"spouting" poems
~*for M. both
a living one, and
imagined, too*~
10/5/25
just woke up and began to work;
the muses are cofuse-ed
they think when head hits pillow.
it is there then the~moment to
refill my head
with verses glorious, alas, alack,
into the sub-subconscious furnace they go
to melt, meld or even die
iron of ironies; 90% of these words,
were adrift in my head when I
to bed, "for to be repaired" last night, and
only came to be recalled @ 2:34 am
when them muses and you guru,
woke me to 'get outta bed', and you
who
bids me sleep,
this clashing arousal,
starts engine's cylinders to begin
live~composing, stoking and stroking,
to awake, create, reassemble and uncover
the poetic notions trans~versing my head
one-day, someday they will depart,
for cleaner, greener Champs-Élysées,
where reborn poets speak all languages
with equal fluency, eagerly awaiting
my spouting in Hindi (already ✅), in
Hebrew and any/all dialecticals this
god earth
ever mothered
And there you have it, my FPOTD, dear m.,
SUNday 10/5 & writ in the city where I am alive
in the Den of Writing, where the muses
like to hang out with their old companion,
until such time they will come to inhabit
a younger, well rested, equally restless,
a not-my-mine mind
<nml>
Oct 5, 2025
Oct 5, 2025 at 3:08 AM UTC
The burning flowers underline the sunset and
Dash before the fire (k)night catches them.
Ripe berries cheaply
tremble
but hopefully their vitality won't burst the pulp pulsating
beneath.
Crumbling flowers
crumb the floor
And Prisms of catching silver refract rose quartz and petal
and crimson
dust.
Bejewelled in Scarlet,
the air,
as the (k)night approaches, grows colder,
Unsure of whether he will bring
solace or strife.
In his chariot
he flies faster than the bees which buzzed around the fruit flutes
in the morning and among the trumpeting bluebells.
Stars fleck the (k)night
like freckles
and the milky ways resins stain his spouting steams lovely.
The (k)nights kind onyx reaches his crescendo and the floating moon danced drowsily through the cloud's spiralled tendrils
Which diminish as dawn
approaches
so their Tentilcles
droop to crinkled tissue paper sheathed in pink.
And so the (k)night
rides on into
The frivolous sunrise.
The lowing, glossy calves
in sage beside the ***** fields
cast a beloved ambience
As though
we are safe
in the knowledge
that the sky will remain
forever
topaz and the leaves
forever emerald.
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 4:05 AM UTC
2002:
today i kicked the door
to history off it's hinges
my jealous frame:
still too proud to say a word
it seems my folks forgot
to pencil in growth marks
cause they thought their boy
would never grow out of small breath
******* dead, years now buried
and i bare his name
too many syllables
for my father to go back
fish & play football
to stand in the yard and play catch
1994:
my mom, the bombshell in retrospect
broke her back in her sleep
a thousand times
since the stairwell in 87'
she still sits for spills
post nuclear about settling
now from the couch
she's a weather report
spouting nonsense
that makes my father
grow grey, crack remotes
& slam doors to dark rooms
abandoning ship
for "cheers" & "scienfeld"
while my mother
sometimes forgets
and sets his place at the table
and my appetite is abducted
by family photos
my mother says things like
"go see your brother today"
-- Johnny's long gone
don't you remember?
we buried him
the day your smile died
2014:
you are inches from me
********* a stray hair
caught in the fabric of your coat
the last remnants of a dog
we laid to rest last week
and here we are
in the hospital again
people don't shake like dogs
finality is found
in the eyes of humans
passing archways
into shallow rooms
where plague and prayer
are the only songs sung
round the stagnant clocks
it makes me wonder
if the clipboards cry
over being the last thing
someone ever writes on
take a number, have a seat
stay a while
i am back, 7 years old
& there are different doors now
they buried the ones
you kicked in that night in '92
when my lungs
were filled with holy water
you never stopped smoking
i never grew out of asthma
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 12:39 PM UTC
Your hands easy
weight, teasing the bees
hived in my hair, your smile at the
slope of my cheek. On the
occasion, you press
above me, glowing, spouting
readiness, mystery rapes
my reason
When you have withdrawn
your self and the magic, when
only the smell of your
love lingers between
my ******* then, only
then, can I greedily consume
your presence.
