"sullivan" poems
**How can you be truly tough
In this painful world?
How can you stand firm
When the spears of agony are hurled?
Most people in the proud US of A
Don't have a clue of the
price they have to pay.
Western people do not know
What hardship really is.
So gratitude is lacking...
It is this...
Gratitude is having a ***
That doesn't leak,
To walk miles for diseased
Water from a creek.
Gratitude in thanking God
For the dry wood
To cook the rice or millet
For your food.
Gratitude is finding
A pair of shoes
In a garbage heap
That you can use.
Gratitude is finding
Pesos in your hand
When you beg the streets
In a poor land.
Gratitude is escaping
Vicious thugs
Who deal in human
Trafficking and drugs.
Gratitude is Hellen Keller
With no hope
Finding Annie Sullivan
To cope.
Gratitude is having NOTHING
And in pain
On one's deathbed, but yet
The fact remains
They are redeemed
And they have Lord Jesus' grace
So they know that they
Will look in his sweet face.
Being tough is seeing life
As is and still not breaking
Being brave and looking
Not forsaking
Being tough is a
Mental attitude.
Loving God and thanking Him
It's GRATITUDE.**
SoulSurvivor
Catherine Jarvis
(C) September 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 5:15 PM UTC
horns squawk
rainforest avenues
exoskeleton
of cars
arteries clogged
with unlovely taxi cabs
fat green fruit
for sale
five languages
merge into a knot
hisses kiss vowels
kiwis apples pears
black guys basketball
debt rises like blood pressure
stocks tumble
but we walk
brogues clop on concrete
count brick after brick
sun cascades
over roof slates
mind cracks in slabs
(you say
Monroe stood here)
heat quivers
men are dominoes
suits for the office
a funeral
designer sneakers
daddy paid for
pigtails cheap thrills
violet octagons
on a stranger’s neck
(behind the closed doors)
today
I drink purple water
aubergine lips
remind me
of a Tuscany Superb
list the names
Houston Charlton
Leroy Sullivan
Perry Cornelia
Dominick and Jane
(ladders lead
away from me
close to
you)
and back again
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 12:24 PM UTC
My grandmother used to bake pies
in the kitchen where I lived as a boy.
She would spend all day mixing
and kneading,
singing her old lady songs to herself.
I would get to lick the bowl.
This was my prize.
Back when the world was psychedelic
and hippies wandered the streets.
My sister and I would play outside
almost every sunny day.
Magic kingdoms made of mud and bricks.
Toy soldier citizens of mock empires.
Barbie doll victims of terrible wars.
Bubblegum music from the top forty
traced the pattern of our lives.
Our country had a new flag and boys
in school still had short hair.
Little girls wore skirts and dresses and
pony tails were still the normal fashion.
Black and white television set turned to
the latest American sitcoms. We would
laugh at Granny and marvel at Endora.
Mr. Sullivan would present the latest rage,
the latest quartet or singer from England.
Back when the world was psychedelic
and hippies wandered the streets.
We wore peace buttons on our coats,
and drew "smiley's" on our books.
We talked about what we were going
to do to make a difference in the world.
We admired the Fab Four and worshipped
at the altar of glorious possibilities.
We knew it was going to be beautiful,
because that is what we were being told.
Every morning at school we would sing
"God Save the Queen" and "O Canada",
say The Lord's Prayer and
hear the announcements.
Teachers talked about the future
as if it was a land of possibilities.
We did not know the black and white visions
would be transformed into colour horrors.
We had no idea that the dreams of peace and love
were going to be forgotten. Who could predict
the grey soul of adulthood? Where have
all the beautiful people gone?
My grandmother used to bake pies
in the kitchen where I lived as a boy.
Back when the world was psychedelic
and hippies wandered the streets.
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 5:10 PM UTC
I told the professor I loved beat literature and all the hippy consequences. He said they were such a small part of the population (along with Native Americans too apparently, he noted a different time. Because of what, you ******* I thought).
A pompous misguided thing, which either understandably or surprisingly, been teaching there since the 1960s. Five minutes of a winded attempt at putting anglophile humor into the lecture and you know the choice is "understandably" rather than "surprisingly." Been professing for the establishment, closed to other ways of thinking trickery.
