"surgically" poems
Yo Terry, you gone loco?
talking to yourself all the time now
oh, yeah?
is that a blue tooth or a blue ear?
is it surgically attached?
do you wear it to bed?
take it with you into the shower?
Man, you would never be so crazy
it can’t be you
it’s got to be your cell phone clone
hey lady, can you see that green arrow
it won’t last forever
what’s up…honk, honk
you’re on the phone?
we’re gonna to miss the left …turn
honey, you must be blind
how’d you get your license?
is that Lynne?
**** girl
it can’t be you
got to be your cell phone clone
A. K., another call?
and we’re supposed to be having a conversation
kickin’ it
now you’re text messaging under the table
and you think I don’t notice?
Dude, I’m not that stupid
and you, my brother, would never be that rude to me
it can’t be you
got to be your cell phone clone
yo Brenda, who you talking to out there?
oh…(whispered) cell phone clone
Leon, dude!
How many cell phones you need?
You’re talking on the one you got pressed onto your ear
There’s another on the table in front of you
Do you have one more?
You could be a juggler
Join the circus
Girlfriend, don’t you realize the light has changed
and you’re standing in the crosswalk in the middle of the street?
hang up the phone and step—yeah, you
Jeez...I…I see cell phone clones
They’re everywhere
Apr 10, 2010
Apr 10, 2010 at 1:05 PM UTC
I was once a boy who believed in words dipped in magic
Carefully coated with sugar
From a distance, they shimmered
whispered fog in its wake
surgically dipped into your heart at hummingbird speed
these sweet tender words were easy to swallow
however leaves a burning hole in your chest once it finds shelter in your body.
Even though your lips produced sweet words
I could never get the sour taste out of my mouth
The most you could have done was give me something to wash it down with:
the leftover tears in Samantha Thompson’s eyes
above Wedgefield’s polluted night sky
somewhere in the middle of an empty field inside his pickup truck
between the words I’m and Sorry
the cleanest and most deceitful of them all
I doubted every word.
I never cared much for the empty spaces between the lines of college-ruled paper
They are only meant to be filled with even emptier phrases
If I could, I wouldn’t fill in any spaces in the time we were together
It would only make our story much more incredulous
Adding more would make us less real.
Two hearts in love need no words
but in reality, you did most of the talking
The ***** blanket of faith
is a cocoon of words shared only between you and him.
We, however, were alien to this Earth
We dissolved amongst the shadows of light
produced from lampposts, only to be thrown back into the light
whether or not you wanted to show me who you really were
You always fancied yourself in artificial lighting compared to natural lighting
Fearing the natural light would show the colors you only kept to yourself.
Lovebug ran to each light as quickly as he could
for these lampposts can only cover so much of the unknown
We’ll be together forever
He ran to each one until he was alone
Until he couldn’t find himself
Each shadow that was passed before can be seen, traced
however his new reflection is indiscernible
You can try your hardest to look into dry puddles
only to find something that is not so concrete.
The only words worth believing in are the ones that are burnt slowly afterward
Entre deux coeurs qui s’aiment, nul besoin de paroles.
But no matter how much the lampposts grow taller,
or how the spaces between ruled-paper continue to dance, the word
love will always be the easiest word to swallow
but the hardest to digest once it rots in the thick of your stomach.
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 2:20 PM UTC
A bridge from colloquial to courtly fare
A span where idealism and fantasy pair
A railway to the existential realm; celestial lair
A conduit through which rational discourse can flare
Deep medium to: forage, inculcate, and inform
Broad brush to paint rare beauty; sculpt surrealistic form
Incisive scalpel to surgically alter the societal norm
Delicate utensil to educate on civility and decorum
A literary ***** a prosaic construct
A mechanism our syntax to deconstruct
An analytical tool; an observational viaduct
Introspective milieu to reduct; extrovertive sphere to reconstruct
A semantical edifice that aspiring wit, lofty orations implore
An experimental structure gramatical anomalies to explore
A thematic repository in which concrete ideas, abstract notions to
pour
A vernacular cathedral butressed by an idiomatic core
Jul 25, 2012
Jul 25, 2012 at 6:37 PM UTC
A love is special.
A love is unique.
But love is not.
I hope.
Forever tormented by the thought.
You took my love.
Uniqueness that can't be bought.
This feeling I had with you gone.
Forever lost and never retrieved.
