"thinnest" poems
The mirrior is my adversary.
My eyes variance, what others don't see.
To the word I'm adequate, crowning , spotless, and skilled
Every morning I wake up, get ready and cover my lips in red majestic mac
Red lipstick seems to illuminate confidence in the eyes of many,
but to me it is merely a pigmented shield of secrets.
Humorous isn't it?
Every unmarred life, seeks to relive its pigments
Fears, self-doubt, imperfection.
Mirror, mirror, mirror on the wall..
Who's the thinnest of them all...
The sound of battle rumbles
Conscious at wrists ends
Bawling in me
Fat,
Fat,
Fat,
Yours tricks are foul, you tauntful mind
Vision is blurred from reality,
Oh mind how you love to frolic
Your sheer joys leave me unpieced,
The snickering of my mirror,
Damages my frame.
Sorrowing fades my red lipstick
Pigments revealed,
Vulnerable,
Unworthy,
Marred to the bone
Quickly I learned that the mind is the enemy, filled with con
Staring in my mirror and all I see is fat.
Red lipstick always seems to fade by the end of the night.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 10:16 PM UTC
Proudly standing, rigid trees
Swaying gently in the breeze
We watch the shadows fall
Switches whip, the twigs are severed
Yet the mighty wood persevers
Awaiting its next call
Day becomes night; sunshine ends
Branches soon begin to bend
Raw bark peels in strips.
Autumn comes; the trees must fight
For each burning speck of light
Drudged from unwilling lips.
We watch them quiver in the breeze
The axe-man comes to fell the trees
The thinnest shall go first.
Year by year, the seasons change
We ignore the passing strange
Stiff bodies, in one hearse.
No one knows if it shall end
The loss of foe, alike with friend
Means sunlight for the living.
“What shall happen to them all?”
Still we watch the shadows fall
A gift that keeps on giving.
Sep 20, 2018
Sep 20, 2018 at 2:20 AM UTC
I've grown tired of being there for you
To hold at night
When your mind
Suppresses your faith.
There for you to conquer
When you feel powerless.
There for you to love
When you feel generous.
You've stitched me up
With the thinnest of strings
That threaten to unravel
At the slightest touch
And you're anything but gentle.
Your carelessness keeps you unaware
And your incognizance renders you useless.
I've grown tired of holding you up
While my knees shake and quiver.
And I've grown tired of pouring my heart out
Into your impermeable hands.
And I've grown tired
Of growing tired.
I think I'll rest now.
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 2:14 AM UTC
Jake the Snake
F J McCarthy on Jan 9, 2009
Jake was a snake, who felt incomplete.
For all of his friends all seemed to have feet.
Jake had no feet and it made him so sad,
As he watched his friends run with the feet they all had.
The raccoon and the squirrel had big furry tails,
But all that Jake had were leathery scales.
Jake watched the birds flying up in the sky.
How wonderful indeed to know how to fly.
Jake watched the fish as they swam in the lake.
Swimming was one thing that was easy for Jake.
Sometimes he would swim, then lie in the sands.
He’d think how he’d look with feet or with hands.
One day he was laying in the sun on the sand.
When he heard such a noise he could not understand.
I must see what is wrong , Jake said with a frown.
For something is troubling the whole Forest town.
He saw all of his friends by the rocks on the hill.
Then he saw mother Robin and she looked very ill.
He asked his friend Mr. Rabbit why Mother Robin was crying?
“Her baby fell out of the nest while she was out flying”.
“How is the baby, was he hurt by the fall.?”
“the baby is fine, but he’s trapped in this wall”.
Jake studied the wall,and looked at the crack.
“Has anyone tried to get baby bird back?”
The chipmunk and squirrel said the crack was to small.
And not even the mole could dig through that wall.
Mr. Field-mouse said “I could fit through the crack.
But the bottom is deep. How would I get back?”
Then Jake started thinking and in the blink of an eye.
“I’m the thinnest of all so I’m going to try.”
Jake asked Mr. Raccoon to lend him a hand.
They climbed up the wall and Jake told him his plan.
Mr. Raccoon held Jake’s tail and lowered Jake down the hole.
Just then baby bird let out a wail, for Jake had found his goal.
“Climb on my neck ” Jake said to the bird “and hold on really tight.”
Raccoon pulled them up as the whole forest watched this wonderful Marvelous sight.