A real square through and through. As if all change should come from appeasing the tyrannical bleachy supposed majority. Those in poverty, darker skins, gays, drug users, and all around flashy dressers ought to don suits for their one night Ed Sullivan performance. Get the folks on Bass Run Lane to be okay with seeing you in a glass cage in their living room scene. For just a couple decades. Then maybe they'll be used to seeing you in a grocery store. You'll always be laughable though, as they designed it to be so.
The hippies were a very small majority says the anointed professor.
"So were the suffragettes" snaps back a fiery thing sitting next to me. I should have talked to her more.
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 11:29 PM UTC
There’s a ***** in me.
A ***** that hides deep below.
But don’t try to **** me, kid.
Because that’s a ***** that you don’t want to know.
You think Jazmine Sullivan ****** your **** up, that’s nothing compared to me.
I’ll smash glass in your breakfast and make you drink bleach.
See how crazy she gets?
This ***** that hides away from the publics eye.
But not in private, no this crazy ***** will make you cry.
She’ll make you pant and moan
right before she breaks three of your bones
So go on and get gone, ‘for I release her early in the morn.
Don’t lie to me, our I’ll release the dragon from the lair.
Hurt me? I’ll hurt you tenfold and will not care.
Its not that I don’t love you, but you simply must pay.
Your lies have not gone unnoticed by my heart, and neither has the games you’ve played.
I’ll fight you to the death, gun or knife fight, its your choice.
But everything changes love, even my voice.
Once so sweet and angelic, becauses the demon’s tone.
So think twice before you pick up the phone.
And lie to me about who you’re with and where you been.
Be honest, because it will benefit you and I in the end.
Because this crazy ***** guards my heart.
And if you play with it well, I’ll allow her to rip you apart.
Sincerely, A sane female.
Jul 6, 2011
Jul 6, 2011 at 4:51 AM UTC
I'll go along with the thought, 'work makes you strong' just as long as I can
but,
sometimes, I feel pooped and can't jump through the hoops and that's when the dreaming kicks in for this man.
I spin in the frame of life's arcade type game and I'm lost in the wheels,
it feels
like,
riding a bike and not watching the street but meeting the idols I'd most like to meet,
like,
Gulliver,Gilbert and Sullivan,Jimmy Durante,Popeye the sailor and the Tailor of Gloucester,
lost in the throng and unaware of time carrying on,I get older,no wiser,no miser am I,
I give my dreams freely to those I love dearly.
This arcade game plays on though the moment is lost, and reality arrives if only to remind me, that life goes along and in it you'll find me,playing the machines,winning more dreams,sailing through the streams of unconsciousness.
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 5:00 AM UTC
we always think about what we did with our lives
and what did it get us.
for me I gained nothing more than musings at 3am
in a forgotten spot in a forgotten town.
I was always welcomed with the smell of stale coffee that hadn’t been brewed fresh since lunch merely ten hours before.
It wasn’t a friendly welcome but it was a welcoming.
here, in this small lit up space,
I found myself disappear into something else
No longer was I was person in a cubicle, answering phones,
submitting numbers into a tired system.
I was someone who although couldn’t beat insomnia,
I made it apart of my life.
I would learn about others
and mold myself from my own clay into something new.
I made it a point to learn from my tired mind and thoughts,
I made sure I made not sleeping soundly through the night worth it.
It was always somber; just a tear stained cheek away from being devastating;
I found my home here
in the lit up shop on the corner of Sullivan and Orchard;
Where I would always be greeted by the smell of stale coffee that hadn’t been brewed fresh since lunch merely ten hours before.
Feb 26, 2019
Feb 26, 2019 at 4:46 PM UTC
I guess I feel threatened by your strength
I guess I feel threatened by your beauty
I build brick layers between us.
What is that?
She ushered me to that golden path of sacred
My hands seek but grasp not
But there is something there to be taken
Why the blinders?
Why the stammer?
I have never been so confused
‘Olobeouch,’ the Yapese say
A tangling predicament worth
Unraveling with a fine-tooth
Bamboo comb
What about awareness
Emotional terror both by day
And by night
The subtle insidious kind
Calm waves of sad
Inertia creeps
What is that?
How do I heal when--
(and thanks for putting words to it, Rudy):
When it feels like the arms of my
Clock have arthritis?
Ship wreck on the wrong shore
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My feelings for you have grown needlessly ornate
Yours for me, simple
Sullivan says:
Friendship is underrated
Because of its inherent
Ability to be so earthen
So organic
And, thus
Conceptualized
Less
So why have I built
Nonsensical negativity?
