"subdivision" poems
There is a body floating in the water of Lake Michigan again, but no one is willing to fish it out. There is a body floating in the pond near my subdivision again, but everyone already knew that anyway.
I am sitting eighty miles away, overlooking a city that is not mine, thinking about how the moon outside my window is the same moon that you can see from down below in your partially frozen-over dirt bed. I am thinking about the vampire that sits in his apartment, chugging two-to-three bottles of blood a week, and wondering if he is haunted by the same ghosts as I am.
It’s taken me eighteen years to realize that I was infected with a different variation of his curse all along—I am less human and more lycanthrope than I would like to admit. I am not like you, I am not like him, I am my own breed and that terrifies me. (There are black cats prowling in my heart and fragments of mirrors in my liver and salt that bleeds from my heels when I walk.)
No matter how many rabbits’ feet I tie to my keys, how many dreamcatchers I put above my bed, how many cloves of garlic I hang over my door, I am never able to rid myself of the chill that goes hand in hand with the phantom you left here.
Mother, I think I killed a man two full moons ago and I haven’t been the same since. I threw his body into the lake and watched him drift out into the unknown, watched the kraken drag him down, watched the water spew him back up like a cork. And now I need you to make your way back to the land of the living to sit by my side. I want you to cut off my head and make me a trophy animal. Create a rug from my fur. Eat my organs and freeze the rest for winter. Use me for your own survival. I just want to be helpful.
I want to be everything the vampire was not but my fingers are breaking from holding on too tight.
I should let go.
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 2:06 AM UTC
kumikinang ang mamahaling parol na nakadambana sa bintana ng mansion na nasa loob ng isang malaking subdivision. nagniningning ang patay sindi nitong kulay na umaaliw sa balana. salamat sa malaking pakinabang na kanyang kinita nang walang anomang pakundangan sa dugo at pawis ng mga abang manggagawa.
nasa kanyang sala naman ang mataas na Christmas Tree habang sa paanan nito nakahandusay ang kahon-kahon na magagarbong mga regalo. malayong-malayo ito sa barung-barung ng mga nagtitiis sa siphayo ng dusa at karalitaan.
ang mahabang lamesa na nasa kanyang komedor ay talagang pinagpala sapagkat nakapatong dito ang hiniwang hamon, keso de bola, spaghetti, carbonara, lasagna, ubas at ang lahat ng masasarap na pangarap ng isang batang kalye na kumakalam ang sikmura habang tinitiis ang ginaw ng Disyembre.
matapos ang kanyang masaganang Noche Buena ay mauupo sya sa kanyang malambot na sofa na di halos mabilang ang libong halaga. dun n'ya iinumin nang buong pagmamalaki ang mamahaling brandy o di kaya naman ay whiskey.
katabi ang kanyang pamilya sabay-sabay silang manonood ng misa habang nakatuon sa higanteng flat screen na telebisyon. ang homily ng ingleserong pari ay patungkol sa pag-ibig sa kapwa at pagbibigayan.
Nov 3, 2017
Nov 3, 2017 at 4:32 AM UTC
ghosts of slumber parties past.
just a haunted betamax & a stack of oreo sandwiches.
sisters braiding eachother’s hair far past the witching hour,
contemplating life without supervision.
blue house. yellow lawn.
silverback gorilla in one garage.
two garage: empty.
three garage: a woman entombed in exhaust.
[her bloated tongue]
a gang of bmx boys pizza-fed and friday-high,
hopped up on mountain dew and trading card collectible rituals ‘n rhythmics.
they conjure a demon just to **** and dismember it.
for funsies.
for keepsies.
a fang for the shrine at the foot of the old oak tree.
history on the skin, long history, long thoughts, long in the nod like a calm dead frog.
bubbled, boiled, toiled, and troubled.
the woods aren’t haunted.
you are haunted.
you are the conduit through which the darkness displays its vivid colors.
[treefort aflame]
the seasons furrow/
/ the leaves fall.
little plots of land etched out – subdivision and sprawl.
on the avenue, heaven
& hell made tame and tangible.
built, re-built, and refurbished – a lawn and a lantern.
a mortgaged glory of sparkle and decay.
[dead cat is a new cat is the old cat ran away]
pictograms of morning light display on mom’s face
as she instructs us on the gusts of love [scrambed eggs]
& teaches us the truth of nettles sprung
from violent pine.
