I wanted to be someone without talking to other people,
hoped everyone would read me like a trans-Atlantic love letter,
understand every back street tragedy,
I am still learning that nobody
could ever memorise me like a paragraph. I am a closed museum.
I am breathing.
Once, I was a bundle, placed on my mother's chest.
She told me when I was born I didn't even cry,
just looked at the world like I'd been here before,
already figured her out. Carefree breathing.
She said she'd never seen anything so small
but so alive.
Sometimes I wonder if I've grown down.
I cry too much.
When I was eight my mother told me it was because I have sensitive skin..
I think about why we don't remember birth,
there are more traumatic things that happen than becoming alive.
My mother carried me nine months,
I wish I knew her reaction when she realised she was having a baby alone,
when I was six weeks old she flew us 8981 miles from my birthplace of Perth
to her childhood, a suburban, three bedroom house.
She bought a return ticket. Eighteen years on she still carries that
yellowed british airways paper around with her in her purse.
They left her job open for years.
I stopped asking if she missed the heat.
I stopped asking about half of my heritage,
I say the most convincing thing when people ask now,
I don't think I mind.
I haven't cried for months.
I grew up where the city begun to fall in love with the countryside
there was nature pulling itself out of the concrete,
like ignoring love hurts could make it any more feasible.
There was a girl, she never used to knock on my unlocked fire door,
just walked straight in every time, like she was a wildfire,
made me feel triumphant inside,
I wonder even now if that is how plant shoots feel when they break through the earth
praying upwards to the sun,
like she isn't a pin-*****,
do you think the sun knows how relevant she is,
just like some of us can't grasp how irrelevant we all are?
Have you ever thought about how many things are in existence that we can't see?
The distances can only be measured in time,
time is just a concept. We are more than numbers.
But nothing was built for us.
I wonder
if when my mother held her recycled baby against her reusable chest
if she realised that
either of us could have ever come to this.
grace beadle 2013
There is this idea, this feeling you say:
A revelation of profound compassion
Riddled with crippling paramount tribulation
Dribbling with drops of pontification.
Thoughtfully and yet aimlessly kicking
Unctuously vacuous presumptions. Promising,
Eventually, to unveil brick by brick
This facade someday and assure me
The imprisoning edifice, with which you keep
Under lock and key, will be effaced
And naked, soon, someday in front of me.
Yet, here another day passes.
From curbside to manhole, up sidewalks and across gravel grit.
Then a squib toward onlookers window shopping
Glaring down at me as both they and you listen
To my dissonant and hollow caterwaul.
CLING, CLANG, BANG! Look at me I'm just a can!
Crumpled and malleable, a thin sheet of five cent aluminum;
Recyclable, reusable, just a means to a mans end.
Ah! But I am not what you think I am:
Within, a bountiful boisterous bloom, unravels
The arid breath of lies and procrastination you exhume.
Your insipid words fall vapidly in my mind like corroded rust
Gently drifting onto a lapping lake.
They are an erroneous ear infection boring my wits
And dulling my thoughts, a waste of time.
All of it bottled, canned, and manufactured
From within your ******* emporium.
Keep your bricks and mortar, think they retain your unctuous pride
While this time, for once, I kick the can curbside.
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2018
WARNING:
don't read this poem if you suffer from ADD, or merely hate long poems

                                                  <>
gave away 3 opportunities to a trusted someone,
a Persian poet carrying on a tradion

ask this poet of his unspeakables,
the open hidden,
received thrice, not nice, searching provocations, (idiot me),
inquiring of the souls interior chambers, where the fear to tread
is politely called in good company,
don’t go over to the dark side

questions of a thousand years, that got that way because
no one wants ever to be truly asked, and especially,
truly answer

but today's surrendering (the last of the three)
What gets you out of bed in the mornings
goes to the deadliest battlefields that millennially nourishes
and beats the blood of life
to feverish flooding that drowns you too close to real
death dangers

step to the step machine, lift the weights,
that cannot be lifted without a prayerful groan,
for surely surly poems cannot be, sleepy eyed ignored,
stepped over,
these muscle builders for the mind, these killing questions,
these ****** answers