First came up baby and afterwards Jake.
Then everyone cheered what a wonderful snake.
He’s saved baby bird and everyone knew it.
Of all the forest animals only he could do it.
The chipmunk and squirrel and even the mole.
Had not a hope to get down that hole.
Yet Jake with his body so long and so thin.
Saved baby bird from the fix he was in.
Jake felt so happy, he didn’t need feet.
Or a big furry tail to make him complete.
“I am very complete”cried Jake. “I’m so happy to be just a snake.”
Then baby bird said in a voice rather small.
“Don’t make that mistake, your not just a snake.
Your my friend and a hero, your Jake the Snake.
The very best snake of all!
May 17, 2010
May 17, 2010 at 7:10 PM UTC
The lonely notes flowing, falling, leap from
The thin and flitting fingers of the pianist,
The cup of melancholy, drained to the
dregs, bittersweet in that the love of happiness
and joy is tempered now, from longing for the
delicate and pensive feel, that comes from dipping into
the small and lonely pool of melancholy. Grief, a distant
specter, hovering in the fringe of chance, is nearer now,
melancholy, the doorway, slides open on silent hinges,
and admits the crushing tide. High, high, and faster still,
the pianist falls, slowly down and up again, grief, the storm,
disrupts the flow of sound and silence, and incorporates itself
into the threading melody, and so erodes the shores of joy and laughter,
the violet waves of gentle melancholy, laced with the thinnest threads of
blackest grief, sighing on, erasing so, youth and joy and light and life.
The melody falters, stills. The pianist alone, playing for an empty quiet,
rises, pauses, his fingers brushing, the cold steel of empty death, smooth beneath his touch. He grasps it, lifts it to face him, hands steady, gaze unfaltering. The man is still, pianists fingers gripping that instrument of death, and time passes, unheeded, ignored. In a motion refined to elegance by the passage of time and repetition, the pianist places that cold instrument of steel and intent gently, down upon the polished black. He straitens, slowly, and settling his black overcoat close around him, he turns, walks quietly to a closed and silent door, lifts the latch, and into a swirling night of snow and light, walks out, and closes the door behind him with a soft and quiet click. And all is silent.
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 8:38 PM UTC
Welcome, Samhain, the Festival Of The Dead
The year draws to a close and we look to the New Year ahead
With the veil at its thinnest, spirits freely roam
Its time once more to welcome your Ancestors home
Listen to their messages and take note of their advice
For they know things we cannot, except at a price
Raise a glass in their honour, then bid them farewell
Though they never really leave us, and this we know well
Tomorrow brings a new day, though the Dark Lord slumbers on
The New Year has begun, let your voice raise in song
Set out your hopes and desires, for it’s a time to look ahead
Ask the Blessings of the Ancients as on your path you tread
May the coming year be fruitful, may you prosper and grow
For you’re a walker of the Old Ways and this is what we know
We are children of the Ancients and so we are doubly blessed
For we are the chosen ones, each on our own Sacred Quest.
Blessed Be.
Samhain 2012
Nerwydd Dragonborne
Oct 28, 2012
Oct 28, 2012 at 7:56 AM UTC
It was in the prime
Of the sweet springtime
In the linnet's throat
Trembled the love note,
And the love-stirred air
Thrilled the blossoms there.
Little shadows danced,
Each a tiny elf
Happy in large light
And the thinnest self.
It was but a minute
In a far-off spring,
But each gentle thing,
Sweetly wooing linnet,
Soft thrilled hawthorn tree,
Happy shadowy elf,
With the thinnest self,
Live on still in me.
It was in the prime
Of the past springtime!
4.1k
Early.
I became the bottom of a shoe. Worthless, unwarranted, but there, needed.
Rubber and worn, worn away to the thinnest part, and still used.
Hands became words, and hugs became extinct, tears became invisible, the 'childhood' was erased.
Diabetes became my mother, known as rejection, and depression, her twin, known as rage.
Insulin and Fluoxetine became my equally demanding toddlers; I was feeding a family of 6 at the age of 8.
Later.
I watched my brother become a tortured child, in his sleep - the sound of his waterproof sheets would keep me awake, as i lay worried that his screams were words he could not utter at his age.
I watched my sister grow cold as she watch her house burning down around her, and crying tears at the loss of her childhood, her eyes burned at me.