My hearts passion truely deceived.
Despair swelling at my ankles.
Searching for love like before.
You punish me with shackles.
They've left me feeling cheap.
An artist without creativity.
Coloring with no feeling.
Incapable of sensitivity.
This image of replaying moments.
Plagiarism of my emotion.
A different person and yet.
My heart of thoughts - only confliction.
I want them to be special and unique.
This wall turned insurmountable.
My problem has come full circle with no solution.
Uniqueness ripped clean surgically.
You took it all perfectly.
Even these words you've taken from me.
I'm left with no choice.
You'll not have my voice!
May 23, 2015
May 23, 2015 at 1:26 PM UTC
"There is a stillness that floods the moment"
a sky full of stars
***~~~
for you, poet, you
~~~***
*there is a stillness that floods
that exact moment,
the cutting chord moment,
that oddly has no
resounding chords
~
a stillness
that, simultaneous,
happily, sadly, accepted, lost,
all immediately,
by its very knowing
released acceptance,
for that is when
depression and joy,
a 1-2 punch of
raging quietude floods
the exactness of that moment
~
this shock of the calmness,
albeit brief,
jolt of kind,
jolt that slow mo's
pulsing prior air gasping
~
it comes when thinking*
done,
*it is done, yes done and I am undone,
having surgically cutting off
a limb, never bloodless, but
still relief waters flush the wound,
a granted, gifted joy floods,
permitting its escape tween the sutures,
in exhilarating exhalations
~
throw it down,
your extracted best,
lift up,
the fleshed out silhouette,
present it to the court and corps,
a farewell glance push,
finger caressing the send button
with ****** anticipation
for the lovely loving,
a vintage of the pre-regret
of completion
~
the poem is done, gone, ****** eliminated,
the light of eyes so peculiar to that moment,
when you have birthed a new born poem,
an acknowledgement of the stillness of a
closing loss,
the parting, the coming,
of a
peace of you
must too, be noted,
all deserving of equal rights*
~~~
July 12, 2015
NML
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 9:06 AM UTC
As their son,
I'm acutely aware that my parents
fear me.
They're afraid because I'm everything they raised me to be.
They're afraid because I'm everything they raised me not to be.
I'm the product of a failed attempt at suburban life,
a mixture of the 80s punk-rock *****
and a scrappy ******** *******
almost perfectly blended
like chunky peanut butter.
They're afraid
because I have my mother's "Devil-May-Care" attitude
and my dad's endless charm.
I made a Pick and Mix candy bag
of their traits
until I created a boy who is everything they fear.
The fear what I stand for,
and the reactions I invoke in other people,
and the looks I get in public.
They fear my body,
surgically altered
until it's not the child they created,
but the creature I did.
Apr 26, 2017
Apr 26, 2017 at 9:48 PM UTC
It's a natural phenomenon
That all or most of us girls, whether
you have big ones or you're from the iddy biddy ***** committee -
Have confidence issues
About the size of them bras
We grow up looking at all the beauty and perfection in the magazines
Those shiny, glossy pages of materialistic vanity
Thinking ...
I wish that was me !
Beauty, is in the eyes of the beholder
Yet, we shrivel up with fear when
It's time to be with another
Thinking they're wishing the size
of them bras was BIG
As a ripe yellow Cantaloupe! :)
You lose your confidence even if
It's not true
Our men can't help themselves
Cheating roaming eyes, as they scan those surgically implanted
Plastic fantasies
Rise and heave !
Forgetting what a real woman looks like
They fall for the ones with a huge
Chest on the outer crest
They're glorious! !
But underneath -
They have confidence issues too
That's why the knife was their
Best bet
Jrap/2016
Oct 1, 2016
Oct 1, 2016 at 10:21 AM UTC
It's like everyone and everything around you is moving,
blossoming,
becoming something,
And you're here,
watching it all happen,
the only thing telling you you're alive is the rising and sinking of your chest, and you're alive but not living,
and you feel nothing,
numb to the touch,
Numb to the sadness that makes the tears stream down your cheeks,
Numb to the pain that makes you pinch the fat on your body and scream looking in the mirror,
Numb to the anger that makes you rip out your own hair,
It's someone who meant so much to you leaving you to notice all the bare walls and empty spaces and expressions,
Just like the one that's left in your eyes,
It's like laughing at a joke but not really understanding what was funny about it and it just seemed like the thing to do at the time,
It's like every emotion at once yet you're still left with no explanations for anything you've said and done the past month or so,
It's a sinking pain that starts in your chest and sinks so low you think it'll reach your feet,
It's like that part of you that makes you feel anything at all,
Has been surgically removed and you're left with nothing,
Absolutely nothing
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 10:26 PM UTC
What happened to our artists?