Jeez Louise

if you are gonna ask me killer questions like this,
I may have to hide all the mirrors in the apartment,
with  funereal linen cover-ups,^
and/or publish poems that actually
pay the rent (a drag)

to steal a phrase,
what a long story this poem could be,
especially,
for one-me routinely accused of being the
arch super-villain with ***** nails,
fighting the good cherubic angels of
brevity in poetry

delay, deflect, d'ignore the irrefutable,
snap, crackle and pop goes the body's ports and parts,
when first you self-deceive,  
yeah yeah, alive, no jive, means

that still ya gotta get out of bed
by moonlight over Manhattan,
to deal with minute to minute trivia of lamentable suff

oh.
still here?

you actually want me to answer that question?

thought you were enjoying my evasive shadow boxing,
prefacing a smooth operation while escaping to north of the border

but lurking (always lurking) of late in the back of
the front of the left brain foot poetry orb, has been this word, variants thereof, saying
of me, write of me,

bless, (the) blessed, (with) blessings...

shocked? shocked?

yeah, me too.

on my mind when first we rise...

ah! counting your blessings no doubt...
now that's a thot, quite humorous, let's me count the ways

got your health?
well not really, left you hints aplenty...

peaces of mind?
sure, how many pieces you want to buy, we got 'em for sale
slightly used tarnished but organically reusable, from Whole Foods,
don’t be dumb
peace of mind can’t be store bought

No, I am not whining; I know what I got is good, but them **** poems that keep coming at night, like a fire engines flashing lights, a/k/a
them things that keep you up at night, are my habitués
but sometimes it takes months to finish a poem that
was mostly writ in a single flash
but bed born and dying
for there is no reality disclosable answer

get out of bed from

a ritualistic habit pointless

fear of living for nothing

great blessings, right?

to rinse and spit out our words of the
holy dark
for never seen the true light
supposedly that comes with you from the birth canal

(aren’t you sad you asked)

you see
I do not know
what gets
me
out of bed
in the morning
for I have been up all night
wondering why
I should

counting my seven days of mourning counting my blessings is a ******* curse

no more questions
^ look up sitting shiva
if want to see the other two, send me a private message
Steve Page Mar 2019
Settle down please.
Today you will be trained in Level 1 crucifixion.

First, the nail. Please pass the bag along once you have taken one nail each.

You can rely on these nails.
Each one is forged by hand, hammered out and shaped with skill.
'You can nail it with one nail,' as they say.

Nails can be used to fasten almost anything to wood. Choosing the right nail for the job can make a big difference in hold power. As there is no need to conceal the nail head and we require maximum holding power, we have chosen common nails for the job. When the nail is temporary and will be pulled out again, as with crucifixion work, we have found that a double-headed or duplex nail is the best choice. However, due to cut backs, we have reverted to the common flat headed nail.

Experience and common practice calls for driving the nail through the thinner limb into the thicker timber. For maximum holding power, the length of the nail is such that it passes almost, but not quite, through the thicker timber. 

Take a careful look at the illustrations provided. As depicted, for best results lay the condemned on the crossbeam and bind the arms in place on the timber before nailing. I refer you to your ropes and knots training last week.

One nail is sufficient for each upper limb if placed between the forearm bones above the wrist. You will find that some limbs will have been subject to a break beforehand. If this is the case, we advise that you use additional rope to bind the limb to the cross beam and that you select a site for the nail further up the arm if necessary.

Now you are ready to secure the feet. Place the feet together one over the other. Hold them in place while a colleague drives one nail through both feet. Please hold them steady and resist any attempt by the condemned to frustrate your task. Keep steady pressure on the feet while your colleague hammers the nail home.

Before lifting the crixiform into the hollow, ensure each nail has been driven in securely. Once you and your supervisor are satisfied, lift the cruciform in one swift movement ensuring the base slides neatly into the hollow. Two or possibly three of you are needed for this.

This is the greatest test for your handiwork. The impact of the timber landing at the base of the hollow will cause the body to jar under its own weight and place additional strain on the nail. In the event that a nail comes loose, you are advised to lift the cruxiform out and to use a second nail on the unsecured limb.

In most cases this will not be necessary and the condemned will hang securely long enough to allow the body to die, even if this takes several days.

Once death has been confirmed using the accepted method, lift the cruxiform down, remove the nails and inspect them for damage. If deemed reusable, rinse and dry them before storage.

