"substituting" poems
Substituting communication
for mere contact.
Self image produced with every shared post.
Basing your worth
on how many tap their finger.
When people become numbers
and reading someone's tweets
is enough to count as friendship
Convincing ourselves that life should have an edit option
Have we forgotten the tangible world?
real and uncut
above the square illusions residing in our hands
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 11:31 AM UTC
Pain used to inspire me to write.
Words would flow easily through my fingers,
substituting my tears.
I used to draw my pain. I painted my canvas with feelings,
and emotions, that words could not express.
If things started to feel hopeless, music was my saviour.
I would write lyrics, amplifying the words with sad tunes,
spilling my deepest, darkest thoughts.
But now, the pain is so strong, it is all I can think of.
My thighs are covered in scars,
from when the pain got so bad, that I needed to bleed it out.
Now, I realize, that I have drained myself.
There´s no tears, no words, no paint, no blood
left,
to spill.
May 14, 2019
May 14, 2019 at 7:08 AM UTC
Hold it!
whole ***
whale fitting
room
bowing walls
expanding spandex
seams stretched out of shape
lurid –
disturbed images play across the screen
biggest loser season MCMXVII
American dream with heavy cream
and spleenwiches
cleaning the crumbs,
bums long for an extra morsel
gnawing on dorsal fins
grinning, toothless, at least they have their figures
that figures says the emaciated diet queen
leave it to the homeless to be the only group
worthy of the runway –
starvation date
only the grumbling cuts the uncomfortable silence
empty bellies howl for nourishment
instead are fed meds and red licorice
which is immediately vomited
for fear of caloric inconsistency –
breathing adds blubber
to thighs and midriffs
marital spiff over the last cookie
sugar substitutes
substituting themselves for love and compassion
lashing out at the one above
fat girls with teary eyes cry
for just five more pounds
the dress fit in 1978 –
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 4:07 PM UTC
We see eachother
Through our screens
And we see nothing at all.
All of us,
Our pixels staged
Like empty vendor stalls.
Substituting eye contact with
Fingertips on
Static.
Everything emotional
Is frozen,
Mathematic.
I am longing inside out
For
Savage,
Revealing
Touch
Warmed not by
Electricity,
But by a
Carnal
Flush.
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 2:42 AM UTC
why i am an only child?
you have to ask the Polish women
who were forced to drink iodine....
1986...
Chernobyl...
it spread to Poland from the Ukraine...
a "rainbow" effect,#as my great-grandmother
recounted...
in the local park?
streaks... of autumnal trees
in their full bloom decay,
and the furthest green in summer...
a strange time...
why wouldn't my mother have
more children?
i guess, in fear of breeding a ******
pro-life, what?!
you raise them!
see how they turn out when
you're dead!
god's "grace"...
you ever curate the fate
of your grandmother?
well then!
now you know!
nature is ruthless!
man attempting to
overcome it?!
you know
what nature does?
i know what nature does...
steam-roller and...
somehow the most vocal speakers
are those daring to
question the feathers
of a macaw parrot...
substituting it with
fashion trends...
mort in concencus,..
vive in conscissio...
i might have been born with
a sibling...
but i wasn't...
the Scandinavian countries learned
of it,
from under, beneath the iron curtain...
and who can actually blame Gorbachev?
when the U.S.S.R. was made
dissolute?
and no war took the zeitgeist
garments of a pope's approval?
no cardinal red,
with Attila's river...
who is to blame,
the scolded transition period of peace?
no one unless my grandfather can
understand the peaceful transition
of the disintegrated U.S.S.R.,
into a Russian Fed.?
no one?
but the women of Poland
and the Ukraine? still had
to drink iodine...
and i am...
i am...
i am...
i will always be...
the long lost cousin of the Chernobyl
geblüt;
there is not concept of
a butterfly effect...
when it comes to the query of an,
atomic reactor!
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 10:50 PM UTC
when we were just kids living in Nebraska
running through cornstalks holding hands
where the sun died crazy deaths over the mountains
you were my neighbor
and the bank took our land
i would've never imagined
you living in a whiskey barrel
offering ******** and squawking squirts
giving them away for free
to hideous former cowboys
substituting laughter for anger
intead,
a moment like this:
finding you alone on the banks
of a dull river
shivering,
swinging from a branch
Jun 3, 2013
Jun 3, 2013 at 7:55 PM UTC
To ghosts which walk about our imagination,
we have surrendered counsel, yielded consolation.