As i looked in the mirror, when i cried, i would flush the toilet just to hear what it feels like to be washed away.
Disappeared down the drain.
I shrunk 4 inches in 4 years, one inch for each bottle of poison, that said 'drink me'.
I shrunk 4 inches in another 4 years for every word that said 'eat me'.
I shrunk so that I could not grow, up.
Later still.
I became broken, hard to 'fix'.
I became lost, without a cause.
I became the rebel, odd-one-out.
Family grew fractured, broken mirrors lay on all our floors, that we skirted around, lest we should bled it all out, what had happened.
Relationships broke, one after another, after, another, after, another, after....
Faces lost feeling, words became laws, feelings became problems, love became, raw and unused.
We dissipated, dissolved, into a million pieces of broken, into the world, held together by very thin words of 'family'
Now.
I am not a child anymore.
It's time to be heard.
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 7:01 PM UTC
I have this vintage dress
it's green
Silk
Gorgeous
every six months I try it on
every six months it doesn't fit
this time
it fit my waist
but I couldn't fit my arms into it
I tried so hard I ripped it
You must be thinking
Just buy a new dress
But to buy a new dress is to admit I am me
Not the skinny thing I long to be
To buy a new dress
Is admitting they were right
That he was right
That I am just going to be fat and alone forever
so now my focus
is on making my arms slim
arm fat exercises
googled and practiced
I'm going to fit into that dress
even if it kills me
you can bury me in it
I'll be the thinnest prettiest corpse you've ever seen
Nov 19, 2020
Nov 19, 2020 at 10:52 AM UTC
It was my birthday,
Sixty Five years turned to grey hair.
My love and I, and two old school
friends on a breezy Fall day.
Over Tea and a lovely frosted
three layer cake, we cajoled
and joked about our age,
all turned senior citizens that year.
And yet in truth, we all agreed,
none of us had ever been as happy as then.
The cake was sliced onto china plates,
Each piece served flat on it's cut side.
I noticed something then as we all
took our first bites.
Our forks all started at the thinnest corner,
on the bottom layer's side, gradually
excavating the two lower levels of fluffy
cake, saving the best for last, the top layer
where all the sweet frosting remained.
It occurred to me then that indeed life
is like a three layer cake, the last top layer
can indeed contain the sweetest bites.
That rather than gobbling life hurriedly whole
it should be savored more like patiently eating
and enjoying a three layer cake.
Sep 30, 2016
Sep 30, 2016 at 7:23 PM UTC
My skin is raw from the frequent scalding hot showers.
I want to scrub your fingerprints off my body.
I don’t want to smell of your deceivingly sweet nectar,
I don’t want to feel your lingering embrace any longer.
It is no use.
I know that if someone were to kiss my body,
They would taste the insincere plague of your tongue.
They would absorb your flimsy forevers,
And those tender kisses that were meant for only me.
It is no use.
I cannot forget.
It is impossible for me to peel off these imprints.
So instead I will cover them.
I want to tattoo the first time you kissed me all over my body.
I want to tattoo our beach trip on my thighs.
Our day at the amusement park on my feet.
That’s where the skin is thinnest.
Poke close to my fragile bones.
I want it to hurt as much as possible.
It needs to sting.
Jun 10, 2013
Jun 10, 2013 at 3:33 PM UTC
Who's that I hear?—It's me—Who?—Your heart
Hanging on by the thinnest thread
I lose all my strength, substance, and fluid
When I see you withdrawn this way all alone
Like a whipped cur sulking in the corner
Is it due to your mad hedonism?—
What's it to you?—I have to suffer for it—
Leave me alone—Why?—I'll think about it—
When will you do that?—When I've grown up—
I've nothing more to tell you—I'll survive without it—
What's your idea?—To be a good man—
You're thirty, for a mule that's a lifetime
You call that childhood?—No—Madness
Must have hold of you—By what, the halter?—
You don't know a thing—Yes I do—What?—Flies in milk
One's white, one's black, they're opposites—
That's all?—How can I say it better?