If there are no questions you will now each be assigned to an experienced colleague to assist with a crucifixion. If at any time you feel that you are likely to *****, please use the bucket provided. There's no shame in this, the first time can be quite shocking; there is usually more blood flow than you initially expect. However, you will soon learn how to complete the exercise with skill and professionalism. I have complete faith in you.

Please keep your nail, you'll need it later.
Easter ain't pretty.
Stefania S Oct 2017
the cup bought on a whim
one of those mornings
willing to spend more than five
for what should cost a buck
but the leaves drew me in
the circle broken by lame marketing
often the case in life
how easily we break our own circles

this morning alone i've reheated its contents three times
what used to be a daily purchase i now prepare at home
the cup its carry
i'm probably killing myself with the reheating
the construction recyclable but that means nothing
anymore
reheat inside of that and you'll get cancer
someone says
makes no sense though because the coffee is ******* hot
and the ******* cup holds it every day before it's reheated

i want to be that cup, i think
ready and willing to carry around the contents put upon it
no fuss or bustling
just a vessel
inanimate
thought little of, pushed to the corner of the closet
brought out for utility

how to be a cup?
how to trade the drive and flourish
the passion that keeps pounding away
the flashes of intensity that find their way into tiny timbered moments
silly though, because of course i can't be the cup
no more than i can be the actual coffee
Stephen Jackson Feb 2017
Stop worrying.
And you'll lose a vital resource.

Diamonds don't sparkle underground
But the Earth always shines under the sun
Certain as darkness burns into dawn.

Pearls lack glamour on the sea bed
But the moon will pull the sandy shore
Certain as day liquefies to night.

Opal shimmers not in earth's cracks
But light diffracts across our vision
Certain as sunsets warm twilight eyes.

Worries have always grown in the cave of our soul
Stalactites formed after years of instinct's delicate drop.

But like expensive diamonds,
worries can scratch and leave scars.
See them as a problem and you'll likely dissolve
See them as a resource and your problems will be solved.

So wipe the dust from the corners of your eyes
Consider worries as instinct in disguise.
Harnessing energy, a gift from Mother Nurture
More valuable than any jewel formed by her organic sister.

Don't envy those who's glass is half full
Half empty is always reusable.
Brandon Jul 2014
Waste-of-skin misogynists
Eagerly-angry feminists
Trust-fund kids
Disposable friends
Reusable partners
Confused 20-something's
Mid-life crisis lifers
Got-it-all-figured-out liars
Early comers and late arrivals*
The world's too full of them
Kodis Jan 2014
love has turned to frustration
and little things have begun to collect
like plastic floating in the whirl-pooling currents of the ocean

a small raft built to protect myself
to stay afloat
after treading, nearly drowning in the swirling masses
keeping my nose to the air
to breathe our oxygen

searching for ways to recycle a synthetic past into raw, earthy tones
dreaming of ways to live gently
and soothe a conscience full of unknown, hidden foes

one moments glance at the jungle of hardened polymers shining in the crusted sunlight -
i begin to realize they are not garbage, but gold

to be re-shapeable, to be reusable; is this not better than gold?
to keep firm and true to ones self, while being agile and accommodating, is this not worth much more?

to have a 75 year half-life;
slow, deteriorating, dissolving decomposition.

or to be re-formed. replenished.

you can recycle the past.
Carlo C Gomez Apr 2022
~
Corrosive elevation
Metabolic creation
At the mouth of cough drop falls
Trails of caustic, nomadic influence:
Coffee lips
Decaffeinated tongue
Resealable groove
Reusable embryo
White hunter
Melt snow
Hang fire
Black crow

Mechanical peak
Summit on a stick
Chiseled grey
The smoke ascending
They call "day"
Lovely shade of sadness, this
Wandering endocarp
Hidden in caves, hollows, crags, cellars, and cisterns
It came naked
From out of the acrid woods
And said

"The locust are upon us..."
~
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2013
Notes From The Poet's Nook: My Body Has Changed

There is this moment
When the mirror solicits an
Unwanted confess,
No tort or tortuous devices required,
The self-evident, undeniable.

It is almost as if someone punctuated your life with a
.

Traffic light. Stop. Red. Green. Go.  

Stop n' go.
Periodically.

