"unimportant" poems
Friendship is male,
Friendship is female,
Friendship is love,
Friendship is support.
Make friendship a reality,
And you shall understand.
It is a dream that cannot be shaken,
It is dream that can never be awakened.
Practice power in friendship,
But do not practice power over friendship,
Win a true friendship, but do not fake the friendship.
Friendship ends with broken promises,
Friendship ends where trust melts,
Where time becomes unimportant,
But hold your hands together.
Make the dark, light,
Make the cry, laugh,
Make the heart, love,
Make the friendship spring, like roses.
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 5:59 PM UTC
<>
The Instigation:
Edmund Black, commenting on “weary weighted,”
I agree with Kim; This is poetry at its best :)“
<•>
*both of you shush!
there is no “better” in poetry
mine yours theirs, alive or not,
just gasps tears and blood
whimsical smiles and isles
cuts and burns of pained revelations,
hidden in fog,
that words try to delete away,
through the shrouded mists of
human tissues,
unconstrained by the
bounded shape
of the human cell,
our first, our own
self-imposed jail
tissue, too,
baby soft, or,
purple beating majestic bruised blotches
by those weaklings whose
kindness never
fully developed;
or old man mine whose
skin cells erodes, so poems and light
weary weighted, lightly flake off
for your “betterment”
mostly tho for worse
good humans all await,
in patientce lightly hidden,
residents of dark sunspots
in the glaring existence exposer
of the unlit lighthouse whose time will come
they get it
how we get there unimportant
get there
GET THERE
get there
that is the poetic
mission critical
no path best or style preferred-
no compare just, but,
any path that
lifts and elevates,
to the commonplace*
the common place
*where all costarred, universal,
where common is the temple mount
of highest praise, holy smoke rising,
a place that
that discloses and closes,
is scribed/described honestly as
a connective,
which is the simplest
successive
call my poems,
blessedly common!
that an honorable,
so gladly accepted
and
so much more meaning-full
than merely best or better*
for that,
I’d gladly weep,
for no praise
ever been
bettered
8/2/18 406pm
on the jitney to my isle
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 4:15 PM UTC
When you think you are addicted to being liked,
when you feel like the unimportant ones don't
like you.
When you feel sorry for yourself, for being loved
by only those who matter.
When you think all you have is not enough.
You're wrong, go to sleep.
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 7:26 PM UTC
i. the curly, green-haired
leo with the cry-baby tattoo
on her left calf; fish net stockings and
loud guitar playing and
menthol cigarettes. driving through
the park at 9 pm, ***** shots,
the white house with the a-frame roof,
hugs that made your heart feel as warm
as she did
crying as i left my room again to be
intertwined with a girl who did not love me, but i wanted to;
months pass, lonely car rides with
one-sided conversations and
seven years gone,
quiet disconnection
that made you feel as cold
as i did
ii. brown eyes, brown skin,
round glasses and chicago streetlights.
holding each other close on the subway
lakehouse parties in the beginning of spring and
pisces season and tarot readings and
soft kisses on the train.
holding hands at the aquarium,
sweet poetry and calm and
a sense of oneness that made you feel
important
hurt for the third time
a panic, a loss
i held their heart in my hands and
let it fall
harsh
unimportant
i still carry the guilt on my fingertips
iii. short hair. freckled cheeks, i
fell in love with the way the skin
crinkled around her eyes when she smiled.