9.4k
Blue Monday
BY DIANE WAKOSKI
Blue of the heaps of beads poured into her breasts
and clacking together in her elbows;
blue of the silk
that covers lily-town at night;
blue of her teeth
that bite cold toast
and shatter on the streets;
blue of the dyed flower petals with gold stamens
hanging like tongues
over the fence of her dress
at the opera/opals clasped under her lips
and the moon breaking over her head a
gush of blood-red lizards.
Blue Monday. Monday at 3:00 and
Monday at 5. Monday at 7:30 and
Monday at 10:00. Monday passed under the rippling
California fountain. Monday alone
a shark in the cold blue waters.
You are dead: wound round like a paisley shawl.
I cannot shake you out of the sheets. Your name
is still wedged in every corner of the sofa.
Monday is the first of the week,
and I think of you all week.
I beg Monday not to come
so that I will not think of you
all week.
You paint my body blue. On the balcony
in the softy muddy night, you paint me
with bat wings and the crystal
the crystal
the crystal
the crystal in your arm cuts away
the night, folds back ebony whale skin
and my face, the blue of new rifles,
and my neck, the blue of Egypt,
and my ******* the blue of sand,
and my arms, bass-blue,
and my stomach, arsenic;
there is electricity dripping from me like cream;
there is love dripping from me I cannot use—like acacia or
jacaranda—fallen blue and gold flowers, crushed into the street.
Love passed me in a blue business suit
and fedora.
His glass cane, hollow and filled with
sharks and whales ...
He wore black
patent leather shoes
and had a mustache. His hair was so black
it was almost blue.
“Love,” I said.
“I beg your pardon,” he said.
“Mr. Love,” I said.
“I beg your pardon,” he said.
So I saw there was no use bothering him on the street
Love passed me on the street in a blue
business suit. He was a banker
I could tell.
So blue trains rush by in my sleep.
Blue herons fly overhead.
Blue paint cracks in my
arteries and sends titanium
floating into my bones.
Blue liquid pours down
my poisoned throat and blue veins
rip open my breast. Blue daggers tip
and are juggled on my palms.
Blue death lives in my fingernails.
If I could sing one last song
with water bubbling through my lips
I would sing with my throat torn open,
the blue jugular spouting that black shadow pulse,
and on my lips
I would balance volcanic rock
emptied out of my veins. At last
my children strained out
of my body. At last my blood
solidified and tumbling into the ocean.
It is blue.
It is blue.
It is blue.
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 7:31 AM UTC
I'm not a writer... Or anything resembling that
I am just me... Sharing my words picked out from life's hat
I can't find the most accurate to say
So letters I dabble in various permutations
Layers of letters turn into words and come to play
Could call them journals, these text-laden creations
But I'm not a writer... Or anything resembling that
I am just me... Penning the words picked out of life's hat
I'm not a poet... Or anything mimicking that
I am just me... Relating experiences out of life's hat
I can't conjure poems... About anything or everything
Can't use my words to incite or inspire
These are just ideas and I just like rhyming
They are just experiences that fuel my fire
But I'm not a poet... Or anything mimicking that
I am just me... Spouting rhymes out of life's hat
I'm not an artist... Or anything pretending to be that
I am just me... Drawing scenes from life's hat
I can't sketch a portrait with a simple pencil
Can't put together an installation and call it art
I can paint fairly well; of which I have done several
I can draw out emotions and depictions from the heart
But I'm not an artist... Or anything pretending to be that
I am just me... Producing paintings out of life's hat
I'm not a musician.. Or anything fantastic like that
I am just me... Playing melodies from life's hat
I don't have the quality of voice to match that of a crooner
I can't play instruments that could earn a place in a band
I can sing in key without the help of a tuner
I enjoy music best with a guitar in my hands
But I'm not a musician.. Or anything fantastic like that
I am just me... Singing songs from life's hat
I'm not a writer, poet, musician or an artist...
I do a little of everything, not excelling at any one title
Although I wish to have everything clenched in one fist
All I ever really do is just dabble....
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 9:34 AM UTC
Lately I've been a little moody
I get triggered by comments made
on a video or a tweet or the supposed
leader of our nation spouting his views
on ****** assault victims....
The real victims....men and boys that
are being accused of a horrible act
Innocent yet treated like they're guilty.
Please, don't get me wrong.
Being falsely accused is terrible.