But while you're momentarily waiting
Some convertible-rider boys pull up aside,
Whooping n' hollering,
Cause they like what they espy,
A woman, no more a changeling,
That excites their almost mature juices.

You call them idiots,
Flip them the eagle bird,
Smiling somewhere where only you and
Poets can envision,
That grin, a womanly gleaming,
Deserves a poem unto itself.

Other moments, other lights,
When time whispers kindly,
It's  now, today, is my-time.

Alone you go the drawer,
It's Bikini Collection Day.

Valuable space wasters,
Even that one, resident of the night table,
In the photo momentous,
You and the kids, on your lap,
Unchanged from the way you know it,
The one you swore forever keep.

Not to the trash they go,
After all, perfectly usable,
So drive to thrift store depository,
Where reusable dreams are stored,
And now future memories to be
Husbanded by someone else's husband,
On someone else's night table.

Got a mortgage, two college funds,
A ton of worries and a
Paunch, a gut, to hold 'em all.
Stand up straight, breathe in hard,
Still there, as if you didn't know, unchanged,
What ya gonna do about it?

You got too much stuff, no way it's the poet's fault!
Go to the couch  and bake a plan!
Cause that's why linguists gave us, maybe and tomorrow,
My fav word when rhyming sorrowful...

You see that child in the photo next to me?
In the baby seat, skeptical of all the cooing noises?
That look I treasure, for she be my genes,
My grand baby, who trusts no one but
Mom and Dad to pick her up,
Sensibly cautious, even tho I blow kisses
On her belly button, the one that says Press Here,
For raucous laughter and present-ed her 25% of herself.

Nowadays, almost two,
Her body a change machine,
Now she is a pusher, not a pushee,
Pushing Elmo in his carriage
Look me up, but see her.

Dressed to the nines, a Manhattan lady.
I missed that moment, too many came, coming.
Changeup and fastball
The only pitches in her repertoire,
So far, but if her dad don't teach her a cutter
**** right you smarmy left handed hitting boys,
Her Poppy sure as sht will.

Ok, you know me. Got remind myself to stop
Before I get dribble mouth.
Guess that's kinda of a
Momentous change for me,
But lucky for you,
I can still do it,
Write a poem 1,2,3...
5, 6, 7, times a day,
If that stops, it wail be
Because....something changed me permanently.



July 6th, 2013
For my Izzy.
Monica Nov 2016
There is a water bottle
on the side of route 3.
It's blue and it's plastic
and it's ***** and old.

Reusable, but unused.

Just a piece of garbage
lying on the side of the road.

I look at that water bottle every day.

I take comfort in knowing it's there.
Through every season of
the last year and a half it
has remained in the same spot.

Sun beating down on it,
leaves gathered around,
covered in snow,
it stays where it began.

Whatever music I'm listening to,
whatever emotions I'm feeling,
through elation from a grade
or depression from a breakup,
the water bottle is there.

What a concept,
what a constant,
what a weird thing to notice
on the side of the road.

But there it is every day,
a ***** blue water bottle,
unmoving,
and unimposing,
but such a big part
of my daily routine.
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2014
Let us assume,
that in this life
we obtain about
ten thousand different words,
employable and reusable

the exact number matters not

this accumulated list is your
Outer Structure

the how and the why we write,
the compulsion and the illusion
is DNA at the cellular level modified
by every second of our lives,
every word tabulated and stored

this is not an essay,
this is a poem

This is a 2:42 in the mid of night poem

when the the basics rule,
when the questions get asked,
and the answers (for me)
either
don't come or are
not oft to your liking,
but good for you,
good for us,
that the asking of the questions
is our poetry

so let us confess,
so let us address,
the primary screen,
the essential filter
the place where all poems begin
is the me

most of me is given,
but you add words,
you pick and choose the vocabulary,
that refines your me

sometimes your me excels,
you use your me words
so so well,
but sometimes not

this structure
is where we all begin
but should not ded end

move beyond,
translate your me
into us
find the way to comprehend
that you must pass over the line
of me and
excel anew

write a near and new me,
take your own vocabulary,
your own DNA a given
super duper impose your word~life structure
on me in ways that
gasp me into a new seeing

give me your genes, your word cells,
teeming with new connections,

then happily
will I take  
your poems,

delete the Y,

make it
our poems,
add it to my cellular vocabulary,
by doing so,
establish a physical genetic connection

