"technician" poems
When I grow up, I want to be a dentist
Astronaut or mage apprentice.
I want to be a dancer, an artist, a king.
I'm hoping to stand on a stage and sing.
When I grow up, I want to be a lawyer,
Or have lead role in the play Tom Sawyer.
I'll be a comedian, and make people laugh!
Or the CEO with a thousand staff.
I'll be a waitress, a teacher, a vet.
Snow White's eighth dwarf that no one has met!
I might be a chef, or a scientist.
How about architect or alchemist?
When I grow up, I'll be a song writer
Or maybe your friendly, next-door firefighter.
I'll be a technician or pharmacy worker,
A fashion designer or New York stock broker.
I'm gonna be everything, just you wait and see!
But I think in the end I'm just gonna be me.
May 22, 2012
May 22, 2012 at 10:53 AM UTC
To be a human being is to be riddled with thousands of imperfections.
Full of flaws; scrapes, spots, and scars cover broken and bruised skin.
But robots need not fear and fret about fixable, trivial defections.
Humans perpetually throw themselves at cold, apathetic, greedy clinicians
Only to be given terrible news and told there is no cure for a horrid death.
Meanwhile, robots bask in the glow of love from a passionate technician.
Humans can never agree when it comes to the dealings of the heart.
Always one-sided, they take turns ruthlessly destroying each other.
Robots, oblivious to the issues of any and all feeling, live freely.
Naive humans will work tirelessly, only to see nothing but certain failure,
But life has never once benefited those of us who are currently living.
So, humans crafted robots, to always succeed where they could not.
Sep 10, 2013
Sep 10, 2013 at 9:22 PM UTC
This will be no sad song,
I don’t want to overflow the rivers of tears
with a flood of my own.
We have all seen enough to fill oceans,
In dark corners I have seen the fates
sitting around and smile.
Some rivers overflow, and other scrap together every last
penny just to fight another day.
You die, I die, the president will die.
Our voices will not crawl along the edge of
a river rasping at the others to accept the
waters.
We will trumpet the tail of the glory of life from the after-party.
Chatting casually with a soldier wearing the wrong colors.
Is there one among us who does not bear the blood of countless souls?
The best champagne will not open to the highest bidder.
Nor will it be enjoyed by one, but by the prostiuite by the cop
by the technician, yourself and I. All of us enjoying each other’s stories,
none shall be left from the table, the best champagne all shall toast
with it.
An epic of a fight with a lion and the wind, of living through time
and the difficulties of never cutting the delicate surface no struggle
greater than either.
The old skeletons will find new life and I will dance freely with them
arm in arm, for a second or eternity.
We will stand proud together singing and dancing before the after party.
Then we shall toast to it all.
We shall toast the ever so careful historians,
did they really think they could fit, even the after party on
any number of pages?
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 10:37 PM UTC
Robot
Tincan man.
Input, circuit, overdrive.
Shadow of the future and past.
Movement hidden, you are not alive.
Programs still running fast.
What else can you do?
Wake up by morning not able to read the news.
Passing a breeze God gave to you.
Barely feeling the I love you's.
Your data has been set to self destruct.
Walking around all confused.
While your memory is set on stuck.
A heart not made to rust.
Hanging laundry out in the rain.
Lazy technician you can not trust.
Look what hes made out of you.
Ready to blow your ******
Compute- abort- system to self destroy.
Restoring the joy ****** out of you.
Input: input: information .
Wipe out the old, store in new.
Delete all files to recycle bin.
System reboot to life again.
With a new program that reads:
Feeling like a human once again.
(This robot is on)
.(self shut down!)
Apr 5, 2010
Apr 5, 2010 at 3:56 PM UTC
What was her name?
**** I can’t remember.
It was a boy’s name
made feminine
with a little “i” at the end
like maybe hearing it would
make you think of
some fat guy making pizzas
until you see it
spelled out or
until it becomes attached
to her lips and hair and
skin.
The “i” was not dotted
with a little heart,
(not her style at all) but
I should have a picture
in a box some where with more pictures.
I don’t.
I’ve got little notes,
tiny thoughts scribbled
on empty match book covers,
on the backs of
pretentious
business cards,
in the borders of
the mutilated,
amputated flesh
of decrepit
used up yellow pages,
ripped from a dead and
disjointed phone book.