an apartment, a home built
around our lips touching
wrapped in blankets on the couch,
dense smoke and her hand on my leg while she
drove. chinese food and
waking up against her chest and
laughing so hard
my ribs hurt
crashing. her anger withering away my
heartstrings; pain and
crying alone in the bathtub
moving away
drunk tears on the interstate
punching my thighs
in place of the way her
words made
me hurt
Feb 6, 2018
Feb 6, 2018 at 11:27 AM UTC
my clumsy limbs
held together with wet cement
taught rubber bands
struggle to bind my flesh
I am but a mess of unimportant matter
another aimless being to fill the space
unique for my twisted thoughts
hysterically pleading with a calm face
speaking warped words i do not mean
lips sealed like the lid on my boiling ***
dumping oppressed feeling into its contents
bubbling over sweetly burning my raw skin hot
blistered I hide behind my cotton disguise
my misshapen body covered in a gruesome sweat
sickening wounds throb for the sight of others
witness my plague of dry sobs and cigarettes
and so i shriek silently like my sister and father
hold my tongue saturated with sour emotion
my poorly constructed moth-eaten being
self sabotages in a desperate motion
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 10:48 AM UTC
The Canvas
(c)08-25-2012
A canvas sets on the edge of greatness and beauty, blank, waiting for the touch of the master’s hand. She takes charge of what is to be. Gentle strokes, broad strokes, strokes that caress the canvas… leaving the marks of imagination, transforming nothing into beauty. The image emerges revealing the thoughts and desires and power of the canvas. It is breath-taking to the beholder. She understands the difference between OK and great. Nothing will do but great. It must emulate the original. It must be the original! So it is with our canvas of life.
We start life as a blank canvas. Brush strokes are made by those around us as we begin to grow. Made by mom, dad, friend and strangers alike. All try to add their image to our canvas. An image of who they think we are. As we grow into the artist we strive to be, we accept or reject the strokes of others and create a portrait we strive to become.
Some strokes by others can leave an off color, covering who we really strive to be. A brush stroke that is not us can be covered by our touch, our color, our imagination of who we are, adding integrity to the texture and hue. Revealing an inner beauty as the artist of our life takes control, guiding our hand, adding the touches that transform the canvas from OK to great.
The Artist chooses the colors, the brushes from which she wants to define her life. The decisions are hers to make as she selects the shades of color, or even black and white, that will define her life. She paints a portrait of peace and joy, of self-less love for family and friends.. All else is unimportant. The things of past are covered. Today and tomorrow are forming a painting that will be great.
Letting the Master’s Hand guide our hand, we find freedom flowing freely onto and into our canvas. In doing His will in our life, we are set free. A freedom indescribable at times as we are lost to the distractions of the past. Caught up in the hope and love of today.
The Master guides our hand, willingly or even unwillingly at times in our artistic endeavor. As we learn to relax and give Him control of our hands, He reveals the beauty that is within us. It is great.
I have heard being an artist and painting described as being easy but living life as being difficult and unsure. Life can be described as a series of brush strokes, choices. Some can destroy the beauty intended for our canvas. Some strokes can create breath-taking beauty which radiates outward, inspiring the ones observing our portrait.
This was inspired by a young friend of mine, she left a few brush strokes on my life. They will not be painted over. They will be treasured, remembered for a long time to come.
When I look into a mirror, I want to see Jesus, the Creator of my portrait.
Aug 30, 2012
Aug 30, 2012 at 11:58 PM UTC
She hates that she is a woman
The putrefying weakness perceived in the curves of her body
The naivete shown in her blues
With the unintentional flutter of butterfly lashes
That refuse to meet the glances of those that pass by
The fear-- Of what?
That stereotypes are true?
She doesn't even know
And it sickens her.
She sickens herself.
She hates that she is white
The blandest vanilla
The marble statue
Somehow revered
Worshiped
Privileged
But simultaneously overlooked
Boring
Unimportant
The Caucasian mongrel
In light of the fact that her People
Have no proud history
Which she can name herself heir to
She hates that she is middle class
Not poor enough to struggle
Not rich enough to be free
Just situated dully in the middle
A footnote in the statistic
That they tell her she must use
To identify herself
She hates that her belief system
Has to be called by a name
That she has to choose
To be a part of a group
As part of her "identity"
And she is not allowed
To stand by her own integrity
She hates that she is American
The pudgy, loud-mouthed, laterally-speaking nation
The brashly jumps into conflict
Guns blazing
As its political system decays
In the stench of its overwhelming debt and corruption
But in truth
She hates
That they force her
To whittle her essence down
Into Gender, Race, Class, Religion, and Nationality
A vomit-inducing statistic
As if there was nothing more to her
Than the facts surrounding her existence
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 6:11 PM UTC
You changed me
Although you’re not here now
I’m disappointed you can’t see who I’ve become
I started growing the first time you hugged me
The force of your arms
Wrapped like a ribbon
Around a birthday present that is my body
You controlled everything
With that universal remote on your wrist
I’m surprised my emotions wouldn’t flicker
Each time you pressed a button
You had so many faces
Often times I felt as if
I was looking in a mirror
Not to say I love my own reflection
But those who know me well will say
“I look like my personality”
You know,
Headphones nowadays are two ear buds
It’s not meant to go in both ears
Both rather so you can have
Someone to share your music with
Some songs are harder to listen to than others
But I’m getting better
Do you keep my heart in your fanny-pack?