truly then our ink is our blood,
and we are poet brothers and poet sisters,
cousins of the words
for the living poets whose genes and cells teem with words
city of flips May 2018
for the part-time writers, who write in deeds untill indeed

the mundane Mondays till the fully fried Fridays,
the too short beginning weekends when
you celebrate your lottery winnings,
mega millions of

chores

wheeeeeee

these some,
poet poem poetry, latter-day saints
yet to be arrived-arresting,
good lord,
writing time -
a time slot that doesn’t
appear on your unscheduled
cellphone
calendar

so this what needs remembering, us,

these days are the
storage days

the professionals screen stare, self obligatory
demanding the page output,
the disciplined work ethic,
self torture this work,
that they would pay to do

these some
access accessible accessories in actual time
when
a time clock is punching them back,
time immediacy, a mistress,
needing a wife’s daily attention

the rest of us accumulators,
hoarder-recallers; off-site monthly
storage unit renters for old reusable furniture memories

until the dissembling assembly of the pieces,
with the arrival of the year of the hour of the day
is an urgency spilling
and the consumption urge
eats you alive from inside out,
your patience is rewarded

no screen slave you,
just a spigot turned twice
and over flowing winks bring/ring
the-no-longer-stowed stored eye pics,
poems for a someday

and the waiting was worth the waiting price

some people
us, juggle jiggly *****,
tend to drop them all...
till we don’t...
May  ‘18
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2016
.shouldn't we revise, "some" things? united states of america, the soviet union... well... currenty? the russian federation... back in "the day" when h'america had their cultural export kingpin upper-hand... what's apparently, "now"? we (in europe) see such a disgruntled and a divided "union": we never managed to spot the differences between states, we only managed to see a unified states union, music, cartoons, movies, etc., that was once, but now? these "unified" states, under a heavy federal critique? i'm seeing less of a 50 / 1 and more 1 / 50 scenario... "united states of h'america"... russia reiterated the soviet union, doesn't h'america need to revise its "state of the union": u.s.a. my ***... the h'american federation... once upon a time h'american cultural export would never avow to reside in showing off their weakness... now? i can see all the weaknesses... weird, isn't it? how did the cultural export from h'america simply, end? when i started seeing h'america as maine, california, kentucky, iowa, florida... united my ***... given the current criticism of federal powers... united states of h'america my ***... the russian federation... the h'american federation... A.F., A.F., there's so much in a name... hell... sport fans all you want... U.S.A.! U.S.A.! just as weird as the olympic federation of britain... G.B. at the olympics, but... the english football team, the scottish football team, the welsh, the northern irish football team... united we stand at the olympics, divided we stand as football associations... over here in Europe we used to understand a united h'america... these days? there's no united h'america... there's only a federal h'america... at least if there were more localities akin to quebec (french), or california (spanish), of speaking different languages... wisconsin being german-speaking ("vierte ***** / zweite kolonie")... chicago being the global ******-capital of the world... not back in the 1990s early 00s... did the h'american cultural export look so bad... can't exactly hide behind a ******* Costco, can you?

harsh, isn't it, given the numbers, and your selfie...
i.e.: you're not that much interesting,
here comes Generic Joe and Clone Clive...
so much for the pout and the smug
beach-suntan crazy shot...
like that famous socialists...
who defined socialism as if it was worth
sitting on the floor on a train...
yeah mate! that'll work!
you the right honourable social elitist of them all!
cos the west is begging for socialism,
sorry, 1 billion Chinese got it right,
you wanted a **** Pope to smile
and kiss the tarmac...
i told you, you got it:
efficiency is first, the looks come later...
but no, no, nah nah ah ha...
****** pay for it, now that you're "down with the kids",
your kids are collective rapists, i.e. pirates...
hence breeding karaoke culture...
because the Japanese attacked a military base....
you attacked a civilian area, you suddenly became
saints... 9/11... oh right, the hamburger rule
known as diplomatic immunity,
they filmed them half skinny... but as the media says it..
1 American is equal to 3 Chinese,
and that's not even in a factory, i mean
1 American is equal to 3 Chinese on a commercial flight...
well it was a joke... it was funny for a bit...
but then i thought about the kids i'd never have...
and i thought about people needing to revise their little
"invasions of privacy",
i started thinking up a scare tactic...
that's better than thinking up alternatives of
reusable pronto, i mean fear is better than gravity in
making people grounded, peasant 2.0 (tough point owe,
Kentucky chuckled chicken brigade, and as far as
Florida, to get a grasp of the Caribbean for
a Cuban falafel delight) -
better scare them than ennoble them...
keep them grounded, flies honing a spiderweb type of
attitude...
that's 1 fat grotesque American seated
and 3 or 4 Chinese skeletons not asking for a
stewardess, but for a diet gymnast for the 4th of July
celebration gobbling bulges to a fat tsunami overflow...
but then again, it's probably just propaganda,
Cold War Two... that Russians are alcoholics
(oddly enough, being thirsty isn't a sin)...
and that Americans have fat where tendons ought to be.
SWB Oct 2011
A genie of wizards paid tribute to me,
he granted me wishes, as many as three.
As I stammered and struggled to think on my feet
I shuddered and stuttered a wish or three:

You insist that I wish, so I ask you for these:
A taste for my belly
a kiss from Kelly
*and a reusable, snoozable nap if you'd please
Steven Fried Jun 2013
Unseen,
destructive reaction

a branch quakes,
pines sway,

whiplash,
forces glide

millions of fingers,
through my hair

the original pompadour,
no adhesive necessary-

the original home wrecker,
no mistress necessary-

all natural, 
one-hundred percent reusable

eye pulling,
lip smacking,

directionless,
brute force

Strong enough
to lift a house…

Delicate enough
to abet a butterfly…
Carlo C Gomez Aug 2020
Hello happy hour!
I see you're now reduced
to fifteen minutes of
soft drinks and
smiling depression:
simper and wine.
check that...Sprite.

But I'll drink to
nagging doubt anyway.

Cars are now a kick.
Who knew gridlock
could offer such joyride:
the drive home each day
my ******* sabbatical.

I wrote 3 letters the other day
(the handwritten, paper kind)
and feel a little
like Jane Austen.
I think she'd like Dr. Pepper,
but not Mr. Pibb.
Too foppish.

Then there's this:
the wax and wane
of life between the bed
and the couch.
There's six degrees
of separation
through the five layers
of this reusable face mask.

Speaking of masks:
"one for the money,
two for the show,
three to make ready
and four to go."

And somehow I know
I will never breathe it in
that way again.

Random curtain calls:
I'm so starved for someone
to talk to; the mail lady
had me at "hello."
I offered her a soda.
Mail order catalogs are king.
The Saturday Night Special
from the burglar alarm brochure
was my final good buy.
Zulu Samperfas Dec 2013
Luminol when sprayed on a cleaned wall
that was once stained with the blood of a human being
will light up every splatter, and reveal the crime scene in all it's
chaotic splendor, even after years of careful hiding

Things happen every day in my creamy, dreamy life
moods, like the calm bay that hides the sharks underneath
the blood splatter of the natural cycle is covered in blue indistinct waves
while carnage and drama play themselves out in the silent muted depths

And as the bay gets darker the further you go down
especially in the deep canyon where a fervent Japanese submarine snuck
into California waters, and chased a boat around briefly before dissapearing
forever, just as these depths contain mystery and waste
so my thoughts, once so churned and pained, lie dormant and unseen
with the plastic forks that are stuck in the sand
and the plastic bags that move by in the darkness like ghosts
Because beneath the surface, in that deepest groove
is where all the pain and waste and wreck of civilization has accumulated
and is creating a new order in a once pristine reusable recyclable landscape
But I cannot see my depths, only try to feel them
in a primitive way, like sonar--what is this?
A small submersible floats through the deep cold water down there
through the snow flakes of biological residue that is food for life
and it looks at the garbage and sends back a video signal
that this is a warning, of our ceaseless, accumulating destruction unseen
Mike Bergeron Nov 2012
That guy saw me,
He watched as I tossed
The crumpled receipt
Into the gutter.
I can't believe he saw
That gross display.
I want to scream.
I have to tell him
That's not who I am.
I'm a good person,
Not a litter-critter,
I love the earth,
I'm a good person,
I always hold the door
For whoever is behind me,
I recycle everything,
I let people merge
Onto the highway,
I promptly shovel
The snow from my sidewalk.
I don't intentionally pollute,
That's not me!
If you knew my life,
Mister Cigarette-Break-Man
On Wilson Blvd,
You'd see I'm a good person.
Look at my reusable
Shopping bag
And my eight year old jeans.
I've never stolen clothes
Or candy,
I've never ******
A drunk girl.
You'll never see me rob
A geriatric,
Or tell the annoying
******* the subway
To just shut up already.
I never dip on the bill,
Or put my **** on the wall
Of the public bathroom,
Or take my neighbor's
Newspaper,
Or take my mother's
Prescription poisons.
I'm good to the core.
No touching little kids
For this me,
I'm a good guy.
Why did he give me that look?
As if I love to litter?
Who does he think I am?
Who does he think he is?
He's wrong,
And I'm going back,
**** this.
He needs to know
The truth.
I'll make him see.
JD Jul 2016
This doesn't fit..
Where in the hell can I find one that fits?
Uhhh...
I know others have them,
some seem pretty obvious
but, I feel a great sorrow for them.
Although, I guess I should just go look in a mirror then, huh.?
I don't want to,
so I wont.
Not until I can find one that fits..