I woke up from this dream
and groped for something
to scrawl on,
anything,
because it seemed significant
at 2:38 am.
In the desert somewhere,
(I’ve never even been)
you were
looking out the window
and the way the parched
dry light crackled
around you
you might have been an angel
or a sign
partially occluded by glass
advertising something
I could never afford
like family or god
when suddenly you were not
a silhouette,
not back lit,
but glowing.
You were so in love, with
who I don’t know, and you
went into free fall
back
onto the bed
pulled your knees up
to your chest and
kicked your legs giggling.
I was part dead, half ghost
and still happy that you
were so happy.
I said, “you’re pregnant?”
knowing the way you
know things without
really having a way
of knowing
in a dream.
You laughed again
grabbed your little dog up
in your arms,
(I’ve no idea where the pup
came from), and baby-whispered,
“You’re going to cut
the umbilical,
aren’t you?”
and I woke with
the image of that mongrel
chewing through
the cord.
I am
waiting at the pharmacy
and the…
technician,
is reading the
cryptic symbols
penned in
indiscernible Latin,
my prescription.
She is not beautiful
but very fuckable
And in my mind
I am constructing an
image of her ******
likening
the shape,
size, color, etc.,
to her mouth,
when I see
my own writing on
the back
through her precise
fingers.
The tech,
she is holding a
snapshot of her.
It might as well be
a picture of me
vomiting or
************ or
defecating.
This
is what I have left,
my version of a photo,
my dream,
scrawled on the back
of my medicine.
**** getting better.
I ****** it from her hand.
I leave fast. I will
never go back.
This is no chemical imbalance.
This is not my inheritance.
The loss and pain, sometimes,
that's the pill we need to swallow.
Oct 30, 2011
Oct 30, 2011 at 11:14 PM UTC
he steps forward to bless us with song
benediction’s serenade
binder clips and clothespins weaken wind
as sheet music tries to take flight
with each strum he was fighting it
emoting with sad lips and blue eyebrows
taking deep breaths let out with heavy sighs
but holding steady
singing and crying come from the same place
as he sang the sun sneaked out
shadows surrendered their stronghold
a moment of warmth shown upon our gathering
near the pine tree at our father’s grave
Terence’s ashes to be interred with dad
a musician, an artist, a writer of songs and poems
a technician, an electrician, a wood worker
his many gifts now only spoken of in past tense
a son to two, a brother to eight
an uncle to many
a father to one daughter
his passion relived in his writings and works
his essence reflected in her eyes
Sep 6, 2010
Sep 6, 2010 at 10:59 AM UTC
I’m thinking about the doctor's hands shaking as she
struggles to intubate a cat.
I’m thinking about the technician's hands squeezing the cat’s rib cage,
pulsing life with a delicate force; she is much more gentle than
practitioners are with humans—
hard and quick down with the palms; the ribs snapping,
the sternum sore.
Some time ago an 80-year-old woman on my unit was
opened up bedside for a cardiac procedure during a code.
After a week in ICU, she came back to us on the unit, was up and
walking and talking, and was discharged home within another week.
Meanwhile, the 60-year-old man was dead in the morgue
after a 45-minute code failed to resuscitate him.
The flip of the coin. The thin line. The blessing or the curse.
The absolute darkness of a body bag. The cold chill of absolute zero.
The fresco painted on the catacomb walls could either depict the
light of the sun or the multicolored lights that the
brain shoots off minutes before death.
The eleventh hour,
isn’t that what it’s called?
We don’t want to talk about body care, death care.
We have to, but it won’t register.
After a loss, after a trauma,
we are on autopilot.
I think of my mother,
six feet beneath frozen soil in
a pink padded casket and think:
I don’t want that.
I think of the prearranged plots my grandparents picked out
next to her in an above ground crypt and think:
I don’t want that.
Bacteria still causes decay after the embalming process.
Putrefied flesh. Bones visible. Muscles eaten. Tissues disintegrated.
We don’t talk about it.
We try to think the opposite. The positive vs the negative.
(But that’s not always possible or healthy.)