Self-sabotage
What is that?
I’m not that guy.
I told you:
“I want so much more of you than I need”
I didn’t know at the time that I got it twisted
Maybe:
I need you more than I want to admit
Love the one you’re with
I idealized, romanticized the **** out of you
Before I even came back
I shot myself
Big toe on rifle trigger
A nice distraction from more
Pressing issues?
What is that?
I thought I was alone
But you reminded me
I am not
I can’t tell you how much that means to me
Those words:
Struck match
In a dark room
I’ve not let anyone acknowledge or
Sympathize with my lingering ache
Much less help anyone understand it
What is that?
I’m not that guy
I’ve never been that guy
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I let news of:
Thousands killed by super typhoon
Refugee birth
******** hunter casualty
Child victim of AIDS
Remind me that my pain is small
Pretending that that news is
Good enough to build perspective
And deal with pain
When it isn’t
“We accept the love we think we deserve”
I guess I thought I didn’t deserve you
Thank you for reminding me that that is
Not Truth
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ask me unprovoked questions
By the sea, under a tree
Whisper me stardust
Because one day I want to say:
Love me for the man I’ve become
Not the man I was
I touch the tip of your nose
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 5:31 PM UTC
Flaming figure so alone
tattered dreamer left ungrown
quiet minstrel lost in song
tell me firefly
am I wrong?
Broken barriers left to rot
sickened sense of forget-me-not
clutching figments left to die
Is this not you
sweet firefly?
Seeking flames of darker shades
beliefs untorn with prayers you prayed
that safest flame is deep inside
you shine your brightest
yet still you hide?
Man child ~ I must confess
you weaken limbs with your lovliness
the scarlet tears that you expire
are nothing frozen
but made of fire!
Jun 21, 2010
Jun 21, 2010 at 3:20 PM UTC
"Have you a working pulse?"
he asks of his petunias.
"...he went away cold as a snowball!"
he tells his gladioli.
They positively beamed at him.
"Oh yes...oh yes. . ."
he pontificates
"Flowers like Shakespeare
best!"
"...especially PERICLES
& other minor plays
rather than the great Dane
or say OTHELLO!"
"The herbs prefer
Gilbert & Sullivan!"
"But, spoken:
not sung!"
"...poor wandering one..."
"Or sometimes a little
dash of Noël Coward!"
"...what compulsion compels them and
who the hell tells them..!"
What could I say?
His voice produced
such a fecundity
such a fertility
that his word
could not be doubted.
"Oh yes...oh yes
plants like to be
spoken to, but:
prefer a little culture.
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 4:26 PM UTC
We watched three DVDs of Elvis
on the Ed Sullivan show,
Just to find you waving in the crowd
for a quarter of a second
It was brief
But to see you so young
And gentle and light
Was worth the hours
Of black & white tv
And jokes that are no longer funny
The first night I met you
You asked me if I was a writer
And I asked how you knew
You said it takes one to know one
I read your poetry for three hours
In Indian style on your living room floor
While you ate crackers from a ziplock bag
And talked about the love of your life
And the way his chest felt
The first time you used it as a pillow
You told me not to cry
When Elijah dumped me
You said pain is everywhere,
I'll miss out on life
If I let it consume me
I turned to leave your room
On a random Sunday last December,
It was cold and wet and dark,
And I was tired,
You grabbed my hand
And stopped me in my tracks
You said "learn to relax"
And then you held me still
Until you saw the anxiety
melt out of my eyes
I asked you why you
Bother to keep the car
Even though you know
You'll never drive it
You asked me why
I bother to love the sick
Even though I know
They're dying
You told me "don't close the blinds,
The world is beautiful"
Last time I came to say goodnight
You kept making plans,
Where you'd go after you left here
Even though "here" was certainly
The last place you'd be
I never understood
Why you kept pretending;
Pretending there was more
I get it now, Peggy
I know
Nov 3, 2016
Nov 3, 2016 at 11:38 PM UTC
Not a cloud in the sky,
Sunday chicken set to fry.
That is how I recall those Summer days.
Playing ball just for fun,
ice cream when the day is done..
Watching my freckles pop out from the suns rays
Colorful kites in the air,
Daisy chain in my hair.
Over and over in my memory it plays.
It was more than a childhood,
that Mom, Grandma, Grandpa gave to me.
It was more than a childhood.