Do you have one?
Do you know where I can get one?
I need to know,
you see, people can just take it off
although, It's not reusable for anyone else,
It wont fit,
It only can for that one person.
Only them as an individual.

I've asked before,
In my own kind of way.
where they've gotten theirs
but, they seemed confused

"friends
people"

"You can't just get one,
why would you even want one?"

-I just do.

"Is it for you?"
"Is it for them?"

-Don't ask.

I leave and go home,
I should look in a mirror..
Maybe that will help determine a size.
I'm afraid to tho..
whenever I look, it's never the same as the pictures
not anymore.
why are the pictures on the wall so different?

-finally face to face

I feel my skin
I look in my eyes
although, every time I see another guy..

-wait...

I think I found one,
what I've been looking for,
and I've been wearing it all along,
masquerade I endure.

I try to take it off,
it's really sticking on tight.
The skin finally rips,
I see myself in sight.

The pictures looked the same again
just a little bit dim,
In fact that's the same face.
Its just always been hidden.

I couldn't believe it though,
That's what I looked like.
I almost forgot..

I've had what I was looking for,
a mask to cover my face.
What I didn't know was,
that the mask was fearsome itself.
Had it almost consumed me entirely,
While I was looking for a new one..
or one in general.

I can see my face again
all grey but, with circles of light around my eyes
a glimmer of hope.
I no longer see that other guy.
the mask can only fit once
so it's all okay.

This is the last thing I can say,

Just don't lose yourself under your own skin,
Always know there's another day.
Never forget there's another way.
To express towards others or yourself,
That you have the strength to admit for help.

Just look in the mirror
tell me what you see,
are you wearing a mask?
or are you free?
Lexie Oct 2016
****** epidemic
Smart people glasses
Plaid shirts and chokers
Mixing patterns
Political candidates
Skin care products
Hair donuts
Starbucks or Dunkins
Hand sanitizer
Reusable vs Disposable
Body type
Big butts
Sexuality
Bathrooms
Water quality
Heel height
Cancer cures
To many babies
Haircuts
Piercings
Tattoos
Love
****** Language
Mustaches
Tumblr Quotes
******
Drought
You and I
Kelsey Oct 2014
Its strange,
The rules parents make.
"Why is the cup this size?"
I ask,
"if you are only supposed to fill it
halfway with detergent?"
"The full cup is for rich people."
This policy seemed to be true for a lot of things.
Everything is reusable.
I learned this over time.
Although,
after an excited phone call
and a new work wardrobe.
When washing the plastic forks we used for dinner
my mother laughed,
"you don't wash plastic forks."
As though this had been the rule always.
Its strange,
all these new rules
she seemed to know all along.
Steve Page Oct 2019
on saturday morning we grace around recycled rustic tables, lowering our heads over gluten free brown toast topped with gently scrambled free range eggs, adding soya milk to decaffeinated, ethically sourced coffee, self contained in guilt free reusable cups -

and still we fret.
Saturday scene in West London
Carlo C Gomez Jan 2020
My wife doesn't know
Which is worse:

That this comes in only two sizes

Or that it's reusable!
This is an actual type of women's ******.

— The End —