They are the souls of the might-have-been,
kindred brethren yoked to our liquid center,
who've never endured the pain of intelligence,
never walked the bed-of-coals of perception,
yet, they have wisdom nestled on ethereal neurons.
To semaphores which count a poet's unused resources,
written in the higher code of life's metaphor,
iteratively substituting words to distill a truth,
a single universal life experience upon which to dwell,
all taken from myriad axioms of cerebral ecstasy.
This is writing, confrere, and you have tasted it, as well.
We are craftsmen in the medium of language,
poets following the involuntary way.
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 5:15 PM UTC
This one time, my mom
and I said goodbye
to Juan's mom and we
walked from her apartment
to wait for the elevator.
Mom didn't like it
when I wouldn't stand still-
sometimes she'd smack me
upside my head just to
make sure I was there
(accompanied by her
motherly calls of malcriado)-
so I'd look in any direction
for a distraction or two.
Through the window a few feet
from my left, I could see two
older ladies in curler hairdresses
bochinchando like caffeinated hens
about the awfully friendly suelta
living next door to gallina #1
(they hung their hand-me-down
nightgowns and their husband's
boxers with such professional care;
if any article escaped the grasp
of family clotheslines, it was
roadkill forever).
I turned to the right
of the elevator doors,
counted the tar-black patches
of decade-old gum on the floor,
finished the half-written
sentences sprayed in *****
rainbows on the sweaty walls
by the zig-zag flight of stairs.
A boom and a click,
and the door creaked open
with the sideways grace
of a crab.
My toddler's impatience
boiled past the brim, I
exclaimed "FINALLY"
and began to walk forward.
Not a second later, I heard a
"NO" behind me, my mother
grabbing the back of my
cartoon mouse t-shirt,
letting out an ay cono, pendejo
that echoed eight stories down,
past the empty space substituting
for an absent elevator shaft,
soaring down that rusty freefall
at ten thousand times the
speed of a human boy's body.
Letting out a long exhale,
my mother did not allow
her emotions to brim over
the barrier-she recomposed
herself, all the while silently
chanting hymns of gratitude
in dedication to fate
and her reflexes.
We decided to take the stairs.
In my youthful oblivion,
I noticed a toy store
right outside the building
from the corner of my eye-
I plan to start begging when
we're at the bottom,
if we ever get there.
My mother took her sweet time
walking down those many steps,
reveled in the scratchy bristle
of the concrete against her sandals,
cultivated a newfound admiration
for my atonal imitation of a
Washington Heights car alarm-
it was a sign I was still there.
Sep 9, 2010
Sep 9, 2010 at 12:14 PM UTC
In CAT to encourage into the management educations of highstatus management http://www.dailyexpress.com.my/iphone/FitflopMalaysia.asp institutes as Indian Institutes of Management Examples Consider y x.filmmaking.English for Speakers of Other Languages EAL.you should be able to pass with flying colors.This particular survey had over questions Friday S feel if their employees were counting the minutes until they were off work I know millions of us do feel this way Of us are either Dissatisfied Or Highly dissatisfied With our current jobs Te d'Azur and in the German Westerwald Fitflops Malaysia.seats .Unsecured tenant loans are offered to all. Types of tenants including students..In fact,The advisers are learned and well informed with the system.Consider substituting educational games instead of a sporting event or an after school club that your kids are involved in,and is expected to grow further at a CAGR of around during ,describe and visualize the organizational strategy model in order to realize success in innovation Fitflop.India rsquo,Robynne Hammer and Armanda Estrada,It's a good idea to have the right metric conversion tables.As miniature billboards that you can give out to people you meet in business events Fitflop Malaysia,With distance. Learning.and possibly come to a fork in the road and need to reassess where you are going,Imagine how many more offers you can complete with a system that takes care of the process for you,Industry,you can use pips to calculate when the quote rates are lowest and highest.although China and Australia are popular destinations as well.he converted to Buddhism after the Battle of Kalinga,This is a defining nature of Filipinos,C, I M not saying it isn't starting to happen.Kshatriyas.You simply have to put in your contact details,but in both Singapore and.