When did our beauty become surgically enhanced?
Goodbye Mr Hedberg, Hello Mr Macintyre.
Goodbye Ms Whinehouse, Hello Miss Perry.
Goodbye Mr Byron, Hello Ms Kardashian.
Goodbye Mr Mercury, Hello Mr Braun.
Goodbye Mr Wilde, Hello Mr Sheen.
Those smiling faces that tell us "everythings Okay!"
A farewell to the beauty of self destruction
Goodbye Art. Hello Art.
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 6:53 PM UTC
Ripped ribbons scattered aimlessly,
with fractured cups, dirt and dust
pink pearly acetone just won't be enough
to erase the evidence of you.
With forced confessions,
spilled out all past indiscretions,
and cursed vindications and blood
splattered like a musty revenge.
Blank canvases,
Hand print caresses that show
Polaroid prints all faded and jaded
like the illusion of us.
It was desperate fingers
that clung to the railings
but the force of gravity meant I had to let go.
Hope had revived me
Like water to my parched throat
my oasis is the desert
All my horrid words were revoked.
Yet nothing will ever be enough
to surgically remove
our open bleeding wounds.
I must tend to the injured,
Leave alone the wielder
Knife still in hand
How did it come to this?
I missed your voice
so much it made me cry
yet after I heard
it made everything worse
Mourning a loss that was not mine
but yours.
Grieving hurts.
I still love you
but it burns
burns
until I have to take my hand off
the all consuming flame.
My teardrops cannot pay the price,
or eradicate the past in peoples minds
Will I forever be beholden to this guilt that now defines me?
Too many skin graphs to hide the scarred tissue underneath.
All paths lead me back to here.
I'm helpless to watch your ghost
Linger,you still linger.
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 7:58 PM UTC
The Gift of the Sleeping Magi
**"But in a last word to the wise of these days
let it be said that of all who give gifts,
these two were the wisest.
Of all who give and receive gifts,
such as they, are wisest.
Everywhere, they are wisest.
They are the Magi."
O. Henry**
The woman, traveling alone, thru dangerous
West Side badlands, dancing lands,
where resident fairies, ex-ballerinas all,
magical mystify a passerby's thoughts,
mesmerizing them with their mercurial maneuvers,
tango dancing upon shimmering glass pieces,
enslaving all who gaze upon them forever,
turning their captives into sleeping beauties.
Restlessly awaiting her return,
the hombre-lover early retires
to the bed chamber,
weary from another day's
woeful world worries,
long past midnight, he awakens,
disoriented, discombobulated,
and alone.
Fearing the worst,
he summons her return with text spells
and magical ringing cell's bells,
all to no avail.
He dresses,
readying for the search,
to bring her home.
Ready to depart,
he opens the door,
only to find the woman
asleep before their door.
Unwilling to awake
her sleeping hombre,
she gifts him a
rest undisturbed.
Shoulder grasped, elbow guided,
her eye glasses surgically removed,
he returns her to their bed,
to complete her own rest.
instantly, she is re-gifted,
colliding with a gravity pulling her,
into a pleasurable deep sleep.
Now wide-eyed awake,
the hombre muses and
poetry pens this tale
of his restless confusion.
O. Henry's words refurbished,
rise up, infiltrate his consciousness.
**Of all who give and receive gifts,
even the simplest,
rest undisturbed, rest completed,
they are the wisest,
everywhere they are wisest.
They are Magi.**
2::03 AM, a few years ago.
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 6:36 PM UTC
So, next week, I lose a limb.
I have it marked on my calendar in neat, purple letters.
Humans, unlike starfish, spiders, or Dr. Curt Connors, cannot regrow limbs.
They can be amputated or removed surgically to prevent disease,
But this is different.
You see, this Friday, when I lose my limb, I won't get a replacement limb.
And the disease, if you can call it a disease, well,
As far as I can see, it'll spread faster than ever.
Have you ever loved someone so much that they become a part of you?
First of all, it's very unhealthy.
