"trope" poems
3-2-2017 (unknown date of origin)
Something's wrong... you don't belong here.
I said, looking down at the pineapple on my pizza.
I said, looking down at the ketchup on my macaroni.
I said, looking down at the cream of mushroom soup on my meatloaf.
He said, looking down at me and my boyfriend, holding hands in public.
Like I'm a creep. I'm a ******
What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here.
You see there's these things that we learn at the dinner table.
When we're kids we have certain items served to us on our plates.
Whatever doesn't end up there, isn't a part of the discussion.
After all, they say if you don't have a seat at the table, you are likely to be on the menu.
So, when ****** orientation and gender identity aren't seated at the table of childhood, they get served for the first time in unexpected places.
Like an avante garde celebrity chef's designer meal, prepared for critiques by the food bloggers.
They get served in college classroom debates or in dorm rooms with freshman roommates.
They're on the menu in in some movies but served with a side of stereotypes and silly trope toppings.
They get grinded into glitter dust sprinkled on the annual PRIDE Parades like an overly salty seasoning mix.
They're on the menu in workplace diversity trainings, but too little too late - they get lost in the marginalized buffet.
They get served at the oppression Olympics, or actually at the Olympics unwillingly by a journalist who only pretends to eat a well-balanced diet, but really has LGBT food allergies, if you know what I mean.
In reality, these should be staple dishes consumed by commoners, consumed by you and me, consumed by children along with their healthy daily dose of broccoli and cauliflower, squash and zucchini, even eggplant.
They should be in every ******* cookbook with pictures and all different kinds of recipes!
I want every child to have gay on their dinner plate, lesbian lunch, gender nonconforming on the brunch menu, and bisexual breakfast.
And everything in between in the queer spectrum served during snack breaks.
I want every child to look down at their plate and see pineapple pizza and say, gee that looks great!
I love all of the pizza toppings, no matter whether gay or nay.
... except for anchovies, of course.
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 4:28 AM UTC
From the BBC today,
Excerpt
Why does Taylor Swift write so many one-note melodies?
"It's easy to get distracted by her celebrity, but Taylor Swift is a once-in-a-generation songwriter. From the very beginning, she's displayed a knack for melody and storytelling that most artists never master.
Take, for example, her first US number one, OUR SONG
Written for a high school talent show, it's a fairly typical tale of teenage romance until the final lines: "I grabbed a pen / And an old napkin / And I wrote down our song."
That's smart, self-assured songwriting for someone who wasn't old enough to vote. Notably, the lyrics insert the musician directly into the narrative - something she developed into a tried and tested trope.
But Our Song also establishes another of Taylor's trademarks: The one-note melody.
Excerpt
Repetitive melodies that centre around a single note are part of that appeal. They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech.
"They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech."
"They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech."
"They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech."
Rebuttal
Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics. They can relate to your song but if they cannot sing it themselves putting themselves in the 'first-person perspective narrative' they cannot feel as-if they have BECOME the artist and are living that moment as they remember it. Taylor Swift sings about teenage love and angst something EVERYONE ON EARTH understands.
ALL POETRY BEGAN AS RHYME IN SONG.
Cadences are singing statements that confer a discipline and unity.
Song acts as a catharsis. The artist shares their pain in a way that is universally understood. If you want to sell a rock, literally a pebble, you will not sell it if it doesn't look like a rock. If it doesn't do what rocks do. If it is not what people remember a rock to be like. Nor will it sell if it is just like every other rock they have ever seen. It cannot convey an emotion unless it elicits emotion.
One cannot even begin to feel emotional if one cannot remember easily the past and that includes lyrics one has heard that evoked said emotional state.
It is horrifying to see HOW BADLY EVERYONE INSISTS that rhyme be obliterated in exchange for an intellectual or individual perspective NOT SHARED BY THE MAJORITY OF PEOPLE.
If you want to sell and make money you better start thinking about the 99% of people who are not geniuses.
If your sole goal in life is to attract a genius to give you a great job because of how, "smart," they perceive you to be then fine.
You are not an artist.
You are an employee.
"Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics."
"Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics."
"Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics."