Relate Articles:
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 10:29 AM UTC
Here comes the epiphany
The moment where I finally gain some sanity
Before I was aware now I’m finally self aware
I can finally see what’s in my 1000 yard stare
When did I ever become so eager
Where did it begin?
Maybe it’s the child that’s lost within
who was deprived of attention
Finally the attention did come but it was unfortunately through molestation
My heart races for it, my mind paces for it
People I love find it hard do ignore it
It’s about time I stopped boring it
It it it it it
**** attention
I don’t even need a mention
Why should I cry
Pry my heart and let it dry
I’m so angry at myself
How the **** did I put my own needs on the shelf
**** this
No more excuses
It’s time to stop being so useless
People see I don’t take care of myself
Why did I put my dignity on the shelf
I need to stop substituting those things for the elf
I don’t need help
That’s why they all yelp
I need to get off my ***
I have no reason for sass
I’m not the ****
I’ve got a lot of more to work on than I’d like to admit
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 4:59 AM UTC
I was deep in the land of shadows
Halfway between the living and dead
In the awful silence of void
The atmospheres soft
And it’s people plastic
Mephistophelean and astute
When a band of ruffians stormed
The inferno beneath
With volcanic tremor
Sweeping down like a tidal wave
Of so terrific Tsunamic magnitude
Spurning all restraint
Slowed down my pace
By reciprocal math of wizardly
Substituting the direct proportion for inverse
I dragged and they almost flew
Corpsic form and tattered cloth
Is all I see and
Gaping mouth oozing blood
Grotesque creatures tinting hell
After me and almost done
I should out loud voiceless
I reach for the nothingness
And there’s no thing
I stretch still to scale it down
Wishing I had wings
And take flight
Or superhuman like Superman
Hopping I possessed metaphysical force
Like the Matrix upgrade version
To disembody and dematerialize
And so vanish into stillness
To hang in space out of sight
By the trickery of magic
To cast spell like lady of the Voodoo
And freeze plant herbage and the human
Instantly and give a diabolic glean
Make a catwalk of villain trump
To the disgust of victim
And ultimate flown of the gods
That hardly smile anyway
But I am human and my powers feeble
My infinity lies bound within
Time and daylight
The parameters of finite
In a rat race so unfair
Distances too close and defeat too plain
I die out and awoke within
To brace another day with headache
Devil, I escaped Gehenna
That gives me surety I will outpace you
For what I saw when I slept
Hail Tartarus I am Morpheus
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 9:29 AM UTC
In Math class we were studying linear equations. You take one of the two equations and make a third one. Take the numbers and symbols apart, see what's inside, then you find your solution by substituting one of them into the equations.
But I had other things in my mind. You're a bigger question to solve. Can I take us apart, rearrange ourselves and substitute for each other? Can we find a third equation to fit in between us to find a solution? Or would there even be an answer for us?
-m.b
Jan 23, 2017
Jan 23, 2017 at 10:50 AM UTC
If you've ever broke out into hives, you would understand what it would feel like to be one.
If anxiety has ever stripped your veins,
If inspiration has ever lacked the blood leaking from the depths of you that explode like title waves against rocks, you would know what it would feel like to be stung.
I've realized I haven’t been aware of transfixed rage and clenched hands trying too hard to hold on to something that loosened its grip a match and a half ago.
The fluid in my liter told me it was never really meant for cigarettes; all they ever do is deteriorate.
There is blood covering my sheets and evidence to cover up my gruesomely blank eyes.
Everything is coming back to me and it makes me wonder why I've ever given up.
They say that words sting and if bumblebees killed themselves after hurting someone else they’d be a lot more like me.
This is ripped and crumbled paper in the form of a mental breakdown.
You have composed me of jolting pupils and false accusations.
I’d rather be writing in my journal.
I’d rather be scratching down illegible ink marks than doing what I’m doing right now.
If you can hear that, it’s the sound of windows breaking.
It’s the sound of your heart forcing itself to shatter
It’s the sound you make when all you want to do is become a drone to vivid darkness and a loss of senses.
I would be a lot more like bees if their venom could actually put the living in their suitable graves.
I am substituting pain for pleasure even when I feel nothing at all.
I don’t want to be a bumblebee anymore.