Any one guilty of it should be held liable.
But, after all of the victims, women and men alike
coming forward to tell their stories, he speaks on
behalf of the accused.....Am I stupid for being angry?
What really disappoints me are the people that get upset
when women react to such insensitive views.
They tweet or comment and I try to have conversations
with these people and end up screaming into a pillow!
I walk away wondering if it's worth my time to make
my point of view understood.
Will I ever change any ones mind?
It's the black lives matter vs all lives matter struggles
all over again!
The argument of should players stand for the anthem!
Why don't people understand that saying black lives matter
doesn't mean ONLY black lives matter, it's a way of saying
Please remember!!! Black lives matter TOO! Stop the hate!!!
People of color are being discriminated against and we are tired.
So finally a man decides to protest by calmly taking knee during the anthem aaaaannnd......here HE comes to manipulate the meaning of it all and makes it about disrespecting the flag and
our troops.
And don't even get me started on gay rights! To be treated like
second class citizens is ludicrous! How fantastically absurd to
be told by your own government that you cannot marry the
person you love! And because life has to be just a little more
unfair the LGBTQ community are at high risk for ******
assault and hate crimes too!
I realize none of this is new....I guess the Kavanaugh hearing
triggered me and I can't seem to get it off my mind. I heard
Dr. Ford's testimony and watched as so many people, including
the man himself, come with more and more ****** excuses
and a half *** investigation and in the end he sits on the supreme court any way.
I'll do my duty....I'll use my voice and vote, but I live in a red
state and I know it's an up hill battle. One that may be lost.
But I've said my piece. If you've read through it all, thank you.
If you agree with me, keep fighting. If you don't, I respect your
opinion, but I'll never understand it.
Oct 12, 2018
Oct 12, 2018 at 2:14 AM UTC
ALL I can give you is broken-face gargoyles.
It is too early to sing and dance at funerals,
Though I can whisper to you I am looking for an undertaker humming a lullaby and throwing his feet in a swift and mystic buck-and-wing, now you see it and now you don't.
Fish to swim a pool in your garden flashing a speckled silver,
A basket of wine-saps filling your room with flame-dark for your eyes and the tang of valley orchards for your nose,
Such a beautiful pail of fish, such a beautiful peck of apples, I cannot bring you now.
It is too early and I am not footloose yet.
I shall come in the night when I come with a hammer and saw.
I shall come near your window, where you look out when your eyes open in the morning,
And there I shall slam together bird-houses and bird-baths for wing-loose wrens and hummers to live in, birds with yellow wing tips to blur and buzz soft all summer,
So I shall make little fool homes with doors, always open doors for all and each to run away when they want to.
I shall come just like that even though now it is early and I am not yet footloose,
Even though I am still looking for an undertaker with a raw, wind-bitten face and a dance in his feet.
I make a date with you (put it down) for six o'clock in the evening a thousand years from now.
All I can give you now is broken-face gargoyles.
All I can give you now is a double gorilla head with two fish mouths and four eagle eyes hooked on a street wall, spouting water and looking two ways to the ends of the street for the new people, the young strangers, coming, coming, always coming.
It is early.
I shall yet be footloose.
5.6k
You were the star that watched me,
twinkling in a vast dim space;
You were the candle in the middle of the room,
sending wisps of smoke in air.
You built a pathway for the microchip,
directing energies from place to place;
You weaved your words into my mind
and left with an unfinished blanket.
The moon was still up in the midst of the day,
the clouds are spouting rainbows as rain.
The years have passed, this flower has not bloomed
Will this ever be the day I awaited?
Sep 5, 2015
Sep 5, 2015 at 8:57 AM UTC
Sitting upon a wobbly fence while people die in a foreign place
Watching and waiting for another to act while spouting rhetorical political chat
Passing blame from one to another as thousands die as the gas clouds smother
So as a world we learnt nothing today as genocide happens again
Auchwitz and Belson we acted to late but promised to learn from man's dark days
So why aren't we doing a **** thing today
Aug 23, 2013
Aug 23, 2013 at 9:10 AM UTC
queer creature of white stone:
the spirit of the island in the head of this lion,
the soul of the natives in the body of this fish,
spirit and soul, lion and fish, mingle together by
mere wry humour of evolution’s word
we revere this beast, (it watches over us
from nine metres above), we bow down our backs,
(worship it as our exemplar): for many of us,
unknowingly, we emulate the spirit and soul
of this queer white creation of stone.