I’m thinking about hands inserting IVs, hands taking
blood pressures, hands documenting the code notes
on a clipboard in the back of the room.
I couldn’t do these things.
My hands tend to break what they touch.
The glass bowl in the pet store.
The clay project in art class.
The succulents, the basil, the orchid.
I’m good at things I don’t have to think about:
good at the autopilot, good at the autonomic,
good at trauma.
Nov 19, 2020
Nov 19, 2020 at 2:47 AM UTC
The boy said
he wanted to be a
cowboy, astronaut, or vampire hunter
and go on fearless missions
The old man said
you're only destined
to be a system analyst technician
The boy said
he wanted to change the world
end poverty, hunger and war
The old man said
the only change you'll make
is at a 7-11 store
The boy said
he wanted to travel
to see Australia, Japan and Spain
The old man said
the only thing you'll see in life
is monotonous pain
The boy said
must you be so negative
life has surprises even you don't know
The old man said
you're just basking
in youth's ignorant glow
So the boy finally said
**** you then, I'll be a writer
The old man said
I hope you like drunken all-nighters
The boy yelled
you're blinded by age
and your cynical ways
The old man stated
you too will drift in time
into apathetic malaise
So they boy walked away
to decide his future
and how to spend the rest of his days
The old man went to rest in his coffin
home of self defense mechanisms
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 3:45 AM UTC
It has never been my intension
nor was it ever a bone of contention
to alter or disrupt the social convention
but now is the time to pay close attention
to the decline of the human condition
Responsibility rescinded creating moral decomposition
accountability abandoned causing legal repercussion
right and wrong are muddled in a malicious juxtaposition
public opposition has festered into social imperfection
the omission of tradition by politician’s redefinition
HEED THIS ADMONITION OR ARDENT APPREHENSION
SAGACIOUS SUSPICION AND PERSISTANT PREVENTION
Of the decommission of the Physician, Pediatrician
the Technician, and the Mathematician
and give this acquisition to those with no ambition
even those under suspicion of sedition
or held in detention without fear of restitution
This is the deception of the devolution
of the middle classification
and the total destruction
of American personification
praise the Lord and pass the ammunition
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 11:42 AM UTC
*Serenity Echoing In Reverse,
Stagnant Resolutions Choking Her Universe,
Submerging Her Dreams Into A Sterilized Verse.
Sedated In Perpetual Twilights,
Mechanical Love & ****** Satellites,
She Whispers Essences Of Kryptonite.
Victim To A Perpetual Reaction,
She Transforms Into A Violet Abstraction,
Echoing Prismatic Deflections.
Technician To Her Own Serenades,
She Embraces Her Heartache Blockades,
Overdosing On Intoxicating Escapades.
Evoking Constellations Of His Ionized Memories,
She Overdoses On Comatose Reveries,
And Spectral Illusions Of Synthetic Stories.
Amplifications So Sacred & Profane,
Simulations Raving Into Codependent Stains,
Fragmentations Entranced In Her Bulletproof Frames.
Cherub Starlight & Everlasting Gaze,
Transitions Fusing Into Astral Maze,
The Essence Of Ecstasy Of His Sentiments Sways.*
- 04:27AM
Mar 11, 2017
Mar 11, 2017 at 5:57 PM UTC
All Blatant Critics Depicting Egotistic Fishing Gimmicks Hissing Ignorant Jipping Kissing Lying Missing ****** Obviously Picturing Realist Sickest Technician Utilizing Visions Witness Xenogenic Zeal
Adjectives Build Courage Determined Earning Faith Giving Hidden Illiterate Jilted Kindred Living Mission Nitwit Oblivion Picking Resentments Sickening Tension Ultimately Vigilance Xray in Zillion
Aug 1, 2015
Aug 1, 2015 at 12:35 PM UTC
the eTablets from Mt Sinai
those from on High
they weren’t working
so Current Moses held them high
and he said:
*“Anybody knows how to
work these things?
I was never good at Technology,
much less these new eTablets!
Nobody makes them work -
I'll smash them to smithereens!”*
The Technician whom
they called to service
was a ****** migrant, a heathen
a pacifist
and a non-believer at that
And he examined the tablets
and he declared his prognosis:
*“I can see it’s lost its power.