It was a gift of, precious memories
Playing Barbie's on the porch,
Grandpa in his Bermuda shorts.
Big Band music on the stereo.
Playing tag with my brother Steve,
Ed Sullivan on T.V.
Listening while sister practiced her piano.
Swimming in our little plastic pool,
watching Grandpa work with tools.
Seems we were always having fights with pillows.
It was more than a childhood,
That Mom, Grandma, Grandpa gave to me.
It was more than a childhood.
It was a gift, of precious memories.
Slip and slides in the grass,
cold iced tea in a tall glass.
Runnin' barefoot through the neighborhood.
Gram making strawberry jam,
Hear Grandpa cheer a grand slam.
On our swing set we'd go as high as we could.
Walks down to the Rexall drug Store,
we were never, ever bored.
I know now, what back then, I never understood.
It was more than just a childhood,
that Mom, Grandma, Grandpa gave to me.
It was more than a short childhood.
It was a lifetime gift of precious memories.
Jun 24, 2011
Jun 24, 2011 at 12:14 PM UTC
In this Nightmare where Today Feels Like Lies, I see Joe Jonas and he tells me, it's Time to Dance.
And Oh look, there's Peter! Pete tells me, that Music is Life! But I already knew this.
And there's Jimmy Sullivan--The Rev tells me, Don't Jump. I won't. I don't want to be Buried Alive. ----
"I just wanna live while I'm alive 'Cause it's my life."
Avenged Sevenfold is the Cardiology that keeps my heart beating.
Now What If... this was real and not a Dream?
Let's just Dance for Tonight.
Jan 18, 2011
Jan 18, 2011 at 9:38 AM UTC
(In this poem, the authors alternate stanzas.)
AUTUMN'S CALL
In the stray
sweetness of yarrow
and starlings’ trill by dusk
rejoin the fading
without regret
as the foot worn grass will
receive morning’s frost.
And whenever that green yarrow fades
then I fade
in the dry husk
of this autumn of fire
this autumn of smoke and regrets.
Wake in sidelong sun
light half hidden
days under curtains
of violet and scarlet
leaves so soon
will bury the moss
inch by inch.
But I
being the beast that I am
will burrow through the moss
past every encumbrance
beyond hope and fear
and finally find the freedom of one
sweet day
in October
the air still
not a sound
but leaves settling
into the detritus of dreams.
Aug 31, 2017
Aug 31, 2017 at 6:08 PM UTC
With its sinuous green edge and its delicately
decorative white venation this dewy cress laid
on a fine crystal platter would fit well next to that
chunk of cement facade ensconced in a vitrine
at the Art Institute’s new Louis Sullivan exhibition
There’s little cause to wonder why these particular
atoms once afloat on inchoate seas and awash
in the hummed mumbles of humble vibrations
chose to decohere into this one captivating pattern
from among an infinite variety of mattered schemes
even limiting their choicest range to those paired
colors A tree frog for example its narrow lime toes
suctioned on a broad leaf and its watchful pearl
eyes misconfigured with a blind spot too soon
exploited by a beak spouted peril Or the gallant rider
in uniform myrtle and mounted atop an albino steed
who at a mirthless gallop through routed troops
delivers this message Mother I am so far away
from everything They’re oddly jarred couplings but
with any choice whether slapdash had or carefully
considered what’s our guarantee it will live up to
the iron of romantically clad expectations I have
heard It’s always the salad that gets you in the end
Sep 23, 2010
Sep 23, 2010 at 9:45 AM UTC
Photograph by Michael J. Sullivan, 2010
Listen up, you little ***** and let me
teach you a thing or two. See this skull here,
poised and serene? How do you know it’s poised?
It’s dead, for Christ’s sake! The only thing it’s
poised on in the edge of this stump—“ye olde
dead tree” holding “ye old dead head.” He had
a name, you know—Yorick—I didn’t make
that up. I knew him; good friend of my mum’s.
This sword here could have been what ran him through,
you know. Coulda got him straight through the gut,
and you’re all sittin’ here admiring its
craftwork. It’s the fancy hilt, isn’t it,
the bright metal chasing its own tail in
golden loops. Warm yellow over cold steel,
that’s what you people like—spectacle, shine—
not dust and history, like Yorick over here.
You don’t mind if I smoke, do you? Only
thing these candles are good for, really. They’re
tallow—stinking, smoky fat made by Jen
on her weekends off. She doesn’t know much
about candles, but her Wench’s Special
Draft is the best mead made for this dung heap.