[toast with raspberry jam]
the television.
the microwave.
the blender beverages.
hymnals of an electric kingdom.
one mom dances, the other expires.
[restless armless girls in orange sunsets]
girl with a gun at the edge of her lawn and selling lemonade.
girl in an old wicker chair.
save her horror story for another day.
boy with a bent frame bicycle limps his way home
from one end of the avenue to the other.
his pockets full of sparkly rocks found in the lime quarry pit.
one boy in a long line of lost planets.
the driveway.
the refrigerator.
the hum of a saturday night commercial-free cassette.
where’s dad?
the glow of an eerie crystal
(continued…)
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 6:18 AM UTC
A Crop of Lies irrigate farmland
Deception grows and dies
Its corpse sustains
A cycle refrains
Cold, this night is
Cracks open the ground
Revealing a sight
Seeping through with light
Regions were found
To be taken and conquered
Sailors sailed to eat sailors
And they as well ate bread
Sounds of paranormal had
Guided every boat, then plane
Then spaceship, to the inside
Of a toy box they made
“These Crops dictate Truth”
Says Man (or monster)
Every night is cold; cracked
These Crops are impure
Livestock tell stories of their leader
It’s more of saying really
Because they’re ******* livestock
The Truth cannot tell nor talk
Reason slips off their skin
Like water off oil
Harder and harder it is
For Man to let joy soak in
Journeys of discovery
Travel through the television
Crisps, colas, pies, and cakes
Is what ******* does it
Beef pulp, French toast, tomato paste
Is what ******* does it
All we consume is ****
Crying fat morons decompose
“I really like the rain”
Says ****** with pudding stain
And her body melts and pours
As the rain does inexcusably
Great big dogs soak up in the rain
Unlike Man with his walking cane
They are all dying as they retreat
Underneath a roof of sin to replace
Emotional politicians claim they’re drug-free
As they smoke cigs and drink alcohol
Infant babies were torn apart in shopping malls
Did the World set them free?
Man (or monster) propose
To have a war on anything
Must any more children die?
Or can they get high; watch television?
What the **** is wrong with an aspect
Of harmless self-discovery
Can Man wager livestock’s epiphany?
Is it o.k. to live in a subdivision?
Or on a farm, or in the television?
Do these Crops have to dictate
Which victim we choose to mate?
To dictate our truth?
Can the fake astronaut admit?
He got ******* high; watched sitcoms
Ate potato chips, ate cereal out of the box
Never told a soul it was a hoax
Crops soak in the sweet rain
As the political Man weeps
These Crops become true
Dying Men no longer retreat
A Crop of Lies
Become so true
This wisdom is beauty
What we see now
Is as clear as day
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 2:25 PM UTC
hammock and a stack of playboys.
first emerged,
boy.
feature trees and teens and punch drunk lovers.
chalk murals,
girl.
into the quiet density of love.
quiet city.
dance party, usa.
we end up making movies about our fathers
whether we know it or not.
home videos.
we double down on arcade tickets
& spin for a kite to tangle.
climb the town hill and bury our warmth.
kiss to forget or remember this bliss
& strange language.
strange sprawl of lights seen.
the homeowner’s association melt a pile of plastic flamingos
into an idol osiris.
dead god.
& wait,
wait for halloween.
our parentals diligently sweat.
they are conjurors of snacks and supper.
they are creatures of the ritual routine.
we ritual.
we homework.
we breathe easy, waiting for nothing.
(except for more holidays)
Jul 5, 2015
Jul 5, 2015 at 7:15 AM UTC
There once lived a family of rats, caught up in wires and tubes and they probably thought they had it good until
the car started.
That car’s air conditioning smelled like death stench for weeks, until we
got it looked at.
Who knew we killed a family, who knew they ate their way under the hood,
who knew we killed a family and they reminded us of it for weeks.
——
My mother and father killed my dog, barely big enough to not be called a puppy anymore,
they ran over her,
as she slumbered in the tall weeds and grasses of a field.
——
We had a chicken named Thumper, his body grew big but his head never did,
and he teetered and tottered on ballerina pointed feet, and
the other roosters wanted to
eat him alive.
When we sacrificied him,
my parents plucked his back,
and they saw that his skin was a green-purple secret,
hidden by a humpback and so
many feathers.
——
Our third horse got caught in the river.
Big Mama got caught in Little River.