If that doesn't suit you I'll start over—
You're lost—Well I'll go down fighting—
I've nothing more to tell you—I'll survive without it—
I get the heartache, you the injury and pain
If you were just some poor crazy idiot
I'd be able to make excuses for you
You don't even care, all's one to you, foul or fair
Either your head's harder than a rock
Or you actually prefer misery to honor
Now what do you say to that?—
Once I'm dead I'll rise above it—
God, what comfort—What wise eloquence—
I've nothing more to tell you—I'll survive without it—
Why are you miserable?—Because of my miseries
When Saturn packed my satchel I think
He put in these troubles—That's mad
You're his lord and you talk like his slave
Look what Solomon wrote in his book
"A wise man" he says "has authority
Over the planets and their influence"—
I don't believe it, as they made me I'll be—
What are you saying?—Yes that's what I think—
I've nothing more to tell you—I'll survive without it—
Want to live?—God give me the strength—
It's necessary...—What is?—To feel remorse
Lots of reading—What kind?—Read for knowledge
Leave fools alone—I'll take your advice—
Or will you forget?—I've got it fixed in mind—
Now act before things go from bad to worse
I've nothing more to tell you—I'll survive without it.
3k
She’s lovely and petite,
Long flowing blonde hair,
The target of constant
Unwanted attention,
The **** of many crude jokes.
Though you can’t deny it
There is a kernel of truth
To every stereotype.
Shallow. Yes she is shallow.
Shallow as the flood waters
Three inches deep, powerful
Enough to sweep your car
Into a watery grave.
Superficial. Yes she is superficial.
Superficial as the thin layer
Of paint on a Renoir or Monet
Colors translucent and divine
Deep and lustrous
Transporting the imagination
To a world of romance and joy.
Clueless. Yes she is clueless.
Clueless as Sherlock Holmes
As he solves a mystery as dark
And complex as any labyrinth
With nary a clue, save for a trail
Of breadcrumbs and a scent of
Gardenia.
Airhead. Yes she is an airhead.
An airhead like the thinnest of air
Atop the mighty Himalayas where
Holy men choose to transcend the
Mundane and commune with
Spirits subtle and ethereal and ultimately
Unknowable.
The world sees her beauty and perhaps
Only her beauty, but they are blinded
By their shallowness, superficiality,
Cluelessness and a brain wallowing
In the clouds of misty ignorance.
Therein lies the joke.
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 11:48 PM UTC
**Show not their thinnest trace
let the words wear a happy face
how harsh may be the day’s living
hide the tears and broken wing!
Write me one sunshine poem
for my day dwindling in burning flame
needs your ink to see me through
by words beaming with lights of you!**
(Poem by Pradip Url : http://hellopoetry.com/poem/856652/write-me-one/)
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
*Some where far my friend pleads
Masked their pain from sight to heed
Faking a smile they'll cheer others
Encouraging and urging, through their tears
So my heart goes out to them
I can't solve their primal needs
But my little light within me
Shine out as a beacon's beam
Friend dearest I plead
Troubles may try you
But you are bigger than these
Don't forget the gift you hold
Your sweet words are someone's world
Your pain may blind your eyes
But we are standing nearby
Though far away we may seem
Together like Sunshine we shall beam
The light within shall chase the gloom
Rivers of Love together shall stream.*
(Towards you!)
Million Hugs!
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 1:54 AM UTC
~
remnants of
afore night’s grieving
before her on the table lie,
echoes of her sobbing
tears from last night's cry;
boxes of his cards,
handwritten letters,
a schoolboy’s pictures,
the wadded tissues
lie in random crumples,
for his silent laughter,
his fading whispers;
the one remaining lock
of hair she used to rumple;
the invisibly present
drying tearful brine
to table salt reduced;
the how remembered,
the when recalled,
the why that's yet
to be deduced.
each a remnant of
her softened weeping,
each a minder of
a mother of a sorrow,
a son-of-a-gun,
don’t-know-if
i’ll-make-it-to tomorrow,
reminders of
a yesternight’s cry;
the remnants of
afore night’s grieving
that on her table lie;
the six-years-ago,
still-can’t-believe-it,
never-ending-long...
goodbye.
~
post script.
*"her smile...