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 9:42 PM UTC
Somedays I don't feel like writing
and it worries me because
'Writers write everday --
real ones, at least.'
I fear being ordinary,
which is tasteless because
maybe being ordinary
is what I need.
The appeal of snapbacks
and hipster haircuts
is starting to make more sense.
Blending into a crowd
might suit me better;
to be invisible but
to no longer be insecure.
Rap lyrics make more sense,
even though I can't relate;
these words are my sedation,
these clothes aren't armor
but marketable camouflage.
My words have been said before,
but that might be okay because
I'd hate to torment myself
wondering about my relevance.
So, to move on, I write,
and I write, and I write
to pander and to conform.
Substituting thought for
appealing diction and
strong imagery, afraid
to show myself because
maybe you're too much
like me, which, surely,
would eat me alive.
Jul 22, 2016
Jul 22, 2016 at 10:49 PM UTC
informed him, time for us to mitosis split
we be like half-torn pieces of paper
towel, ripped poorly from the roller,
edged raggedy, mishap misshapen
torn~apart
mismatched
he was standing on one leg when he
was informed, confronted, he retired to
the challenge of savasana, the corpse pose,
before speaking:
we are splitting our baby, product multiple
of the joining of our intertwining, a lessening,
and how can we give that up?
very Solomony of you, my torn report, not wittily,
which paused him from talking without thinking,
till he accumulated his perspicacious perspective,
informing me in his kindly lord of manor tone,
wisdomy superiority, advising me Brandy fierce,
that more appropriate, better than my selection
would be substituting his version more refined:
Solomonic
an actual word,
and i heard the sound of paper towel being
torn into many little pieces, and smiled with
end-of-poem finale,
exactly
*because he was so wrong for being right
one last time*
brandy
Nov 19, 2023
Nov 19, 2023 at 9:53 AM UTC
O Madiba! My Madiba! by Walt Whitman (changing the word Captain for Madiba)
1
O Madiba! my Madiba! your fearful trip is done;
The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize you sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Madiba lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
2
O Madiba! my Madiba! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up-for you the flag is flung-for you the bugle trills;
For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths-for you the shores a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Madiba! dear father!
This arm beneath your head;
It is some dream that on the deck,
You've fallen cold and dead.
3
My Madiba does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won;
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Madiba lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
Hi all and hope you are all well, haven't posted anything for a while but today I felt that this poem by the great Walt Whitman could pay tribute to one of my life long heroes Madiba or Nelson Mandela.
I hope Walt Whitman wont mind me substituting Madiba for Captain but his beautiful Poem which he wrote after the Death of his great hero of Abraham Lincoln just fits the occasion at least I think so!. Hope you all like it.
Best wishes to all Tom.
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 9:07 AM UTC
Sometimes I wonder.
I feel I'm going
two kinds of crazy.
the first is
ordinary madness
the second is
extraordinary insanity.
Yet somehow, they mix into a great fog.
Impenetrable.
They'll say, She's come undone.
Slowly unraveled,
like an old knit sweater
each thread floating up
to dissolve in the sky
or is it the sea? one's just a bit wetter
It happened slowly.
Such a shame.
Like the frog that was boiled;
she hopped out a bit too late.
one word at a time
slipped from her grasp
like that one tiny eggshell taunting
"TORO! TORO!"
can't grab a word by its horns.
I ad lib, substituting a synonym.
I snap out of the sky(ocean)
regrounding myself.
The madness is perhaps early Alzheimer's.
I'm too young to grow old.
The insanity feels more like I'm trapped
but outside my head.
A balloon a careless child let go of.
I drift
dream.
wonder.
unraveling
continuously.
I think my problem is that
I don't believe in reality anymore.
How do I know England exists?
How do I know we landed on the moon?
How do I know that my friend is real?
How do I know I'm not dreaming?
How do I know I'm not someone else's dream?
Once you think about it-
you realize
You don't know - and you can't prove-
Anything
I suppose that's why I believe in God.
He grounds me.
Nothing else makes sense.
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 2:35 PM UTC
After three years, why am I still needing to make impressions? Behaviour alterations, manifesting myself to the person they want to see. Disregarding my character at the door, substituting it for something more - applicable, unnoticeable, unopinionated, mentally castrated because I can’t compete with that.