I see too it’s made in China –
I’m afraid it doesn’t come
with a warranty either.
Next time, for software and hardware
try Mongolia, or get your stuff all from India”*
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 8:27 AM UTC
King Kenny,
Like God on Earth upon mat...
Rising sun in his eyes for rainless morning,
And superkick party, catered and cleaned.
Technician of great finesse,
Not living off technicality,
We pay thanks to our savior
For handing out the wrath.
Apr 9, 2016
Apr 9, 2016 at 11:37 PM UTC
The television again assaults my senses.
Yet all this technology forms a comfortable distance.
There is no need to do the division,
the world was polled, and here's your decision.
I feel I need some personal attention,
But all I get is some kind of technician.
Jan 7, 2013
Jan 7, 2013 at 3:20 PM UTC
Spiritual cleaning requires some personal flinging
That broom dances above my head
clearing out old cob webs!
OWHH OWHH OWHH
If your a born technician you put your hands to the sky
I do and I brush the **** that clouds my eyes!
As above is so below so sweep around me high and low
I do broom kung foolery
A spiritual cleansing and very true to me
CHA
and 2 songs later
That 7 step outer star spinning round
Dizzy..happy..a hurricane a of beautiful chaos here spins
The first to FILE WINS
...sweep the room clean
I mean my life..I want it clean
I am about to sweep you out
better stand firm on your feet
Cause right now I will chop you up like a piece of meat
and not ******* chicken in a can
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 3:23 PM 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
This one is for the doctor who called me “delicate”
I think I missed that word in the thick textbooks about disease I’ve seen
This is for the lab technician who lost not one but two vials of my blood
Because I really wanted to help that new nurse figure out veins again.
This is for the stupid slogans on the walls
A fichus with the word peace under it, I'm cured.
This is for the geriatric room with the low table they always put me in
An arthritis patient means elderly woman, right?
This is for the negative tests and endless questionnaires about my health
Checking how often, how severe, and how much I care.
This is for the four empty orange prescription bottles sitting neatly on my desk
Red pills, and yellow pills, and white ones, oh my!
This is for the loud groan of pain in the morning I make before I even wake
Because why shouldn’t my roommate wake up when I do?
This is for the symphony of my cracking joints and creaking bones
Because violently trembling when you walk up stairs is so very ****
This is for the manic googling at 4 AM,
Does this symptom mean anything? Is it just a quirk or side affect?
This is for WebMd, bless their hearts,
Who think that sniffles mean polyps and headaches mean cancer.
This is for the flights upon flights of stairs I climb each day,
Cats are considered **** is panting like a dog?
This is for the cramping and shaking hands everyday
Because as a writer and artist I never even use them right?
This is for my mother
Who’s waited patiently with me through every doctor’s visit
This is for my best friend Lauren
Who missed three classes to take me to a clinic
This is for my nephew
Who is too big for me to pick up without grimacing now
This is for the wine I drank
And the bedroom basement I climb out of
And the backpack I heave around
And the school lunches I leave in toilets
It’s for the nights I have to stay in and the ones where I make myself leave
Because the only thing tough enough to stop me
Is me.
And I’ll tip my hat to myself for putting up such a good challenge.
It’ll just make it even more satisfying when I knock it the **** down.
Feb 7, 2013
Feb 7, 2013 at 4:48 PM UTC
He uses a precision scalpel to set aside the skin and bone
(which had been in the way)
so that I can have the Look
I mean, it's never good enough but at least it's closer
Closer
The surgical technician sews me up
black wire sutures across my left side,
the surrounding skin all red with irritation.
"Can I keep it?" I ask of the removed bone
Of course, he does say,
It is yours
Anyway
Ten procedures in one day
I look like a new kind of human
a so-called 'superhuman'
modernistic Captain America maybe.
Surgery can cover up most anything they say
Except my giant bony dolphin hands
They will forever identify me...
Mar 24, 2012
Mar 24, 2012 at 8:54 PM UTC
I’ve been through this before.
First with that last *****
Now it’s just become my personal lore.
How many times do you need to dump me just to understand,
That the reason you keep coming back is because of the grassland.