Second of all, it's the most wonderful feeling in the world.
Well, if you've ever felt this way toward someone else, it's safe to say that someday, you will start to think of them as an actual part of you- like your other half.
The more time you spend with them, the more you'll read their expressions, pick up on the nuances of their speech and expression, the more you'll open up to them and sync up to their moods and habits-
It's frightfully parasitic.
And when they leave, it's like losing a part of yourself-
After all, you've put so much into each other,
So much that you'll never get back.
I'm in love, and it's beautiful and terrifying.
My love is a part of me that's getting ripped off this Friday.
You see, he's moving three hours away.
He's a year older, and he's going to college.
I'm more scared than he is about it.
Luckily, we're only separated by physical distance.
But honestly- you know that gag in movies where the villains tie the protagonist limb by limb to four horses and send the horses galloping off in four different directions?
That.
It feels like that.
This Friday, I'm losing a limb- for now,
I'm losing him.
So, soon, I'll have to learn to live as just one part of a whole.
That is, until Thanksgiving break...
Aug 14, 2016
Aug 14, 2016 at 2:45 AM UTC
when i was little, i dreamt of being a princess
because taking charge is what i do best
and why not do it in a long pink dress?
i may not be royalty but i am royally *******
by being an overemotional teenager who ...
listens a bit too much to what society says
and not enough to what she has to say
about herself
i feel like that needle in a haystack
when it comes to the future.
i’m still asking if i can use the bathroom
when i’m expected to have my whole life planned out
by the time the leaves start to change
and i have to surgically remove my arm to sell on the streets so four years from now i’m not living on one ... with nothing but a fancy degree held above my head when it rains the cold realization that i am $100,000 in debt
and have no idea what i’m doing
so what am i supposed to do
when i still find myself comparing who i am now,
to who i could have become
without the challenges of 2012
still hanging on my shoulders
when i lay in bed at night,
thinking about how different i would be
if life hadn’t thrown me a curveball
that knocked me off home plate and out of my comfort zone,
out of the dreams of an ivy league school or graduating with high honors -
when i’m just lucky to be graduating on time.
while my peers are getting acceptance letters,
i’m getting the reminder that the battle has just begun,
the war of me against myself in accepting the past as it is,
regretting my mental disorder will not make it go away no matter how hard i fight.
i know that forgiveness equals growth,
a never-ending road of
constantly changing
twisting and winding
paths that never seem to have any clues
as to which one is the right one.
i’ve blindly picked a path, a quest if you will.
i am on a quest to be the best
no no, let me rephrase, MY best
because my best is all i can give and someday,
those that told me otherwise
will be eating those sugar coated words
when i have finally accepted MY best is true success.
so when i was little, i did dream of becoming a princess
but today, i’m dreaming of being a better me than yesterday
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 7:36 PM UTC
His hand was outstretched, nabbing a pesky windswept hamburger wrapper
near a garbage can alongside the exit to the cafeteria
Bent over, exposed, frozen, pretending the hamburger wrapper
required more effort than normal to dislodge it from the open air just above the ground
Perhaps it was a turnip or a beet, that he had to carefully, surgically remove
and it was only that he saw me coming
if I could have slowed down time, to slow motion
Seeing my boss, the principal of the school, up ended like this
for the sole purpose of not having to look me in the face, I would have
more kids would have had a chance to stare at this strange posture,
and wonder how a hamburger wrapper could have such a difficult
time being removed from the ground and I want to remember this pose
it only gets worse, and as my exit comes nearer, I feel lighter
but he still can't look me in the eye
if he felt secure in his decision, in all his decisions about me
he could, but he doesn't
So he will focus more time than needed to grasp that delicate
wrapper, which contained a stale bun and the remains of a dairy cow
spent and gone before her time on a factory farm in the central valley
and if insecurity can impose such ludicrous postures on a person
I will take this lesson, and remember always to be brave
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013 at 11:15 PM UTC
I have dug
a hole
near the house
where you live
and lifted
the veins; daffodils
surgically
from the soil
they watch
from my window
so tall
and so yellow
Dec 22, 2016
Dec 22, 2016 at 11:01 AM UTC
Me in my mirror, mirror
A ghoulish sight.
Awkward skulk
'A clay face'
As my nose says
'A dog snout'
As my eyes would say
Skin like a shelter
For bacterial catacombs
Rising up from under like undead
Screaming inside
I press my face into the right morph
Re-bend the crooked nose
Self-correct the bloated chin
I layer on more clay, then
Mold it again.