Thrice Times Great. ⁻ᴴᵉʳᵐᵉˢ
BECOME
EVERYONE ON EARTH
ALL POETRY BEGAN AS RHYME IN SONG
HOW BADLY EVERYONE INSISTS
NOT SHARED BY THE MAJORITY OF PEOPLE
HOW BAD
artist?
or employee?
Feb 15, 2018
Feb 15, 2018 at 10:29 AM UTC
Genderqueer contesting histories climate apocalypse social activist make a tax-deductible donation today starting at the advocate level inextricably to reexamine his legacy linked black gender-ambiguous social and political struggles behavioral economics Afro-futurist vision of decolonize this text white boy spear-heading queerphobic witch-hunt singular surrealities queer Shabbat dinners dialogue this trope diversity Rawlsian diagnosis basic earth cooperative existential Marxism for our times starting at the advocate level inextricably to reexamine his legacy linked black gender-ambiguous social and political struggles behavioral economics Afro-futurist vision of decolonize this text white boy spear-heading queerphobic witch-hunt singular surrealities queer Shabbat dinners dialogue this trope diversity
BAM! BOOM! THUD! SNAP! BURN! FACT! S.T.E.M.! CRUSH! SNORT! SCHOOLED! WHAM! OWNED! BOOM! THUD! SNAP! BURN! FACT! S.T.E.M.! CRUSH! SNORT! SCHOOLED! WHAM! OWNED! BAM! THUD! SNAP! BURN! FACT! S.T.E.M.! CRUSH! SNORT! SCHOOLED! WHAM! OWNED! BOOM! THUD! SNAP! BURN! FACT! S.T.E.M.! CRUSH! SNORT! SCHOOLED! WHAM! OWNED! BAM! BOOM! THUD! SNAP! BURN! FACT! S.T.E.M.! CRUSH! SNORT! SCHOOLED! WHAM! OWNED! BOOM! THUD! SNAP! BURN! FACT! S.T.E.M.! CRUSH! SNORT! SCHOOLED! WHAM! OWNED! BAM! THUD! SNAP! BURN! FACT! S.T.E.M.! CRUSH! SNORT! SCHOOLED! WHAM! OWNED! BOOM! THUD! SNAP! BURN! FACT! S.T.E.M.! CRUSH! SNORT! SCHOOLED! WHAM! OWNED! BAM! BOOM! THUD!
Feb 18, 2019
Feb 18, 2019 at 4:53 PM UTC
I was told to write down my identity
a neat sheet of paper
that would briefly explain me
I pondered a while
attempting to identify
a few key moments of my history
Do I tell of the immigrant?
or the miracle child?
do I speak of depression
and how I so rarely smiled?
Should I tell you about the language
I so rarely spoke
for fear of fitting a stereotype:
the terrorist trope.
Shall I explain hypomania?
and how I couldn't sleep?
and how the monsters I dreamt of
into my conscious peripheral would creep?
How I couldn't seek help
until I was almost twenty-one
because in my parents' culture
mental illness doesn't exist.
My parents were Palestenian refugees in Lebanon- but that's their story not mine, right? They were married for seventeen years before they had me. They tried to have children almost from day one- but that's their story not mine, right?
Finally they immigrated to Canada for a million procedures that would give them a baby. After six years of treatment, a random obscure procedure worked and I was a bun in the oven- but that's their story not mine, right?
nine months later I was born.
I was a miracle baby and the "light of their life." so they named me light: "Noor."
I was born at North York General with a priviledge my parents never dared dream: Canadian. Safe. Not a refugee. They had someplace that they'd send me for university.
With our new, safe nationality
at forty days old
I was taken to the UAE
I was raised on Western books
and Western TV
raised with ideas that just didn't fit
in a muslim family
(at least my family is liberal, unlike the UAE)
I haven't scratched the surface of who I am
and depending on the pieces I tell
I haven't scratched the surface of all that I could be
what I choose to write is how you will read me.
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 3:39 PM UTC
I feel so ******* dumb whenever I'm around you
You somehow manage to bring me to my knees, and I ******* hate it
You've got me whipped and I don't even get the benefits that should come with it
How the **** do you have me so conveniently wrapped around your little finger?
You ******* wreck me and I don't know how to stop it
You make my heart race and my cheeks flush (what a ******* joke)
This is supposed to only happen in the movies
So why the **** do you have to make things so complicated?
I feel like a stupid-ass lovesick idiot
I feel like I've been tricked
So what the **** is wrong with me? How have you managed to invade my head?