It seems greener over there,
But mine has flowers that you can’t find elsewhere.
You say that when you dump me, that it’s just a reaction.
I’m supposed to stay and show my compassion.
I admit that I hurt you from the start,
But the back and forth has me bleeding from my heart.
If life’s a play then I guess the ******* is my part.
You want to be at peace,
While also saying I’m your missing piece.
Maybe all it takes is some elbow grease.
We lost the box to the puzzle,
And sometimes it feels like I have to wear a muzzle.
I say dumb **** while at the same time being articulate.
I’m a conundrum.
****** in the head because of where I’ve come from.
I love you and you say you love me too.
When in this lifetime will I believe that it’s true?
I don’t want this to end,
You’re my best friend.
We always make amends, but that’s the issue.
Amending too many times means there were too many crimes.
I’m a perpetrator in need of a tissue.
Tears on my keyboard,
Type out thoughts that can’t be ignored.
I want to start over so your vision of me can be restored.
But I tried too hard and there’s smoke coming from the motherboard.
I need a technician.
Or perhaps a magician.
To pull a thousandth chance with you out of a hat,
So I can prove to you you’re not a doormat.
Every time we chit-chat I fall flat.
And in every relationship, this is where I end up at.
Why’s it always like that?
Making mistakes, being inconsistent.
No wonder you’ve grown to be so distant.
But I think it’s mutual that we acknowledge our love’s existence.
I need assistance to stop my persistence.
You want me out of your life at 10 am,
But also want to get pancakes at 9 pm.
You’re right that I’m not responsible.
But I feel that problem is resolvable.
I think you’re phenomenal.
The drive you have is exceptional,
When you put your mind to it you’re unstoppable.
I guess what I’m trying to say is,
I’m sorry that the nightmares of what I’ve done keep you nocturnal,
But ending this relationship is only optional.
It’s up to you to decide if it’s optimal.
Sep 22, 2021
Sep 22, 2021 at 7:54 PM UTC
Word technician with no inhibition
a new edition of total demolition
apparition of a bad intention
did i mention i'm the definition?
turning tradition into transition
with ammunition from bad religion
my decision to take the expedition
extradiction of a mission affliction
proposition with a new condition
no submission from competition
disposition of a mad magician
a tactician with no intermission
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 1:40 PM UTC
Some of us never see beyond the veil.
Some of us live constricted
And act rough and unafflicted
Like a crocodile caught in the choke of a boa constrictor
Dying
Everyday
We wish to live.
Some of us never feel beyond our television set
And when the bet is on for the black stallion
We watch with eyes gone wide
And wide
And wider still
Until
The race is won.
It's done!
The illusion was fun,
But it wasn't your win.
It was symbolic and yes
Yes
Yes,
You took sides.
You thought you could know who was wrong,
Who could ride...
But that tide was a movement far distant from you.
And you laughed
And you cried.
You were born
And you died.
In your blank, black worn stare
You decided to confide
In the screen.
A box, a machine
Representing a reality you ceased to believe
Could exist.
Some of us never manage to truly face a challenge
Because life exists freely upon great silver platters,
And the whole great wide world waits like a buffet
Free of line-ups
So all food and thought is conveyed
To your brain
Like old, stale bread.
Somethings not right;
Beyond thought, left unsaid.
And through all doors of suffering,
You kick and you scream!
"This is not how they said it would be on TV!"
So despite all the knowledge,
And your free ******* college
University never taught you to truly acknowledge
The great Godly cosmos
Or the holy osmosis of truth and contraption of stars spread like roses
In minds
Afflicted by
The human condition.
We're all on a mission.
Some of us say there's a great old technician
Who paid our tuition
To the great school of life
Yet admission
was granted
to few.
Contradiction, I find to be honest contrast
Like AdBusters right next to old capitalist class
Or a pet on the cheek to a slap on the ***
Now the bell rings;
Nothing good ever lasts
But the point all along has been to learn how to dance
To the music.
Feb 8, 2012
Feb 8, 2012 at 2:09 AM UTC
A room full of AI
A room full of machines
Whirring, clicking- conversing, it seems
Fan motors argue, debates and simple means
Cogs meshed together, the technician, he beams.