Anyway, I gotta piss. Leave Yorick
with your tips, and remember: what glitters
here isn’t gold, just paint over old age.
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 7:29 PM UTC
Ode to My Hero (Me)
to be sung by Donald Trump
with apologies to Gilbert & Sullivan's
H.M.S Pinafore
As a callow youth I served a term
as Senior VP of my Daddy's firm
His moxie and his money so suited me
that now I am the ruler of the Trump fam'ly
When asked a question, my Golden Rule
is to bluster loud and flaunt my cool,
And this evasion so well suits me
that I've become the master of chicanery.
With legal suits, I've made so free
that all my smitten lenders bow down to me
For I pay my lawyers so liberally
that I never lose a dollar on a bankruptcy.
If now and then my luck runs out
I've buckets of money from my TV route,
And since my ******* up name is Gold
the money keeps a 'comin from the young and old.
For my great fame they pay and pay
and their paltry savings they fling away
on Trump U studies they're sure to find, will empty their wallets, not fill their mind.
So listen and learn from my Trumpery
and join white men who hate Hillary
They holler hosannas for their hero DonT, though for Trump adulation they can't beat me!
My heads not troubled by policy woes
'cause I learn all I want at beauty shows
I've put up very well with my three wives,
my yachts & my mansions & my gambling dives.
I've exalted myself unsparingly
and tossed off little lies with impunity
Let fey foes fault me as vain & mean,
their rightful envy leaves me quite serene.
With my big mouth and red regal head
I've clobbered all my rivals until they bled
With frank contempt I dissed Jeb B
bashed Carson & Kasich and Ted's lady.
There's hardly a Republican left to fight
and, in wimpy Dems, I inspire fright
while fearful folks seek my mighty arm
to shield them all from ISIS harm.
Now I've come to the end of this very fine Ode
to march with pride on the Presidential Road
For my boundless bluster's so elevated me
that now I am the ruler of the GOP.
If another Trump you aspire to be,
you must never, never fret about decency.
Just stiff the losers and brag like me,
and you may be the Grand Old Party's nominee.
Sep 28, 2016
Sep 28, 2016 at 5:36 PM UTC
This unravelling
has created loose ends
I thought if I kept weaving
everything would stay secure
I've treated love like the finest gold yard
wrapping you around my heart
I thought I could tie everything into a knot
and hold it in place
I forgot about the wear and tear
the pull that could not be contained
This unravelling
has exposed a threadbare heart
that no amount of patches
can repair
Instead I pin and mount you
inside the recess of my brain
waiting and waiting
for you
to be
born again.
By Siobhan O'Sullivan
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 10:59 AM UTC
Brethren skulking from the daylight shadows,
we watched other guys **** up to chicks,
offering to trade their Beatles bubble gum cards;
lying about how much they dug "Love Me Do".
***** Stones fans, we snickered every time
the sycophants lauded Ringo over Pete Best;
stared in disbelief at enraptured female fainting
on Ed Sullivan's really-big Sunday show.
Displaying our leathers, we were anything but Fab;
Brian Epstein would have deemed us scrofulous,
a given that nobody's daughter would marry us.
Back then, chicks were rated by putting-out,
not how many texts backed up on their cell phone.
No one really gave a thought to "the British Invasion",
nor if our lot in life would "Not Fade Away".
Dec 27, 2013
Dec 27, 2013 at 4:08 PM UTC
Silence is
Everywhere, even
In the middle of the night,when people are dreaming and going
"ZZZZZzzzzzz..." all night long.
Every day is a new day. ---
Time to change and start something new.
*How can we bring peace to this world?*
Each day--little by little-
Day by day; We can do it!
And to wrap this up, I want to say, *Happy Birthday to
You, Jimmy Sullivan.*---You truely live foREVer! <3
Feb 11, 2011
Feb 11, 2011 at 7:05 AM UTC
Plastic really, actually,
It pumps and Hemo flows.
The doctors placed it
beneath my breast
How long will it beat?
None knows.
I’m undersized for seventeen,
Brown eyes and auburn tresses
A year behind to graduate
with my friends in their prom dresses
Back when my heart was still my own
before my failed bypasses.
I was like many High school girls,
I slept through history classes.
.Back then there was a boy I loved
We’d spend hours on the phone.