’tis the thinnest veil o'er a razor's edge,
it can ne’er conceal her bleeding heart..."
like the spiraling whirlpool
like leaves bowing to winter
it's palpable, predictable,
a seasonal forecast...
guess it's just
that time of year.*
***for Becky,
for Tonya,
for Andrea,
for all
grieving mothers
everywhere***
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 2:03 PM UTC
When you are afraid
It will masquerade
As smiles and nods
There is no escape
If fear is a lier
Yanking my thinnest wire
I am too trusting
Pouring gasoline on the fire
Now I'm shaking to the bone
My feet are made of stone
I'm surrounded by faces
Yet somehow I'm alone
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 11:50 PM UTC
no mean feat to reestablish,
palpitating those few seconds
when arms-in-motion wave frantic,
in desperation,
in fall-prevention mode,
comical and tragical,
a salty suite,
and the semi-familiar
taste of fall/failing
the freshest fear,
jalapeño hot on the tongue
some months ago,
the thinnest tightrope,
not an obstacle feared,
what I lacked for,
I could not say or now recall
the kindness of calm prevailed
now tension lines drawn,
under the feet,
around the neck,
high voltage wires that
no artist-survivor-breadwinner
can walk without trepidation
though you don't see my arms flailing,
there are faint marks on my soles,
parallelograms on my throat,
where fear has tested
the prowess of its equipment
my life retrospected,
have miracles
made and gained,
given and taken
nine lives used up so many times,
thought my allotment was
nine X nine to the power of nine,
stupid-stopped looking over my shoulder
the poems came so easy,
every phrase overheard was a
story explicated, and the insights slid
from throat to paper so fast
I did not count myself blessed,
just merely fortunate
well fortunes veer,
turn left bad right,
no direction home,
and what was easy,
now impossible
how the story final beds,
will keep you posted,
right now all I can predict
with 100% surety,
the fall is surely coming
for the summer-man
the sun cannot burn off
the fog that paralyzes his
ship to shore,
invisible the safety of port,
the horn sound more of a croak,
his voice, ashamed of failing,
has this man both
landlocked
and lost at sea
Aug 10, 2014
Aug 10, 2014 at 4:39 PM UTC
Fukushima Daiichi
You told us about the samurai ***** that day,
why the child-emperor drowned, how folklore affected the shore.
The thinnest male I’d ever seen pulled out a blunt and smoked.
Everyone else focused on you, Kasa Professor,
but I trailed over the class with his breath, kept
my eyes on the clipboard you passed around, “For
relief efforts.” You never spoke. Only explained.
As an English major, I knew you would be an exclamation mark.
As an English major in the History of the Samurai, I didn’t know you would be studying the I.R.S.
The swords were scarier than the men, yet their ghosts were on a ***** back.
I imagine my ghost as cigarette smoke flogging over an enamored classroom until I leave – only glancing back when the clipboard is returned.
We both knew it would be empty.
We both admitted it when we smelt the smoke.
The sinking ship already burned, and your dying wave is the confusion behind betrayal of a tradition to quench approaching starvation.
That final bite – the moment we are full – is where all history is lost. In the future, they will wonder where the ***** came from. But I won’t wonder about you.
You are not an exclamation mark. You were a question mark all along. But a mark, nonetheless.
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 2:10 AM UTC
in twenty one days, on the twenty first of may, you will be turning twenty one.
twenty one seemed so far away when you were growing up. i remember how you pictured twenty one year-old you, with wavy jet-black hair, thin bones and a radiant smile.
your hair is wavy right now, thanks to the rain that hasn't stopped falling; your bones are the thinnest they've ever been; and i think you've got a pretty radiant smile. so, three out of three, i guess.
and your life is better than what you dreamed.
you are surrounded by so much goodness.
your mondays, tuesdays, wednesdays, thursdays and fridays are filled with the laughter of fifteen children that steal your phone to take selfies and give you hugs that leave you breathless.
you have the friends you have always wanted. it took you a while to find them, but they're here now. they are your home.
you are doing beautiful things with your life. your words are in books, in journals and in people's hearts.
your life is more than life. it is light and fire and bravery and hope and a song.
and you are loved.
Apr 30, 2017
Apr 30, 2017 at 9:25 PM UTC
Why they call me the fearful poet! (The Razor Thin Difference)
*”but who am I to complain
the razor thin difference tween
blessings and curses so thin,
sometimes are they not, the same thing”*
Aug. 2018
~~~
this familiar line, well traversed, lives on the maps
sketched indented on your palms and brow,
at the edges of the crow’s nests, the eye’s keyboard witnesses,
recording every stroke
we tap in seeings, forming letters,
letters into lines, lines into verse,
as we alliterate, we walk unawares,
of the razor thin difference tween blessings and curse,
indiscernible until concluded, perhaps, not even then,
the stanza’s probable outcome,
always unsure, unknowing destiny’s decision
so we walk, tread, plumb, shoutout
“vive la difference,”
hoping the blessing messengers hear us first,
consummating our pleas on their favorable sight & side,
ever fearful, we do not shout loud enough,
do the blind hear,
need me, possess my sacrificial offerings,
my trepidations, burnt on the Temple’s altar
who will breathe their smoke and understand
their fearful origins?