Tell me, what is your method to this madness? How have you driven me over the edge?
I feel nothing but rage when I think about what you do to me
Butterflies and moths caged in my stomach (what a stupid trope)
Clammy hands and dry lips, how the hell did this happen so fast?
You're the level-headed one, saying I can't be in love after a month
Why does all of my sanity fly out the window whenever you're around?
I feel like a ******* lovesick idiot
I hate how vulnerable you make me, you knock me to my knees
I'm not supposed to fall this fast
I'm not supposed to feel
I hate how you make me weak, soften my edges and bring me from the ashes entirely anew
Even more, though, I hate how I shrivel when you go away
Like the Grinch, my heart becomes three sizes too small when you go away
And I don't know how to stop the hate and pain
You're the best and worst that ever happened to this ******* lovesick idiot
I hate it, but you know it's true
You bring out the best and worst in me
You know how to push my buttons and turn me into something new
Why did I have to be such a fool?
In the end I suppose it wasn't me, it was you
You and your ******* perfect eyes and smile and that great *** of yours
It's all your fault for making me into a lovesick idiot
When the only thing I wanted (here's a hint, it's you)
Was the love you couldn't give me, the things you couldn't do.
Oct 16, 2018
Oct 16, 2018 at 9:31 PM UTC
I could be your lover or nimble fingered arithmetician,
serve the rice cold and the soup too hot,
make the trope I’ve made my life into a
means to ruin others.
I could be his other. All similar shouldered
as we are, pressing up against each other,
because soft bodies and soft hearts alike
call to one another.
I’m a gardener and you don’t see me
pressing my thumb to walls, convincing
ivy to climb to me over toward the other
side. I am stone and soil.
I’m smiling too much at the cashier when
she makes a joke and it never occurs to me
that my heart should be something to
apologize for.
You can’t make me, take from me,
or chip away at whatever it is
you think I am: lameness and uselessness,
inability to click back onto the track.
I could be deserted. I could be
dessert, the strays can lap up my body
and I’ll lay here where you tossed me
until I disappear.
I could have been something other
than this settlement of lies and circles,
leech demanding its nectar, mottled
voice waiting waiting waiting.
I am joy and indecipherable name,
sticky on your tongue. I’m kept.
One day you will search for me
to no avail.
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 10:24 PM UTC
I am tired of being an empty shell that you find beautiful & eccentric.
I am tired of being a trope made by authors and directors.
I am like war and peace and not like a tissue paper you made me out to be.
I am tired of being your favourite shade of red.
I am tired of being a brush stroke, when I am the entire painting.
I am tired of being pinned to a pedestal.
I am tired of my existence and my name being relative.
I am tired of being a zany sidekick to the male protagonist in the movie that is my life.
I am tired of you thinking that I need help stilling the edges of my narrative, who longs for a tether or a buoy to keep her from flying off or sinking down.
I am tired of being told – unconventional, different and other such synonyms by boys, that I am not like other girls as if they are a disease and I am magic.
I am tired to be known as someone with wacky quirks and idiosyncrasies.
I am tired of being Alaska Young.
I am tired of being Sam from The Perks of Being a Wallflower.
I am tired of being Tiffany from The Silver Linings Playbook.
I am tired of being tagged as Sam from Garden State.
Or even Marla Singer from Fight Club.
Or even an Amelie or Penny from Almost Famous.
And every Zooey Deschanel character.
I am a Clementine.
I’m a Sylvia Plath.
I’m a Dorothy Parker.
A Maya and a Margaret.
You see, I am well versed
in death and in silence.
I have my interests and I am like all of the above. But I am “like” them. I am not them.
I am me.
I am scared now.
Scared of boys claiming to be wrapped in barbed wire
but is really a caged petting animal in the zoo.
I am tired of boys who thinks romance is a Hemingway novel.
But, most importantly I am tired.
Tired of men not falling in love with me
but instead falling in love with the idea of me.
Nomoreokaythankyouplease.