I guess it’s not surprising when big things die when they get caught in little things.
——
The coyotes got the rest of the chickens.
——
The rattlesnakes almost got the rest of the horses.
——
Most people don’t know that farm-fresh eggs are covered in blood.
——
We had two of the largest, ugliest geese.
They flew away.
——
The cat died under the hot tub,
we couldn’t find her for days.
——
The forest is always a graveyard,
is always hallowed ground,
is where we buried the animals.
Then they built a subdivision.
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 2:22 AM UTC
I believe there is no sanctuary
for me in this subdivision
of dreams, cathedrals
built by unknowns
I am like grass
cracking their concrete,
I was carved by a stone knife
in the mountains
where I learned to speak
I am the rider called death
bleeding in my sleep,
sitting in the saddle
with Dark, the black man
and his crazy blues
I sink down like a diver
into the deep water,
like an unknown poet
going down with his ship.
Jul 17, 2016
Jul 17, 2016 at 8:32 PM UTC
i am lost in the wisp of your faltering
the fluttering of concrete entrenched
into stoic rigmarole
to reach out layer by layer
peeling unearthing
a catatonic subdivision of disjoint subdivisions
a limit ordinal
between touch and feeling
where we kiss on the cusp of that silent ocean on the edge of sound
drowned in the nebulous familiarity of
a distant melody
a tired resolve
re solve the old puzzle muscle memory's misted amnesia
half the pieces falling out the warn tinderbox
inarticulate drowned severed isomorphisms over
brea(d)thless infinities
self adjoint matted topologies
nestled snugly in the amniotic absolution
of form before being
hands of matted ice
contorted into perfection
by the sculpting propensities
of undulations of estrangement,
where we touch in the cusp of self reflections thousand mirrors inverted propensities
infinite infinitesimals
nestled meromorphic partitions
hidden corners in the brevity of dusk
multiplicities fragmenting behind empty veils
( to be seen is to be made discrete
to be discrete is to flicker
and disappear
(inevitably invariable
inevitable invariability))
we
stand in a waterfall of gravel
and drown our voices in the choke of our cellophane hearts
caked
into fillets of aphasic tundra
where we whisper our nothings in the desert on the boundary of silence
our words
escape us
like rats from shipwreck
we are
disembowelled catharsis
intentional and fatuous
retching upon itself
severed
and free
and dead
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 8:53 AM UTC
a moment refines
least of all i, coarse
subdivision of all
second skies, stars,
or nothing, minute
from fall. or fallen
already. asleep for
hours. hope coiled
helplessness around
her wrist, caught my
head. spent days in
space. at least, most
of them. can't help
subduction any same,
another algebra in
stone. collapse like
month's passage. hope
won't speak, every
theory is glowing. a
year dissolves empty,
replacing every field
with stripmalls to
mountains again. a
century forgets regicide.
an eternity later, we
press against the wall
like dust coalescing.
hope strings us up,
couple more
embers in the sky.
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 7:25 AM UTC
i met you on MySpace and you had a girlfriend and we had a threeway phone conversation and i thought you sounded so **** when you shrieked "I love you!" to her when you had to go,
and then you broke up and she said it was because your medication had changed you and you reek of *** and it Just Wasn't Working Anymore,
and then Rick came over and brought you along and your tall, wild-haired being took my breath away
and you wore tight, brightly colored pants, and you were dark and thin and your teeth always gripped your purple lip ring and it made you look like you were constantly biting your lip,
and your eyes were amber
and they surprised me when i looked up and saw them focused on me,
i felt as if i'd stumbled upon a rare species of human,
an exotic species Out of My League.
Then you told me to step on your skateboard and i did and you grabbed my hand and pulled me and my 13 year old body was then introduced to Euphoria
and then the rain soaked us and you could see my yellow-and-pink bra and i hoped you liked it even though there wasn't much,
and we IM'd nonstop and i had no idea what it meant, but
i felt like flying and your presence filled me with hot air that was cooled only by your absence,
which came when you left me in the winter.
i cried for reasons i did not understand, i cried every night,
i walked through my dumb subdivision and would hallucinate you coming around the corner and my knees would buckle and my vision would blur,
i thought i was bipolar.