His smile made my heart skip a beat
when it didn’t on its own.
Then I fainted in my science class,
my complexion turning blue
Mister Sullivan saved my life
by knowing what to do.
Now can I give my heart away,
a heart that’s not my own?
Can I feel as I used to feel
when its just us two alone?
Was my soul within the heart
that died when we untwined?
Is that spirit an illusion,
just a construct of the mind?
Will this heart race in your embrace?
Will your kisses taste divine?
Or am I just the Tin girl
feeling hollow all the time?
Dec 26, 2011
Dec 26, 2011 at 4:31 PM UTC
In my youth,
They called it an Idiot Box,
But at six and eleven,
The real news arrived.
Africa, Vietnam,
Assassinations;
Mr. Ed and Mr. Sullivan shared our dessert.
The IB gave bedlam meaning.
Now,
We're patients in the asylum,
Spotting wardrobe malfunctions,
Commenting on roses,
Losing airwave evangelists
For commandments
Flung from the Tower of Babel.
Feb 3, 2017
Feb 3, 2017 at 10:27 AM UTC
The nun, plump, robed in a black
and white habit, walked across
the front of the class of girls.
Fay sat half way down on the left
next to the girl Millicent Sullivan
(whose aunt was a nun in Ireland).
"Immaculate Conception," the nun
said," what does it mean and to
whom does it refer?" The girls
stared at the nun whose two chins
wobbled as she spoke. Millicent
didn't raise her hand even though
she knew the answers, but put on
her innocent gaze. "Some of you
girls must know the answers,"
the nun said moodily. Fay raised
her hand and heads turned to look
at her. "Well, Fay?" She felt herself
blush and lowered her hand from
view. "It means one conceived
without blemish or sin," she said
in a soft voice. The nun stood up
to her full five foot frame. "And
what does conceived mean in this
context?" A few girls sniggered,
others gazed at Fay. The classroom
seemed to shrink to a white glow
containing just her and the nun.
"Not sure, Sister Luke," she said.
The nun gazed around the room.
"I am sure one of you girls know
the answer to this," Sister Luke said.
The girls just stared at the nun.
Millicent raised her hand and said:
"It means when the man's stuff
meets the woman's egg." Some
girls blushed, others looked puzzled.
"You have the idea. Now to whom
was it applied?" Sister Luke asked
staring at other girls. "The ****** Mary?"
A thin girl at the back of class replied doubtfully. Fay knew it was, but said
nothing more. The nun went on to
elaborate details. Fay was puzzled
by the man's stuff and egg. She
wondered if Benny knew. She would
ask him after school when she met
him on the way home. He knew
about things like battles and wars
and once kept a goldfish in a glass
bowl until he lost it down the sink.
He might know, she mused, she
didn't know otherwise what to think.
Sep 14, 2018
Sep 14, 2018 at 4:15 PM UTC
I'm back at the grind feeling mad as a hatter.
Still floating on. A poetry carpet.
No friction or pressure or fear I will fall.
Swooping and turning my belt is unbuckled.
Standing with toes hanging off.
Hands out for balance.
What the hell rhymes with balance.
Oh. Ladies and gentlemen if you look to your right
Niagra falls is a vision at night.
There goes a guy on your left on a rug.
Pass me a ***** driver so I can debug.
We will be landing in fifteen minutes.
In. Front of the sphynx.
After that captain sully sullivan is going to take the wheel.
The carpet guy is going down on a wing and A prayer.
Then back to his house for a much needed nap.
Good night and sweet dreams.
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 12:36 AM UTC
I've always thought it a bit cruel that
my mother named me Trista Joy.
Doomed to a fate of being pulled,
polarizing at two ends of the spectrum of emotion.
Smacked into the middle of a war
that has been waged for thousands of years.
Millions of lives lost to both happiness and sadness.
A walking contradiction can only move about in one way.
Circling what I thought I knew, and what really is.
Am I meant to be extreme in expression,
ferociously flippant from side to side?
Was I born without the ability to reach the medium?
A children's movie once taught me that
happiness cannot exist without sadness,
and in that I often find solace.
But I live in a world where people run, fight, and hide
from half of what I am, and obsessively strive for the other.
It gets exhausting, suppressing the spring loaded spirit that is being sad.
Happiness can only hold its ground for so long.
It's great to meet you, I'm Sad Joy Sullivan.
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 3:04 AM UTC