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 3:22 AM UTC
Here I am, the manic pixie dream girl of, you guessed it; your dreams. I am here to ask you questions about your boring, probably something generic, major like business or management or maybe even some type of art form that no one really knew existed until you decided to bring it to your high school and of course the liberal arts school of your dreams has that EXACT program and all the means to support it financially. Of course, I will always ask about you. How your day is, how your plain black coffee is, what you thought of that one song that played as we were walking into the train after a date that both of us probably went on looking to get laid. But in the end, it will always be you. I will continue to fluff your deflated ego that was caused as such by some hollywood trope from your hometown like a cheerleader or maybe even someone who was on AV Club with you, who really knows, because I sure as hell don’t care to do any research into it. Now, part of being your early to mid-twenties manic pixie dream girl, it is essential for us to bond over old broken up bands that neither one of us were actually alive to see perform yet that dream of ours is still so prevalent as we make conversations over whiskey you assume I like because of it’s pretentious name that you will describe as “harsh yet creamy, dry but sweet” and on bad nights I will tell you that it tastes like the back of my father’s hand and you will laugh at a joke I did not intend to tell but then again I will have to ask you what is so funny. I will always be the one asking you about a life I am so willing to leave without even meeting your family. Being a manic pixie dream girl is all fun and games until I am the one always doing the starting of conversations, until I am the one sending you Spotify playlists that I know you will never listen to, until I am the one showing up unannounced. My name will roll off your tongue like smoke from your American Spirits, but only in the beginning, because by the end; you will cough when I finally tell you to stop calling me.
Aug 23, 2017
Aug 23, 2017 at 5:14 PM UTC
I sit here and ponder
As a trailblazer,
No
A pioneer,
No
A lazy explorer,
Whatever that means, but sure
On a relatably aspect,
I'm really just a simple court jester
A third wheel passenger
A classic trope
The main guy, brushed off by those who used to claim to care
Ignored like a wondering stranger
Both lead actor and expendable,
None playable character
A name not worth trying to remember
Never a shred of credit offered either
An already undesirable role turned disaster picture
Struggling to hold it together
Both as a lover and a fighter,
Man and provider
An overdramatic graphic designer,
Not a producer
Also fighting nature as a stand alone reality denier
Because "it's not fair"
...or whatever
A true, true believer
...in what though?
I'm still not sure,
Go figure
©2024
Mar 17, 2024
Mar 17, 2024 at 2:20 PM UTC
It's crazy how long we've had this tube
I've said to myself "when it's finished, I'll move"
We often go through three, four a year
But this tube is prolonging our time, my dear
Each brush of this paste is how I cope
A twice daily ritual, this tube is my trope
I predict enough squeezes to last us through March
And after one last squeeze
We'll inevitably depart
....
When I moved back home
The tube here was new
I think about you twice a day;
I'll always love you
Feb 14, 2022
Feb 14, 2022 at 11:57 PM UTC
all I want is a stupid little romance story
perhaps an enemies to lovers
or a she fell first but he fell harder trope
I don't care which type it is
I wish I could live in a little 2000s romantic comedy
one where the guy gets the girl at the end of the movie
but I'm not
I'm not living in a romantic comedy
and I have not yet achieved a stupid little romance story
all the guys I've loved before
have left me heartbroken
all I want is a Noah to my Allie
a Jack to my Rose
a Romeo to my Juliet
that's all I want
is all I want too much to ask
Sep 8, 2025
Sep 8, 2025 at 10:47 PM UTC
The fog crept in on giant monster claws,
Surely no itty-bitty feline foots, I pray:
“Feets don’t fail me now,”
A line that will live in infamy,
Way back in a vaudeville when,
A minstrel Chitlin Circuit then,
Was an actor known as the
"Laziest man in the world,"
A character designed to stick to a
Collective white consciousness,
Stick like Tar-Baby, that negative
Image of African-American men--
I speak of The Brothers--
Who for over a century, have been
Struggling to live down a pernicious,
Most persistently demeaning,
Hollywood trope.
Tribute is due to the black actor born:
Lincoln Theodore Monroe Andrew Perry.
Oh, Mr. Perry, & yes, you were the
First black actor to receive
Screen credit in a film.
Well, I guess that puts you right up there,
With Jackie Robinson & Sidney Poitier,
Carver or Tubman, or any of those
Countless northern abolitionists--
With no personal stake in slavery,
Or emancipation, but fervent nonetheless--
Color-barrier breakers &
Household saints a-coming &
A-marching in, in that number . . .