standing tall (unshaken!) even as jaundice bolts of heaven’s
creep tip-toed behind its scales and strike:
its cemented steadfastness of stone we emulate,
for through the towering grey waves of crisis, and
the threatening dark clouds that foretell our very fears,
we too, have floated and transcended and appeared
unscathed.
mutated monster – child of bad genes,
they despise such unfavourable antagonistic features
(shall it rule like a lion or flail like a fish?):
its unlikeliness of surviving, of thriving we emulate:
for this dotted smudge of red pen ink on the globe,
destined to bow down to fate – bowed down not, and
flourished.
beams of white water spouting out in a
perfect shape of a quadrant’s circumference, endlessly,
its majestic spewing action we emulate:
this island of expectations, sterile smell of success,
fate of our future in the setting of an exam hall,
(in there do you not think we resemble the merlion,
our mouths the hoses, the papers our well?)
but, oh, the merlion – so many of it –
the merlions, same-maned, same-scaled,
fluttering and bursting with imitation across our home:
such congruity, conformity we emulate:
for years of yearning to swim in the mainstream waters,
of being goldfish, instead of losing the waters for flight like flying fish,
have made us very much, about
the same.
queer creature of white stone:
do you see not how we resemble your very self,
how we offer you praise (by
lifting our human arms, arching on our mere knees,
hoisting our lowly mortal heads, surveying your colossal royalty,
camera in hand)?
Dec 27, 2011
Dec 27, 2011 at 7:02 AM UTC
The library is a quiet, empty cave where voices echo like ghosts in a gymnasium.
Laughter.
You can feel the history here, both in the dusty tomes and the architectural nod to the Roman coliseum.
Strange visitors of which I am numbered as I stand here spouting poor poetry on my phone.
Enough.
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 12:12 PM UTC
Missing the whistle of the teapot.
A big tin thing, dented, spouting
Warnings, careful baby, I am
Really hot.
The hum of the microwave,
The machine noises of coffee being made,
Them noises just ain't the same.
There is no poetry in
Whirring hum, beans bump 'n grinding.
They don't talk to me.
But in the middle of night,
When I rise, get dressed,
Still put on mismatched socks,
My t-shirts inside out,
The same jeans been wearing for weeks,
Cause they are right handy,
Lying on the floor, feeling so good,
Covering up my old fashioned
Keds.
Someday, I guess there will be
A machine that hoses us down,
Shampoos the mind while your fingers idle,
Then becomes a wind Chunnel to dry us up.
Will it have octopus arms
To dress us, having looked at our daily schedule,
Taking into account the weather channel forecast,
Where n' when we gotta be?
I suppose that if I ask nicely,
The replicator will make me perfect coffee,
And even whistle if that's what makes me happy.
But as long it don't try help me write,
That ****** function, that ****** need,
Human,
And only I can
Whistle while I write.
6:13 AM
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 6:15 AM UTC
Defying the consensus of complacency,
And the enantiomorphic political practicality,
Candidates embrace their vacillating indexicality.
Spouting thrift store self reliance sapientiality,
Telling lores of cultural compatibility.
Hope filled promises of economic suitability,
Aligned with institutional feasibility.
Packaged in over-inclusive catchall empty signifiers
Strewn across all media screens, communal utilitarian plan flyers.
Requesting no need for responsiveness,
For a vote no longer dictates precedence,
In the age of social media endemic presence relevance.
PFL
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 3:40 AM UTC
"It's just one cut,"
said the sharp lady doctor before language
melted off her clipboard and the operating lamps
grew huge and spilled their bright innards into my eyes.
I lay on the cold tiled floor of the museum.
One monstrous cut -- the white shark suspended
above in a last hungry lunge yawns, belly open.
Around me what a wide-eyed fisherman pulled out:
old tires, whale-oil lamps, Damien Hirst, bones upon bones.
Damien sits on a tire, bored as hell. See the jagged edges,
he says, they pulled him into our cold afterlife
and cut while he suffocated, explosive oxygen flooding
his lungs from the wrong direction.
Later, the doctors showed me
what had for so long kicked and screamed to be out.