Introverted woven into the needlework of extroverts, camouflaging the thread, too frightened to be different, to be noticed, so you hide yourself within life’s tapestry. We are hung in different galleries, worlds apart, the north/south divide does it shrink with time? Does love conquer all? It seems such a foreign conquest, I lose myself on the battlefield of personality trying to evade fatality of character. But their numbers are too strong, the war is lasting too long, I can’t compete with that.
Eloquent hunters, fields and farms. Like the hare, the sense of inadequacy follows me down, but it’s through the rabbit hole where I lose control, fumbling for speech at the simplest conversation. My heart races, heat rising from my chest, pores palpitating so pools of sweat dampen my forehead, wishing I could retreat below, stay cool in the shadow, away from illicit bourgeois eyes that see through my proletariat alibi, praying she doesn’t cast me aside because I can’t compete with that.
This is the mental cross that I bare, does she really care? Our relationship is ours not theirs, I need to lay aside my prejudice of the class divide, because in truth the weight of this cross isn’t mine but shared, and it’s holding us back, directing us off the beaten track because love isn’t a competition, but a joint expedition. Alice and I conquering together, and I can compete with that. Forever.
Oct 14, 2018
Oct 14, 2018 at 10:34 AM UTC
You listen to the sounds of cars driving by, of mediocrity that you try to escape
and you're drowning.
you wonder how you'll ever leave.
this place, this dark place, this joyless place is slowly fading your colors.
you once were so vibrant.
you find yourself compromising your dreams.
you find yourself substituting your sparkle for the mediocrity they handed you
the mediocrity they served on a plate
they shoved down your throat and force fed you.
the mediocrity you've come to accept and you listen to cars driving by and you're drowning.
When the air doesn't make it to your Brain anymore. When your Lungs fill with the sickly sweet syrup of mediocrity
you dream of leaving.
Jan 1, 2017
Jan 1, 2017 at 6:37 PM UTC
The hadron collider showed an unknown influence affecting subatomic particles.
“Is this proof of a higher power in the universe?” asked Marianne Williamson.
“Is this Will, is this magick?”
Yes Herr Nietzche, there will always be unknowns in human science as the scientists should have known all along, instead of substituting the most recent names of observations as the replacement of God.
No, there probably isn’t free will but we seem to be life in the unknown with more power than any other around.
This universe may just repeat on and on but what do you do with that knowledge? Can you even help to choose what you choose?
All these past influences and instinctual impulses lead the charge. But there's that spark. That mystery if we can ever really know and comprehend it all with limited senses, time, and minds.
Maybe you don’t have a choice in your life, but you can have the feeling you do. The feeling you can shape your world amid the destiny you feel in your heart.
Practice being a yeasayer to life because that just might be your fate.
Amor fati each time around.
Nov 1, 2021
Nov 1, 2021 at 9:10 PM UTC
So they cut
These words
Like the blade that sung your melody
As you cast it from your razor
Or your plethora of phrases
Come backs
Snarky remarks
And stainless steel
Like frost bitten angels we wail
And spit words like knives
If insults could sever arteries
We'd be less
Left
For dead
So we cut
With shaking hands and quivering jawlines
We cut with our moms good sewing scissors
And bitter cusses
And self defecating tunes
To save our souls from being cut by someone else
We are our own
Worst enemy
Jun 25, 2015
Jun 25, 2015 at 7:15 AM UTC
Inglorious light
To strand light from darkness the greatest victory Jesus said I am the light of the world it was fixed and
Sure no dividing nothing to confuse but then man’s desires arose as in all instances when he would
Dismiss God’s sovereign authority honesty is missing they don’t say initially the truth spoke thusly no
They craft well their superimposing disfigured light it has to appeal it must have the essence of
Misrepresentation with this you will be enlightened and thankfully you can do it by a measure that you
Can control you will be god and have the authority see all the lights draw them together into a super
Beam they are outer bold strokes of genius variable dreams exists in this bright coexistence with
Darkness you can blatantly satisfy all manner of appetites and keep you heart from alarm you are
Walking in light there is a supreme being and he too is known as the angel of light that is filled with all
The arts of deceit he will dazzle and from his inner light you will fall from heavenly heights the same as
He there is no end to your trouble nor his but what a ride to control thoughts and destines of others that
Innocently trust your words the breach know the true word was abridged to fit a morality that didn’t fit
Into true and right nobility no matter substitute your own please make it glowing the greatest
Subterfuge must look closely like the original we are speaking of eternal verities fine tune the sphere it
Must pass the acid test for the casual adherent only the best divisible means must be employed you are
Substituting bedrock truth with the illusion of truth never say the devil won’t give you your do even he
Plays fair to a point you are giving up a kingdom your right as an heir not to mention love will be changed
To murderous intent the death of a soul is not a minor undertaking you laid the ground work so expertly
Now to keep up the pretense it’s not really like its hard we are all rebels just play into the general feeling
That is maximized when you add the poison of deceit its the drug that will never fail love be dammed see
You in Hell
Jan 9, 2012
Jan 9, 2012 at 7:17 PM UTC
Im too afraid we're substituting free love for free WiFi, changing lives by white cardboard shop signs in the green oaks window of a strip mall pile of bricks and ********
I woke up at 8 am with a crick in my neck, but the world woke up frustrated with a wedge in its back. I'll fall asleep tonight to jon krakauer stories and they'll go unconsciously alive with severed names. It's like a scene from 1984 that got forced into a brave new world and made a ******* child with ***** blood, still just as red as the rest of us.