Jul 2, 2011
Jul 2, 2011 at 8:21 PM UTC
When I was very young, I started to develop an eating disorder.
I was a toddler. My parent's first child and I went mental when they tried to serve me vegetables.
I would discard them in the radiator and sooner than later a technician was called.
And my parent's were appalled when they realized the reason was that their child refused to eat what she was served.
This continued into early childhood.
I lived with my grandmother who I've called Grandy forever.
She made the same three dishes every week. Macaroni Pie, Rice, or Potatoes.
On the odd occasion, I would get pizza or pasta.
Macaroni and Cheese, or something else that pleased my taste buds.
I quickly tired of this pattern and a disgust for these meals arose.
I could no longer eat them without wanting to *****
When I was no older that four years old, my parents tried to feed me a few days or a week old alphageti. That was the first time I ever gaged on a meal.
But those moments came more often than I would like as I grew.
I filled up on chocolates and candy, slices of pepperoni so I wouldn't have to eat the **** I din't like.
This distaste of my Grandy's food turned into a fear of food itself.
I couldn't be experimental, I hated having to eat.
I wished I could just take a pill and defeat the hunger that haunted me.
For years I became anorexic. And not because I wanted too, but because for all that time food was my enemy.
When I was in daycare, I hated sweets of any kind and had never had a sip of soda. But once night when my parents were late to pick me up.
All Dee had was marshmellows and seven up.
I hated the sweet treats that would burn my teeth and the soda that would burn my tongue.
But I was young and no one cared.
I didn't allow myself to eat for several years until I ended up falling in love with a girl who cares.
But some nights when I am drunk and to lazy too cook,
I find myself in the kitchen eating an uncooked hot dog,
and I remember where it all came from.
I still hate sweets and soda to this day.
But at least now,
I eat.
Mar 5, 2019
Mar 5, 2019 at 11:14 PM UTC
I feel like I'm being shoved into all these little boxes, labeled "Teacher", "Doctor", "Psychologists", "Biologist", and "Computer Technician". But none of these fit me.
I am not cube shaped, no one is perfectly boxed. I feel like I'm drowning in these labels and I don't know how to swim yet. I'm only 17 and have no idea what I am doing tomorrow, let alone in the next three years.
Fearing something that hasn't happened yet, fearing a future that is so far but so close away, I find myself and many of my peers cram themselves into boxes.
Half of them don't want to be here either.
Growing up is romanticized into parties and friends and knowing exactly what you'll be doing tomorrow, in three years, in six, in eleven, in twenty. But I've watched my mother shake her head and cry, "I'm lost." I've watched her call her mother at two in the morning, lamenting, with tears falling on her breast. "I'm lost", she whispers.
That doesn't scream "having your **** together". She is 45 and she screams "I am human so help me".
I'm not sure what career I will choose, but I know what I want to be. I want to be Mother, I want to be Free. I want to be Cherished, and Good Natured. Auntie, Brave, Thoughtful, and Wife.
I want to be Happy.
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 4:30 AM UTC
A touch of death,
Specimen in the back shed,
Joggers on the streets.
Seizures of cursed withering adolescents who ate the sweet pomegranate
of lust and ***********
And never came home.
Sirens at the sybaritic streamlet,
Swashbuckling seventeens and greed of fanciful adventure.
The young rebellious nature
of hopes and aspirations.
The harvester, the hunchbacked prince, the harrowing keeper of time,
Creeps like the night,
Like the stains of black ink that scurry and watch,
Who spy for the other-mother.
The exquisite expectation of an oncoming assassination,
Unsuccessful, beaten, and purged.
Burried in the soft silence of the hushing leaves,
In the swaying trees,
As the fatuous breeze follows aimlessly,
At the ankles of its maker.
The exhaustion of the tangerine technician,
At his mercury writing desk,
Pondering if he begs for the inspiration of the raven, to the very extent it drives him mad,
What is the difference?
Assembly lines, employing those who they despise.
The last humans left scoar the barren dust storm that was once the azure bliss of the promised land.
Do not ask the doctor for answers,
Simply receive his remedy and swallow.
This is how it has always been.
Dec 19, 2020
Dec 19, 2020 at 6:25 AM UTC