Liver-colored, swollen, wrapped in catgut, it was not
as expected. Others had promised ground seaglass,
poppyseed freckles, huge lungs like fibrous balloons
for flying or spouting poetry nonstop in day-long stretches.
Where were my eyes?
It was supposed to have my eyes.
May 12, 2010
May 12, 2010 at 7:34 PM UTC
If the beautiful pea green boat had been painted battleship grey,the owl and the pussycat would have stayed at home and not 'sailed away for a year and a day',but it wasn't and they did.
The story ends quite badly some would say quite sadly,the pussycat got rid of the owl,stating in his defence, that fowl was for the eating of and not for spouting like a whale in Edward Lear's fairy tale.
If only the boat had been painted battleship grey the owl might still be with us today.
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 6:33 AM UTC
It seems that there was this Small Group of Men and Women with "VERY MUCH" Knowledge. Many of their followers were of a Like Opinion,,that THEY YES, had much Knowledge. So, as they Sat around one day, Pondering , AS those with Great Knowledge would do: They came up with the IDEA to make Man and Woman with a NEW type of Body! "Where should we start First, they Queried?" "maybe if we changed the Elbow, BECAUSE people are Always Hitting their Funny-Bone!" "Maybe if we changed the Big and Little Toes, BECAUSE People are always Stubbing their Toes!" "Maybe if we changed their Eyes, BECAUSE People are always getting something in their eyes!" "Maybe if we changed their Fingers, BECAUSE People are always Jamming their Fingers!" "Maybe if we changed their Noses, BECAUSE People are Always stickin it where it shouldn't be!" "Maybe if we changed their Knees, BECAUSE People are Always Weak in the Knees!" "Maybe if we changed their Backs, BECAUSE People are always down in the Back!? "Maybe if we changed their Hearts, BECAUSE People always have Broken Hearts!" "Maybe if we changed their Ears, BECAUSE people are always not hearing!" "Maybe if we changed their Tongues, BECAUSE people are always Wagging them!" "Maybe if we changed their feet, BECAUSE People are always putting their Feet in their Mouths!" "Maybe if we changed their Mouths, BECAUSE people are always Spouting off at the Mouth!" "Maybe if we changed their Minds, BECAUSE People are always changing their Minds!" "Maybe if we changed their Smell, BECAUSE People are always saying ,Something Doesn't smell right !" "Maybe if we changed their NAMES, BECAUSE People are always trying to make a Name for Themselves!" "Maybe if we changed Their stomaches, BECAUSE People are Always saying* They Just Can't Stomach That!" "maybe if we changed their Hair, BECAUSE people are always Coloring or Losing it!" "Maybe if we changed the way they Walk, BECAUSE People are Always getting out of Line!" "Maybe if we changed the way they speak, BECAUSE People are Always speaking Out of Turn!" ,,,,,,,"MAYBE IF WE CHANGED",,,,,, SO, When the Itch in the middle of our Back really needs attention,,,, we Untie our hands from our Sides!
Sep 9, 2010
Sep 9, 2010 at 4:26 AM UTC
Misshapen I, assume this Harmful Trot
Another Term to disappoint your Name
This I Bow; Multiply my Penance lot
Never again will I repeat this Shame
For Honest Will, assist your Son's Best Worth
Though I know spouting Flames is not the Way
Purse this Regret; And shake the Stubborn Earth
Then leave this Barker alone for him to stay
Yet hopefully, in Prayer bid my Tears
You may Consider my Innocent Plan
To Heal, Flow and Live; Like your Boy's Best Years
To prove Un-Condition by your demand.
I Understand, your Investment withdrawn
But Faith in Mother's Heart is best to own.
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 3:12 AM UTC
Piss-stained is the color of leaves falling, we say goodbye to ourselves like to lost lovers, ripping up old love letters, tripping whiskey into the distance,
coarse wood chips of dockside hearts burned on future November bonfires spouting unholy flames, burning ourselves on the stake but once these harbor crane streets were ours & our fervent love in the making, not living on borrowed
breath or dying time, joyriding, unafraid of not wearing masks amidst the garish masquerade & someone who made us laugh & love despite ourselves was all we lived for
- remember?
I do.