You paid a big price, Mr. Perry:
The indignity & débauche,
By abject surrender to the Boss Man,
Tribute, recognition is due for
Feats of humility & self-abasement,
Entailing total superhuman surrender,
Capitulation to the dismal, prevailing
State of American race relations at the time.
Stepin Fetchit: a name & a persona,
Not just painfully racist, but
Downright subversive.
Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 1:45 AM UTC
I wouldn't call death a real comedian, more of a two bit clown. He rehearses the same punchline at your doorstep each day.
"life is a joke, so I'll take it away fellas."
Dec 6, 2018
Dec 6, 2018 at 1:19 AM UTC
It's a common trope,
the Danse Macabre that troops us
toward hushed tombs.
Blame its plague on Wolgemut
or Bruegel (Pieter the Elder),
and certainly Bergman
What with his iconic black-clad Death
and the parade of captive players taken
hand-in-hand on a joyless march.
But Life has her own fleet moments to lead,
and these flip-flop pageants though ragtag
are not the less enriching to behold
Or so I'm told in passing by
the delicate bluebell peaking its buds through
a monochrome rubble.
May 6, 2010
May 6, 2010 at 3:34 PM UTC
Oh my God, I forgot
how ******* amazing Manga
is and I wonder can't
Remember why I ever stopped
reading it tickles then torments
my sensitive nature and
reminds me
I am a romantic when
my green grows and swells
resonating from her hand on
his coat or her resounding
"I belong to him" sound
It sounds like drivel:
to need so little as a trope's
grip of some coat in a storm
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 8:38 PM UTC
there is no wonder where there is no hope
we learn this truth before we learn to speak
defining magic as just one more trope
among the ones with which we have to cope
tools of the just and weapons of the meek
there is no wonder where there is no hope
so we declare but yet the merest dope
believes his circumstances are unique
defining magic as just one more trope
that must be learnt before he climbs the slope
towards the greatest highest noble peak
there is no wonder where there is no hope
those are the words and they are no soft soap
serving to guide us unto what we seek
defining magic as just one more trope
of our old language so that gives us scope
for honest understanding and critique
there is no wonder where there is no hope
defining magic as just one more trope
Jul 4, 2011
Jul 4, 2011 at 8:17 AM UTC
Isn’t that glimmer visible?
That wonderful sparkle, like a fly to the light
A shining diamond, an alluring sight
Seeker and seeked and discovered overtly
What fun is its commonality?
Must you spend a two months salary?
But see the gem in the rough
Weighed far less in value
But nonetheless faceted
Judge it harshly shall you?
The trope of the diamond
Has been pried from those eyes
By the multi-facets and spectrums
Of transient angles, translucent drums
Milky or lustrous, a separate conundrum
Choose the opal, akin to the human soul
Shimmering subtly and brightly
Gently and ever-changed nightly
Like the starriest coals
Trill and hover ever-so lightly
Discovering the treasures in the rough
That others could never trust
They’ll lie in waiting, perhaps turn to dust
Mar 7, 2021
Mar 7, 2021 at 11:52 PM UTC
Fervency referring to effectuality as measured
by men,
I suppose. Positionally, top line.
Challenges are not all games,
all games are challenges.
That which he fears comes.
Anticipate war, teach your son to
access participation trope level
anticipatory experience
imagining dying
now
design a death that does not damage, eh,
no damming, no pile of useless hordes,
dammed to collect the flow
anticipating need
when need is non exist-ant.
Greedy gut.
Feb 3, 2021
Feb 3, 2021 at 4:28 PM UTC
He has this goddess that resemble the breezy sky just within her eyes
And a soul that melts poison
Every second being a blessing
Never a day of bad dressing
And the only **** thing he cares about is what is between her thighs
This is a trope that should be gone
Stop putting up with guys like this
You will thank yourself in the long run
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 8:08 PM UTC
3/2/2015
“I woke up in the morning and I didn’t want anything, didn’t do anything,
couldn’t do it anyway,
just lay there listening to the blood rush through me and it never made
any sense, anything.
And I can’t eat, can’t sleep, can’t sit still or fix things and I wake up and I wake up and you’re still dead.” Richard Silken
I wrote of vultures once, I'd found in the sepulchral little category of "poems I had burnt a while ago" that I kept in my brain. I spoke of predatorial lashings against the dead prairie dogs of her and I, class of 2005- add ten more years and...