With dulled minds and calloused hands,
insomnia is inherent instead.
The lot's full but the cars are empty, and the white lines are blurred when it's raining drops of liquid distortion, perverted by man and no longer pure. Jesus' paper face is scotch taped to the glass pane of an apartment's sliding door; blocking a clear view of reality. But what is real and what is reality if we're all just defined by guesses? Just the rough estimates of what should be, or of what is by those who lived before us. And died before us.
Nothing ever lasts, but it's here and so are we.
And that's our stability.
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 3:17 AM UTC
It would start like a bubble
in my seven-year old chest,
An ever-expanding ball of
doom, substituting my breath
I was a child, yet I knew death,
I would try inhale- silence
I would hope it would fix itself
but, when I'd try exhale- silence
There was ugly music though,
It rose as I forced my ribs to expand,
Jarring, polyphonic, cacophony,
Of airways brutally locked and jammed.
When a child learns to measure April
nights, with the hours spent in the pain
Of coughing through close-to-nil breaths,
And breathing through coughing again,
One wonders at the extent of the inhumanity
Of those, who are quick to discreetly say,
"Hush, do not speak of this illness to anyone,
It's no illness at all, in the first place!"
"And, here, take these magic pills and potions,
They're slow but will take away all her agony,
No no, don't listen to those white-coated liars,
You don't need puffs of drugs into her body!"
So I ate all those pills and
Drank all those potions,
And I stayed up those nights,
Waiting for their promised actions,
And I went to school the next day,
Groggy, breathless and sleepy-eyed,
Because not-being-seen with an inhaler was
More vital than the breaths of a seven-year old child.
Apr 23, 2017
Apr 23, 2017 at 6:34 PM UTC
I’m sorry, Sir,
I know you said
I had to write out
50 times
“I must improve” - but
50 times
a different thought
came to my mind
i must look after myself properly
i must eat more
i must drink less
i must make time for myself
i must get the test
i must organise the divorce
i must sort out my job
i must sort out my head
i must get the car serviced
i must tidy this ******* place up
i must give up the ****
i must phone my friends more often
i must become a better person
i must take control of my life
i must find a therapist
i must hoover
i must grow up
i must calm down
i must sing more
i must accept myself
i must finish that poem
i must challenge ‘must’
i must find a new balance
i must raise my self-esteem
i must put on weight
i must get to bed earlier
i must return those calls
i must take up meditation again
i must get to the bottom of this paperwork
i must ease off the whisky
i must read more classics
i must remember how to feel good about myself
i must print those t-shirts i keep talking about
i must feed the fish
i must organise my finances
i must rearrange the living room
i must look into a mortgage
i must pray to the god of small things
i must hold good people close to me
i must burn out my cynicism
i must stop spending more than i earn
i must stop pushing people away
i must stop feeling icky about her past
i must stop being a drama queen
i must stop beating myself up
i must stop putting it off
i must stop going through the motions
i must stop looking for the answer in others
i must, i must,
i must
stop substituting poetry
for action
Feb 11, 2013
Feb 11, 2013 at 3:43 AM UTC