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 12:11 AM UTC
you can wear your cap twisted sideways
sag your pants down to your knees
ride a pachyderm or a mule that brays
be whatever kind of fool you please
sing love songs in the rose garden
or complain how the dollar done fell
knowing qadafi, hussein, and bin laden
have all been dispatched to hell
you can rant and rave about raw deals
you can raise your snout and sashay about
or he-haw and buck, kick up your heels
or vote for more hope or to kick da *** out
you can lean to the left or to the right
weighing the pros and cons and hype
but you can't stay out of this fight
and claim you're just not the type
to freely elect their governments and laws
evers, walesa, mandela, and susan b
lived and died for just such a cause
to see the people's voices set free
but if you just call it mumbo jumbo
and aloofly let this moment pass
we all may be led by Dumbo
or maybe that other *******
what percentage do you claim?
forty-seven, one, or ninety-nine?
tea party? occupier? some other name?
are you just spouting a party line?
all our blood runs red
'bove us all the sky is blue
and no matter what is said
there's one thing we all should do
hadn't you better cast a vote?
against the ones who vote aginst you?
i think you'd really better vote ...
it's the least but the best thing you can do.
doug curry
10/24/2012
Nov 1, 2012
Nov 1, 2012 at 12:43 PM UTC
A Woman of Many Words
I am a Woman of Many Words
I am drawn to all those places
That words congregate:
Libraries and bookstores
Road signs and billboards
Ticket stubs and subtitles
Nametags and license plates
Each one a journey driving inside me
I am a Woman of Many Words
I love the way the shapes feel in my mouth
The skittle taste of syllables
I am drawn to especially long words
With their phonetic entities stretching out like tentacles to reach new corners of pronunciation
Words like
Bibliophile and flippant-irreverence
Evanescent and Insouciance
Mellifluous and Effervescent
Mondegreen and Labyrinthine
Words like
Onomatopoeia and Tintinnabulation
I appreciate their weight on my tongue
The way my hands appreciate the thickness that is a fat book
I am a Woman of Many Words
I am attracted to their multitude
The space their figures take up on a page
The calligraphic punches
Typed up by keys
The carefully constructed
Brush strokes
Spouting
What is sure to be, nonsense
But I do enjoy the sound of nonsense in the morning
I am a Woman of Many Words
I cling to the lettered skyscrapers wherever I can find them
Because the familiar scent of scribbles across parchment is comfort food for me
I find them
On the backs of cereal boxes
And in Popsicle riddles
In fortune cookies
And alphabet soup
From magnets on my fridge
To junk food logos
And I hold on to them for dear life
For fear that silence should find me
And leave me empty
For fear it will take away the music of maracas
Made by words
Dancing the salsa inside me
I am a Woman of Many Words
because Words
Answer my Questions,
Soothe my fears,
and Humor my Whims
They are not always Right
But they are always Constant
They are not always Honest, in fact,
Mostly
They Lie
But ever so often
They tell such a Beautiful Lie
That you wish it were true
They sing from the rocks
offering Escape from
Terrifying,
Suffocating,
Mind numbing Silence
that echoes off my skeleton
I am afraid that silence will hollow out my insides
and leave me abandoned
with nothing between my Bow and Stern
my Forecastle all torn up
I am afraid of the skeleton inside me
So I am a Woman of Many of Words
For fear of silence
And contempt for truth
Because my words are sirens
And my shipwreck is home here
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 5:12 PM UTC
Power pulsating between my legs
Irrational intrigue between my ears
Alacrity asunder between my ribs
-Heretical human blender-
Serving up cleverly crafted cocktails
I am
Spouting sureness from between my lips
I am
Stirring in sweet sultriness
Soliciting sour sabotage
Submerging you in salty squeamishness
-Colloquial courtesan, curtly castrating consumers-
Inebriating you equally with inevitable irrationality
Welcome to my "Reader’s Digest"
Prepared especially for you with my psychologically indigestible
Jan 14, 2012
Jan 14, 2012 at 10:35 AM UTC
Login used to be two words but now it is one
Because people said so
It changed so easily because of a word
What if people said she knows nothing or he is nothing?
Will peoples' beliefs, because they believe them, become reality?
And what happens to the ones we leave behind?
And take one second, one blissful second, to imagine
What if people said she is intelligent, or he is beautiful
Instead of spouting hatred?
take one second, because that's how long it takes to remember what the world is actually like
But maybe that second could convince you
Something needs to change
Oct 13, 2015
Oct 13, 2015 at 11:52 PM UTC