so we-write, cajole that our every moment’s fear,
find the difference, that we don’t bleed from life’s razoring,
the thinner thinnest
needle threaded,
**and fear is the threat,
and fear is the thread,
that holds me together**
until the unraveling
requires me to write again,
the fearful poet
Mar 22, 2019
Mar 22, 2019 at 7:18 AM UTC
I haven't cried in three days. The napkin-white petals,
an Alyssum White blanket of snow,
piebalded by Slipper Orchids,
flows beneath my skin
as if it were the thinnest layer of water
under oil.
The feeling is the consistency of pungent Valerian,
the active ingredient the smell
of well-matured cheese,
cuts the tops off mountains
as it fills the bottoms of canyons
with asphalt.
It's given a brain back to this anencephaly.
Where there were stitched lips,
now only paper-heart kisses.
Jun 28, 2013
Jun 28, 2013 at 10:31 PM UTC
*Show not their thinnest trace
let the words wear a happy face
how harsh may be the day’s living
hide the tears and broken wing!
Write me one sunshine poem
for my day dwindling in burning flame
needs your ink to see me through
by words beaming with lights of you!*
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 12:52 PM UTC
Steps these beginning steeps unavoidable the stains of water and mud clearly from Noah’s flood
Seeds crushed into the cracks from earliest civilization fiery ones left black shadows on the walls
Faint touches of red as clear as rubies square holes like those used in crucifixion could it be his blood
Beyond earths plain the steps are blocks of diamond burnished by the glory that brushed over them
Spirals that know no parallel in earthen design etched loves burning flame scenes of two worlds intact
The rise and fall of battles waged evil repelled the cost by sacrifice unto death they tread these steps too
From parapets of stone their souls ever bold made their way and vulcanized the heights adding impact
God called legions they left behind the puny Himalayas uncharted stars they pass still the steps rise
Rend me wool to hang among celestial worlds the maidens can weave this from mountain doll sheep
It will drape this spiral in great detail masters will add the flaming achievements a banner of honor to all
Hard places of the wall softened by showing perilous dangers overcame through eyes so fond that weep
Not one single foot will be lifted on this way who knows not the way of sorrow and pain only by this gain
The winds would tear you loose as you climb to those terrible heights the hands are steadied by might
Keep up the pace ever mindful of the race yours is not a level one but a crested one of brightest morn
The long days are fading all are nearing following those who from their climb know joy of almost flight
Look down look up these tiers look no stronger than thinnest silk not so this is an unbreakable ancestral chain your forbears forged that leads to heaven your place is add to this living chain
Nov 28, 2013
Nov 28, 2013 at 11:40 AM UTC
My pens and pencils neatly arranged.
From largest to smallest.
From shortest to tallest.
My markers perfectly aligned.
ROYGBIV.
Red
Orange
Yellow
Green
Blue
Indigo
Violet
Rule to live by.
In order of the Rainbow.
Aesthetically pleasing.
Perfect.
My erasers meticulously stacked.
widest to thinnest.
My pencil case empty.
The teacher approaches the board.
I grab a number two pencil from the small end.
(get the weak out of the way)
I am ready to go.
Ready for action.
Prepared for anything and everything.
James comes up to my desk, grabs it with two hands and shakes it.
My masterpiece crashes to the ground.
I was not prepared for that.
He laughs.
I cry.
Whaddya have to do that for?
Jul 17, 2012
Jul 17, 2012 at 12:52 PM UTC
Trust is the rarest attribute
For the critical being with the narrow sky;
It's not situation demanded
for the thinnest biological attraction!
Love is the red dahlia
Blooms in the cool merry garden;
It's not the market rated vegetables
could be consumed daily on payment!
Poem 25
Book 'Beckoning Jade-Dreams' April 2007
Copyright Musharrat Mahjabeen
Mizan Publishers, Dhaka, Bangladesh
ISBN 984-8700-82-X
Aug 26, 2012
Aug 26, 2012 at 12:43 PM UTC