Unzip it like a pulse
Keep it next to other unimportant things
Cell phone, money, gum
I can’t walk gravel roads like I used to
Or see lightning bugs the same again
I know it’s not right to do
But when I’m with a girl
I compare her with you
Needless to say they never size up
So here I am single, which is funny to me
People give me compliments like you used to
My dimple, the smile and how I act
Living with laughter on a mountain
You were the echo
That made me think
Someone else was trying to talk back
Now that it’s gone
I’m talking to myself
I’d take a rocket to the moon with you
If you fell,
I too would faint
And now,
Every time I smoke
Upwards Into the night sky
I am surrounded
By a billion ***** of light
And they scream your middle name
Dec 28, 2010
Dec 28, 2010 at 1:29 AM UTC
I am not overweight
Yet I don't love being a size eight
The media criticizing me
Hypnotizing me
Making me feel unimportant
I know you sympathize with me
But I am worth it
Part of Gods eternal purpose
My thick thighs
Are beauty in His eyes
And I don't have to worry about being unworthy
When I'm giving God the glory
he deserves
My self image is perseved
By Genesis 1:27
Or Ecclesiastes 3:11
He is constantly reminding me
That world is full of lies
Hiding behind the guise
That I need to change
Or rearrange myself
to be loved
This is untrue
The God of heaven and earth
Created and loves me
And everyone of you
Oct 8, 2016
Oct 8, 2016 at 6:08 PM UTC
Busy people…
Oh so busy people….
You step real hard when you walk real fast
With your busy scowls on your busy faces
Making busy wrinkles in your busy forehead
From thinking all those
Wondrous… and
Special…
Busy thoughts…
**** sho too busy to
Make small talk… or
Ask about… or
Even be pleasant to
Us regular people…
Oh so busy…
Would make an old man wait for 6 hours
For the answer to a 5 minute question…
Cuz you busy…
Too busy to even answer the phone
Especially… If you know who’s callin’…
Sho too busy…Way too busy…
To answer
For the likes of me… or even him… cuz
That’s not what you busy people do…
We should all
Just be happy
To have your
Wondrous… and
Special… and
Busy self
To be
Ignored by
But Oh Mr. Busy…
One day…
Mayhap…
You will look up from your busy-ness… and
Find that there are
No more some bodies
To step past real hard… or
To dismiss… as unimportant
With your busy scowl and busy wrinkled forehead
No more callers
To ignore… or un-pleasantries to share
Cuz you, yourself, have gotten
Unpleasantly old
And every body else
Is just too busy…
Mar 26, 2012
Mar 26, 2012 at 7:19 PM UTC
I’ve fallen head over heels.
Crazed into an unknown and different love.
And this time I know.
I know it’s different.
So different; because my heart beats differently now.
Not out of sync. Not out of place. Not beating in pain.
It beats like it was meant too; in rhythm to something that matters.
Into something that might change you.
Into becoming perfect in someone’s eyes.
The beauty of something so real, makes everything seem like diamonds.
All unique; always and endlessly lasting forever.
Communicating sweet gestures and making love seem like a person.
You patiently wait and watch it grow.
Into a gorgeous emotion.
That will never leave your sight.
Because now.
It’s a part of you; a part of your life.
I’ve landed in the arms of someone who makes my bones weak.
But manages to keep me together with simple sentences.
You are stunningly beautiful.
You are everything I could ever want in a person.
You give me butterflies when I see you.
It makes you fall to pieces. Crumbling like your favourite dessert, but still tasting ever-so sweet.