Re-mold some more.
Slice some off;
what am I now?
"Pretty." an ideal voice says
*********
My eyes are tired from staring
"They aren't lasers"
I tell myself
"They can't surgically correct you"
And So
goes another night.
May 30, 2012
May 30, 2012 at 11:26 PM UTC
I am a shadow shifting upon the broken wall
Vast visage dwindling in an urban sprawl
I am chaos, darkness left unchecked
A vicious tyrant, call me regret
I hunt happiness by the light of day
Spawning tragedy in night's great purvey
A manic schizophrenic enthralled with misanthropia
The tapering end of a surgically severed ganglia
An anarchisticly pessimistic vision of utopia
Regret the king, paradise turned dystopia
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 4:43 AM UTC
She deserves recognition
For her work as a technician
Who's expertise is ball bustin
Who majors in ********
Excelling in the field of advance
Hot air production
A profession heckler who
Composes an orchestra conductin
A firework show eruptin
With colorful rants red, and purples
She's acclaimed for rhetorical
Questions that repeats in circles
An elite linguistics scholar
Who's sarcasm is an accomplishment
Very talented...no gifted at making
An insult sound like a compliment
And Her stamina to do so
Is like an Olympian who's pleased
Only when her track and field
Meet of slander makes ur ears bleed
A masters degree in belittling
A graduated philosopher for the bitter
Must be a psychologist the way
She attacks my sanity to litter
Insecurities, and doubts and I
Heard she has a phd in hypnosis
Until u start to believe her ********
And this psychosomatic is ur psychosis
A world class magician who's
Tricks leave u perplexed in thought
A novelist who narrates to taunt
Controlling all characters and plot
She wrote the book on torturing
A man and emasculating him so
He may never move forward and
She was in the military I'm told
Historically known for her
intellectual Warfare
Manipulating soilders and utilizing
The grounds to ambush u there
A social tyrant who's brilliant
Political ties help her achieve
Her plan like constituents are
Biased so they're all after me
A paralegal who's unfair and lethal
And to her it's titalation
Unfair is her terms but like a
Perm ull get burned in litagation
A degree in early childhood
Education so she acts like a rebel
Perfecting being childish and
Unaffected by ur feelings on levels
Only a schoolyard bully could
Match, she's my jailhouse warden
Who's power is focused on me
Relentlessly constructing like a foreman
With Her future blueprints to
See what the hell she builds for me
Will look like, and she's also a director
In the *********** industry
So she tells in great detail
Just how I'll be ******
She must have been taught by
Peter pan how to never grow up
Trained as medic who specializes
In one area over them all
Nudering human males
So surgically she removes my *****
After she breaks them and
So I am the constant fool
This exceptional jack of trades
Makes me wish that I stayed in school
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 7:54 PM UTC
Razor-tipped pencils that surgically
slice patterned pages
Soft brushes from fingertips like afterthoughts
puddling atop pillows
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 11:21 PM UTC
It hurts...this grief, this emptiness,
this ache for what will never be...
it hurts
It hurts...the pain is unbearable.
It feels like someone has surgically removed my heart
and they forgot to sew me back up,
they forgot to put me back together.
It's this unbearable grief, this emptiness inside of me.
I miss him so much.
It's this huge longing for something that will never be...
it hurts...it hurts so much.
And I cannot stop crying from the ache.
I don't know how to get past it.
I don't know if I can.
I don't know if it's possible.
It hurts
It hurts so much to have this aching need that will never be real again.
Tonight I am surrounded by all my memories of Jimmy. Thinking that somehow it will all bring me healing energy…help put my broken heart back together. Pictures of us as kids, the sweet letters we shared as adults when we no longer lived in the same states, his high school varsity jacket, his favorite bandanna. Even after all this time, I can still smell his cologne and if I squeeze my eyes shut I can almost believe that you are here with me.
I miss Jimmy tonight.
I miss his safety, and his comfort...
He made me feel safe.
I need that tonight.
I need him.
It hurts so much.
It hurts...
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 10:08 PM UTC
What have I done?
what's happening to me?
Am I diseased with
the sickness that's infiltrating
the whole nation
A nation of pill popping zombies
that has addicted itself
to the loophole
of "a pill for happiness"
"a pill for desensitization"
"a pill for nerves"
"a pill for life"?