And i existed in a fog of longing and nostalgia and frustration and arousal,
and then you came back and we were both a little more grown up and we spent more time together
and i started wishing you'd do something to do your hair
and maybe smoke a little less
and maybe go to school a little more
and then i went to a football game at my new high school and i saw the muscular athletes and the clean-looking boys and
i gave my phone to Robert and asked him to tell you that i wanted to break up with you
and it was so easy for me
and i was disgusted by you
(but you were still in love)
Aug 11, 2013
Aug 11, 2013 at 3:56 PM UTC
i'd seen you around school, i watched your wrestling practices after i was done with track,
one time i saw you almost get into a fight with one of your teammates
(but when we actually started talking, i didn't connect the two images together)
our conversations were of ****** nature and you told me you lived in my subdivision and i thought 'this is great'
and we met up in the heat of summer and we went to the pool and i was a little alarmed by how quickly
you became comfortable with grabbing me and holding me
and finally we sat down and i thought it was awkward to sit on a stranger's lap
especially when your hand wandered south and i couldn't keep my breath from becoming shallow
and i couldn't help throwing my head back and
i thought "this shouldn't be happening"
and i thought i'd fix it by hungrily kissing you
but then you picked me up and said bend over and i said No and you whispered in my ear, you said
"*are you scared of no longer being a ****** tease*"
and i said "n-no, that's not it at all"
and i was disoriented and i was scared
and i don't know why i loved it so much,
i don't know why i fell in love with you,
i don't know why the next week was spent mostly with you,
you were so good with your tongue but so bad with self control
and you taught me how to raise goosebumps with my breath
and you taught me that arousal makes men angry
and you taught me to never flaunt myself ever again,
i cried because you were going away to college,
you begged me to sneak out and comfort you when you were arguing with your parents,
i don't know why i fell in love with you,
but i fell out of it in the same way,
you left town for a week and the fog in my head cleared,
i ignored your calls and was so relieved that i never pointed my house out to you.
Aug 11, 2013
Aug 11, 2013 at 4:51 PM UTC
I define my violence with internal revenue,
Mind changers,
Pill bottles.
These viruses incubate in,
Subdivision playgrounds,
Kiddies Kiddies Kiddies,
and civil wars.
Feb 2, 2013
Feb 2, 2013 at 3:11 PM UTC
They said we had it all
Middle American brats
bottom barrel aristocrats
we were told we were
propitious children
left alone to wonder
the bland landscape
of our gated community
to stand in submission
in our lovely subdivision
When things changed
it was us they blamed
or the media
or the influence of the ghetto
so far away
but never did we stray
it all came to us
and that was OK
we wanted something more
then material things
Our parents were there
but never really there
not enough to care
though they thought they were
Asking random questions
drinking their cocktails of
white wine and ******
telling us to turn down the volume
and what kind of ****
were we listening to today
telling us how music was better
back in their day
You gave us the world and in return
we shouldered all the blame
took the blame for all the pain
and were reminded daily of
how things could have been
how things should have been
if only you waited to have kids
And you wonder why we
f*ck and fight
stay up all night
become drunken fools at seventeen
just so we can change the routine
so we can feel alive by slowly dying
cigarette smoke and xanax bars
some percocet then drive our cars
to some place
any place
where someone will tell us that
we are special and unique
beautiful as they touch our cheek
and make us feel human again
smart and talented
more then our cookie cutter
gated box of a life
we have been told since birth
we must carry on
We just want to feel alive
to feel that someone really knows us
deep inside
from front and back
To feel that we are good enough
that its OK to be different
to feel different
and still know you will
love us just the same
and take back some of the blame
to hold us up so we don’t fall
and shatter like glass
from a child to a parent,
is that too much to ask?
David Martin
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 7:41 PM UTC
I feel as though I'm in a cage,
School, work, eat, sleep,
A never ending cycle forming
A life of daily routine, not surprises
One day we have to stop and ask
did God really put us here
to get stuck in a boring routine
did God create beautiful life
just to work, pick up groceries, eat
I don't believe God created this world,
So big, un- discovered, beautiful
So that we can hunker down
In a concrete subdivision
And let routine slowly tear away
At the dreams we once had
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 6:25 PM UTC
When my family and I moved into this house in 1977, Dad was our patriarch.
For four decades I have lived in a subdivision that is called Crosby Park.
Today I've lived in this subdivision for forty years.
I was only five years old when I moved here.
When a person lives at a place for that many years, it fits like a glove.
This is where I'll live for the rest of my life and it's a place that I love.