You melt.
But you are still intact; more intact you ever thought you could be.
And you smile, making you feel whole again.
Completing the jig-saw puzzle of your life.
We all dream.
Of a love which will carry us away.
That will make us feel like a fantasy in our own special movie.
And we’ll live happily ever after, regardless of where we are.
Never doubting anything that may come your way.
A love so powerful, that the settings don’t matter.
Only the two of you count.
Time seems so unimportant when you’re together, because you know what makes you grin.
Living your dream, with that one person.
Who makes the day all worth it.
So I’ve fallen head over heels.
Into something I never prepared for.
Into something most people can only dream of.
And in that moment, when you feel the love in your soul.
You are at peace.
Cuddling up to the one who made it all happen.
Thinking... “Thank you, for making my dreams become real”
And they’ll smile, and say “I would never take it back. Your love gets me through the day.”
The psychic bond, of the minds.
And you’ll melt together, like ice-cream on a chocolate cake.
So sweet, so right together, and the moment will last forever.
Like lovers.
Aug 26, 2010
Aug 26, 2010 at 4:07 AM UTC
Happy as something unimportant
and free as a thing unimportant.
As something no one prizes
and which does not prize itself.
As something mocked by all
and which mocks at their mockery.
As laughter without serious reason.
As a yell able to out yell itself.
Happy as no matter what,
as any no matter what.
Happy
as a dog’s tail.
5.9k
Worthlessness: The state of feeling unimportant and useless. This type of feeling is one that hits you directly in the center of your core, picking at your soul. One that makes your stomach feel saggy and your eyes like craters of the sea that over flows and blurs your sight.
Worthlessness is one that hinders the passing time as well your ability to move forward and it can come out of the void of extensive thinking.
It can cause your words to errupt and crackle off your tongue, only to be washed away by the heavy rain into a puddle of regret and sorrow.
All I see on the horizon is a dark blue hue that Cascades over the whole world.
All I feel is the bitter, frozen winds and the soft snow that numbs my skin.
All I can think of is black and grey clouds that wrap me up and block out any light that reaches out to me.
All that I receive for my rescue is a big brown ship that says "I'm sorry, the weight you carry is too much for us", then sails away, leaving me to drown in the middle of the ocean.
Nov 6, 2018
Nov 6, 2018 at 3:31 PM UTC
***the bells ring and ring
distant and unimportant
but they speak warning.***
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 3:21 PM UTC
I lift my head ever so slightly,
snuggle back in.
When do we ever really owe ourselves?
And what?
Respect? A second chance?
Slumber is what we deprive ourselves,
or make bed-ridden with guilt,
when we should rejoice.
I am at peace when the phone is unimportant,
and I forget the day of the week.
Hell, this poem was perhaps my biggest feat.
But I'll tell you more, once I get some more sleep.
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 11:58 PM UTC
(for Cyril Connolly)
The piers are pummelled by the waves;
In a lonely field the rain
Lashes an abandoned train;
Outlaws fill the mountain caves.
Fantastic grow the evening gowns;
Agents of the Fisc pursue
Absconding tax-defaulters through
The sewers of provincial towns.
Private rites of magic send
The temple prostitutes to sleep;
All the literati keep
An imaginary friend.
Cerebrotonic Cato may
Extol the Ancient Disciplines,
But the muscle-bound Marines
Mutiny for food and pay.
Caesar's double-bed is warm
As an unimportant clerk
Writes I DO NOT LIKE MY WORK
On a pink official form.
Unendowed with wealth or pity,
Little birds with scarlet legs,
Sitting on their speckled eggs,
Eye each flu-infected city.
Altogether elsewhere, vast
Herds of reindeer move across
Miles and miles of golden moss,
Silently and very fast.