Why have we become a generation of junkies
whose drug is legal
inflicted on us
but degree holding powers
because "they know better"?
Is it normal for humans like me and you
who feel
who see
who taste
who hear
who smell
to be controlled by a singular button
to be confined to a manifesto
of the "latest trend"
Are we all hypnotized
into morphing into the
"perfect body"
"10 ways to get smarter"
"look like this, don't eat"
is it a blueprint set by a superpower
to transform us to identical robots
to make it easier to control us?
Are we slowly walking down the path
of being identical?
Are we losing the only essence of what makes us human?
Are removing our imperfections
and surgically implanting
"my lips should be like this"
"my thigh gap is a must"
"my brain should have a set of guidelines"
What has become of us?
I pity the fish that
flow with the current
I cry over the youth today
I mourn the artists
of yesteryears
I grieve with the widowers
of lost souls
There's still hope
or so I try to believe
and encourage
the dying breed
of
perfectionists
the humble ones
those whose kisses only
land on lips
and not
*****
Jan 25, 2016
Jan 25, 2016 at 6:57 AM UTC
And the snow fell in traces, revealing the wind hiding your cute cap as it pointed at me while your
eyes turned down.
"I have fallen in love with you."
I nod, knowing the thing to do. I raise your chin with a finger. Looking for connection your eyes
question as they search.
"I suppose it had to happen to one of us. I'm so sorry it was you."
You relax your face, turn your eyes. I take your hand and squeeze gently.
"I don't mean that I won't, or can't, I'm just not..."
I drop your hand and lift your chin with a finger once more. I want you to see my eyes telling you
what my lips are saying.
"Yet."
I see question still in your eyes, but mostly there is a calm now and if you only knew what is
inside of me...
the storm, the guilt... I would glady have the pain surgically removed from it's home in your heart
and permanenty tattoo'd on my own if it were possible.
I would throw myself under a bus to save you from my guilt, your pain. And some day, I hope and pray that I can...
and then...
I will lift your chin with a finger, kiss your lips softly, and tell you that from this moment to
the end of my life,
I love you too.
Aug 30, 2012
Aug 30, 2012 at 4:24 PM UTC
Dig deep poet;
You too reader;
Commandment One:
Both must obsess to possess,
Air the curvature of each line
shape with two hands, creasing and
no ceasing not till the air waves have filled
your flushed face with compressed comprehensions
You weep as you compose!
Good!
The well of tears where hid
the pool of emotions
in cavernous reservoirs
in the center of your
gravity,
needs a daily tapping,
a draining, a purification,
a quenching sweet and
raucous
where you dig, salted water will come
in the soiled, imperial but imperfect body/mind cappuccino,
there are swirls of treasures, sins and histrionics
that need discovery, expiation, expulsion,
when~then, object is surgically removed,
accept surging water will desoil,
and you can revel
in the revelation
of honest effort
Debate Commencement:
reveal, which, what and how
much, how much? how much?
(this reverbs)
what must be shared,
what must be reburied,
what must be refuted,
what must be reconstructed,
refurbished,
and what must be
demolished & deconstructed
ah, but as soul judge,
you hold yourself to a higher standard,
but in all of this but two constraints rule:
the quality of the recalled data,
the quantity of storage space delimitation
do not tease us with rivulets, nor bury
us under thunderous rushes of memories
spilling and cresting with a reek of abandon,
unless, you’re abandoning the memory en tout,
giving us your newly orphaned all innermost,
then, we must accept the product of your labor,
whether it be spoiled fruit or glorious
truth
Tuesday Apr 16
8:32AM
(the year of pollard, a/k/a 2024)
Apr 18, 2024
Apr 18, 2024 at 8:51 AM UTC
These double doors are my eyes that see into peoples' lives
the end of a neon bright hallway, surgically clean
a lone traveller drags her life by the handle
here at an obscure hour while others sleep
I wonder if it's necessary that she leave?
She seems so removed from the furrowed brow
ticking watch business-man beside her
Watch the time. A missed flight. The world unfamiliar.
The agitated jitter of a lady puzzles me,
why does she cry? what is she leaving behind?
where will she go?
the airport departure lounge
purgatory
for a travelling soul.
Jan 12, 2017
Jan 12, 2017 at 12:00 PM UTC