I'll tell you why my place means more to me than it did just ten years ago.
It's because this place is now mine and there's no place like home.
Feb 25, 2017
Feb 25, 2017 at 11:02 AM UTC
Land is disappearing
ok, farms to be exact
swallowed up by cities
they're gone, and that's a fact
developers are buying
what the farmers now will sell
for the subdivision builders
who are waiting at the well
standing in a parking lot
of what used to be a farm
I remember corn and animals
and I remember a red barn
now, it is a big box store
selling food from somewhere else
grown in little laboratories
from little dishes on a shelf
there used to be a farm right here
a place that grew our food
we knew what we were buying
now we don't and we are *******
the big box stores keep coming
and they're starting to intrude
we once had farms and churches
now we don't and we are *******
I remember driving out of town
twenty minutes at the most
you'd pass by at least four farms
now the farmland is the host
to development and wind farms
No parks, just urban sprawl
no fields of cows and horses
just another **** strip mall
There used to be a farm here
it was sold to pay the tax
it was auctioned off in silence
behind the farmers backs
no more farms or farmers
no more barns with painted names
just big houses with no back yards
where you don't know your neighbors names
there used to be a farm right here
a place that grew our food
we knew what we were buying
now we don't and we are *******
the big box stores keep coming
and they're starting to intrude
we once had farms and churches
now we don't and we are *******
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 11:50 PM UTC
There are voices in my head
That decide to
Come out every night
They control every
Subdivision in my mind
And induce all the pain
They give freedom
To all my thoughts and secrets
For them to fill my soul
They give me the strength
Throughout the night
To face all my fears
But in the morning
I'm back to the same
Fears I overcomed at night
But how could such be temporary
How can it come only at night
And just disappear like that in the morning
Dear voices in my head
Speak to me now
For I've lost all hope
In finding my true worth in life
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 1:23 AM UTC
In Sandy Springs stands a mansion, but not for very long.
The trees, grown great, will share its fate, soon all will be gone.
“its progress!” say the town fathers; a new subdivision tract.
To preservationists it’s a tragedy; mark the calendar in black.
A massive Tudor mansion, an edifice so grand-
At fifteen thousand square feet it could house a massive clan.
Too soon the wood will splinter and the stone and stucco part.
The walls will be imploded as the demolition starts.
The wrecking ball will smash stained glass that Tiffany supplied.
You will almost hear the timbers shriek as the vandals work inside.
The stately home of Thomas Glenn was once Atlanta’s pride.
It was finished in the tragic year of Nineteen twenty nine.
He passed away soon after, the family moved away.
Now empty, its’ clocks all stopped, it waits its’ judgement day.
We men of mortal flesh all know how quick we pass away.
Our achievements soon forgotten, our honors made of clay.
We build great homes to house our kin; this hall was built to last.
Yet “progress” is inexorable and this; a relic from the past.
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 8:32 AM UTC
The First Property Sold was the Garden of Eden.......
The Snake Hanging in the Tree full of Fruit...sold the First Subdivision,
As a Real Esssssssssssstate Developer, Slick fork tongued Sales Pitch,
Here have a nice Fruit snack, while we go over Sums and Figures Involved.
Next Time Bring your Husband By,
We can fill Him in on the details, if all else fails.
We can Show him, the School System,
Filled with Newly Founded Knowledge.
Here in Eden Falls, we are a gaited Community.
Proud of the Fact We are Crime Free.
At first the Residence was a dream,
But as time Passed by things began to fall down
The BBQ grill quit working, Coffee percalator stopped Perking,
And Brown Green Algae Ran Rampant from the,
French Pewter Faucets over Sunken Marble Sinks.
The Aquafer water Shed Clause in the Contract,
Revealed a way to Dump this Site.
But we found S.Atan real Essssstate Deviliment,
Had closed up and ran off in the Night.
Taking off with all our Cash, Which Commited,
The First Crime in Eden Falls, as Told by God
Its nothing but just glorified Real Esssssstate Fraud
........................................ by JMF 10/2/14
Oct 2, 2014
Oct 2, 2014 at 1:29 AM UTC
All in all is it just a matter of time ?