Contended May heat like the May-December romances in trope, I'd walk to bridges with notebook in sullied hand, a bit flushed, a bit healthy with the sun on my gold flakes shoulders If I had only known? Right? Haha.
The grammar rules of english: you (I) is a proper noun- but of course, i refuse to give myself that much pomp. To be full of such vanity is to be full of treacly purity- which does not apply so much now.
I had been given time to love you - until I didn't need you anymore, you said, then you'd leave- a sweetly sardonic little note, seeing as you hated the conjugal and impossible implications of "forever". I feel, now that you are gone, this is an imprisonment I am doomed to til atrophy...
You are dead. Your corpse rots in the sun of the soil in the coffin and it is still cold outside. Everytime I leave the house I ask myself what I seriously am expecting from March. The heat, the permenance of your being gone makes me sit down on the cold snow,
My dullard heart sits with a bread knife wedged on a rib when I realize how utterly alone I am- so alone the vultures do not even circle.
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 7:45 PM UTC
From labyrinth in Istanbul, my eye spied a familiar cord
Education
How can any education
Be a sufficient insurance
For a pathetic population
Keeps favoring ignorance
From <https://hellopoetry.com/>
Truth known makes free,
truth hid is not ignored,
it waits the fire the next time innocents
are sacrificed to lies. ... thanks, you gave me a spark,
as real as any angel a self anoints another, go
be a lying spirit in the mouth of the tyrant's prophets,
let all the wise
laugh at the possibility of one peacemaker's leaven,
leavening the entire lump, liked or not.
Plop. On to the publisher's desk, piles of wonder and ifity.
A fantasy realm,
counter trope, here the so-called victor-victim ratio,
is imperceptibly low,
we have a regulation: each day requires
its sufficiency of evil,
no harm done is intentionally not possible,
otherwise you get a dimension of flat metric orthogonal
constructive critics
assuming unassigned roles. Do you dance? Or only read along?
Behold how great a fire words may kindle in a satisfied mind.
Feb 14, 2021
Feb 14, 2021 at 5:27 PM UTC
She's a would-be
Disney villainess
a temptress
She's a would-be
empress
a mogul-ess
She's a fear
and she's a longing
distant and yet, oh-so-near
She's a myth
and she's a nightmare
so subtle, yet full of pith
And so unreal
yet in reality, so sad
all because, she's ******* mad
Mad like the full moon
mad enough to tear her hair
don't you stare
Trope upon trope
we lay upon the forbidden woman
the discarded woman without hope
If only we had the eye of compassion
instead of berating her for her passion
we'd heal our lost mothers and daughters at last
Dec 7, 2020
Dec 7, 2020 at 12:58 AM UTC
never in my wildest imagination
could i manufacture a person so divergent
so anomalous
so exceptional
you must have been contrived
by the fiercest of counterculturists
combining parts from one trope
to one entirely different
in a mismatched concoction
of fabricated mystery
so raw with your masculinity
so vigorous in your handiwork
but so tender at heart
so sensitive to the trivial ails
of your reeling lover
everything you do is so
wildly unprecedented
so fresh
so renewing
i'm shocked by your creativity
your boundless ingenuity
that reveals the matchless wonder
of your magnificent humility
someone so dapper
should not possess a heart so full
so vibrant
so goofy
and so open to love
because then someone like me
could fall in and never
find her way out
composed and collected
but in romance unbridled
how do you find the balance
so perfectly
for my two greatest desires?
i'm safe but i'm challenged
i'm motivated, excited, aroused-
i'm home
you stun me with your simplicity
and blind me with your charm
you are a force so alluring
so potent
so constructive
so irrevocably mine
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 2:32 AM UTC
up the mountain with a tremble,
no plan or gear or hope,
Sisyphus I must resemble,
endless clamber; tedious trope.
no longer; I recall the base,
the grass; the trees; the glades,
as I ascend; with unkept pace,
the path behind me fades.
looming blizzard lingers behind,
(it) taunts blowing in today,
upward; disheveled, lost and blind,
no guides to lead the way.
forced to muster a clumsy strut,
advancing; though I'm weak,
uncertain of journeys end; but,
certain there is no peak.
Dec 5, 2024
Dec 5, 2024 at 12:13 AM UTC