Speaking to me in the easy breathes of sighs
I fear no sirens in my house of light
Even shadows of light cast pictures of
Negative space, speaking for itself
Oh to
B. b. b. Be where you can
See inside windows , of pentacles
Simple opportunity
To reverse the hanged man, in the shadows
Of the corners of the ceiling
But how this sets in as normal
And my fingers flow immortal
I can venture inside the vines
And uncover the sleeping Buddha
As long as the blue hovers over
My Nirvana , above and beyond hope
Home,
Speaking now,
with a smile.
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 1:31 AM UTC
*A deadly task at hand , see the November broom sage conforming with the lay of the land
The smooth stones are secure in their creekside homes
Adolescent Crepe Myrtles abide in the company of elder Oaks
Every plant allotted soil and very much aware of their place
Under the ever meandering compression of man with a valuable lesson of humility and grace
Behold the wall builders , the ceiling setters , the clothed and the rambunctious
The soil breakers , the ravagers , the fire starters , the problem
solvers mingled with the war mongers
The breath of creation fueling their thirsted conflagrations
Behold "the thinkers" , destroyers and the manipulators* ..
Oct 24, 2016
Oct 24, 2016 at 4:29 PM UTC
Overdosed on my sin, got myself all twisted up in idiosyncrasies, what happened to that boy who sang in the choir’s musical symphony? Don’t understand it, I try to move forward but I can’t move, stuck in my ill prison, used to get vision, but now I am apart of a knew subdivision. Falling angel, why was it wrong to question this universe, now religion treats me like I’m Lucifer. Testing my niceness, can’t they see that I just want to be left alone; offended offenders just can’t let it go that I just want to go at life on my own. I always used to ****** analyze my friends to improve their self health, even though I was a ****** that just couldn’t analyze himself. Comatose patient there is no escaping this life that may just have an eternity to go, sorry but I don’t know if ok with that amigo. Inconclusive theory’s saying that they are factual, searching for facts in a world full of extortion in a system run by cannabis animals. Ticking away the time doth go on with or without me, to be or not to be in this desert wasteland we call reality. Really why should I bother being politically correct, ***** those formality’s, with my fiery vengeance just like scorpion; fatality. Complicated overrated everyday living got me feeling dizzy that I’m starting to fade out, just checked out of my self conscious because I’m just so burned out. To early to late, heart vs. the mind, darkness vs. light, comatose feel like a ghost that has just lost hope with its current host.
Jan 14, 2016
Jan 14, 2016 at 8:17 PM UTC
my head the tinkling remembrances of sparkling suns
and innocence , of Silver Lake , and stepping
on a Blue Racer as I ran back up to the cabin,
shocking, yet part of the days, nights, things,
all the rowboats the roped off float swimming area,
being attacked by a snapping turtle,
the small nest up the hill of trees
where mom discovered the
nest of tiny rattlesnakes, bad dreams I had one night
listening to the radio and the stories of a big hairy creature ,
surviving it, getting stronger, no longer a tiny
creature of the concrete subdivision,
where trees were rare and creatures were real,
the bus route down at the corner.
April was , there.
Mar 13, 2016
Mar 13, 2016 at 12:57 AM UTC
Fill In The Blanks
Hard to sell a tale with no title, words form first thought on how a memory is wrought
Spaces in select places allow ad-lib thinking, would a prescription be useless without the diction
Even or odd numbers owe their life to letters, alphabet soup takes more ingredients to add to the ***
More we learn more we yearn , added phrases written or heard knowledge is power whether from fact or fiction
Treasure the pleasure of the story growing, as we read, we feed getting fuller as we are taught
Languages linger until formed into sentences, phases of phrases come and go with different meaning given or taken, reader or writer hold a unique vision
With no verb Ned is neutral while Nancy in bright neon is fancy, exclamations with explanations add detail, twisting of details in tales thicken a plot
Puzzles can be playful, missing pieces part of its function while also raising a player's stress become part of the addiction
Endless sound to be found come together as notes are formed, while adding lyrics show it as more human from plain or pain or something mystic held happily or healing someone distraught
No rank if pages are blank, only score when they hold more, letters lack meaning until formed into words, sentences grow adding information like more homes in a subdivision
Left in a ledger or record marks time in history, names separating families so their heritage is not a mystery, marks on maps just a spot over which people have always fought
So, take heed as we read marks or letters making us better, sensitive subjects shared sensibly, tablets show early scripture, news now in digital, memories made mental form our personal retention R.C.
Oct 17, 2021
Oct 17, 2021 at 1:30 AM UTC