4.8k
You aren't going to **** yourself tonight because, in one of the
spun sugar fragile sequences of the events in your life, it works
out. There is a place, somewhere amidst star stuff and cosmic
collisions, where you are not the problem daughter or the
biggest disappointment or the most regretted kiss. There is a
place where you sink into a desk in your eight a.m. class and
a boy with bags under his eyes and a hole-y sweater pulled
over his knuckles says, "hi." There is a place where your father
comes back from the war with sand grit in his eyes, blood
under his fingernails and lets you save him. There is a place
where you live in India, where you aren't afraid to love, where
everything hurts less, where you stopped punishing yourself for
the faults of your parents. You are a girl. Not a dart board or a guilty
verdict or the final, desperate ****** of a sword through
someone's chest. You are made of the same stuff as Marie
Antoinette and Catherine the Great and Elizabeth, and you
can command the winds too. You aren't going to **** yourself
tonight because no one ever asked you about the scars on your
thighs but that doesn't make them nonexistent or unimportant.
You aren't going to **** yourself tonight because you've grown:
stronger in some ways and weaker in others, but you are still
a result of rhapsodies in violet and trees bowed to the sea
and soldiers with wind burn on their cheeks. Tonight, you are
going to wrap your own arms around your own chest and
breathe, swaying silently to no music. You are going to
memorize the sound of silence, and you are going to listen hard
for the even, jagged, pitter patter of your heart. You are going
to thank your body for waging war against itself, you are going
to apologize to your head for bruising your heart. You are going
to feel the roughness of the floor and the vastness of the entire
world and all of the eventualities spread before you. You are
going to remember that this is only one, that atoms and
molecules are flighty, whimsical, prone to selfishness and
longing for the promise of stability. You are going to press your
lips to your own wrists and know, as surely as Anne Boleyn
knew when she walked to the guillotine, that no one can save
you but yourself. You aren't going to **** yourself tonight
because you are not an accident of the multiverse. You are
purposeful and beautiful and young and reckless with your
feelings, but you are not a mistake. Listen to the trembling
of your heartbeat and breathe. You aren't going to **** yourself
tonight.
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 12:51 PM UTC
*Being unemployed is like….
Being stuck in a hole in the ground
with a broken leg and no cell phone,
while surrounded all on sides by people who ignore
your very existence,
or treat you as if you are less than…. well…anything.
Their silhouettes casting quickly passing shadows
on the concrete around you.
No one offering you a hand.
Each time you reach out for help
you are rejected coolly and professionally.
No one wants a failure, but they also don’t
want the responsibility of helping to create a success.
The ones who do reach out for you,
don’t really care about your success or well-being.
They see a quick buck,
easy to replace or move past,
should you realize you are worth more than their
verbal abuse and manipulation.
No one wants a self-valuing person either.
They don’t even want a human,
with thoughts
emotions
and memories.
All hiring businesses want, is a robot to do their every bidding with no complaints,
no questions asked,
even if that person’s health or sanity is on the line.
Or even their life.
In a world created by ourselves, we are unimportant.*
Mar 21, 2016
Mar 21, 2016 at 12:07 AM UTC
1. Her thick brow,
Is only her choice.
A stance against norms.
2. Ribbons and flowers,
All tangled in her hair.
A decorative crown,
But beauty is not defined here.
3. She had many lovers,
Of many kinds.
But promiscuity,
Does not define worth.
4. Drink more than the men.
To dance with a love,
They can never have.
5. Politics are unimportant,
Only the ideas in your mind.
Of equality and charity,
But it will leave somebody dead.
6. Be bold and smart.
Follow your own direction,
Maybe dress like a man
7. When a trolley crashes,
Leaving you wishing for death,
Draw on your bandage.
Don’t let your broken column
Break your strength.
8. Don’t fall in love with artists,
They drink too much,
Cheat too much.
And will break your heart
9. Fall in love with artists,
A musician, maybe a painter.
You’ll never be bored,
You’ll always be drunk.
10. Just don’t let them break you,
Don’t stop painting because you’re hurt.
Don’t give them the satisfaction,
Of breaking your wings.
11. You don’t need anyone,
When you have wigs to fly.
Don’t need feet,
Or anyone else.
12. You probably feel like a freak,
Like the weirdest person you’ve ever known.
But as long as you’re weird with me,
You’ll never be weird alone.
13. Make friends with the past,
With people you’ve never known.
It’ll always be a source of security,
No one can leave that’s already gone.
I look at Frida through her paint, through her words, through the story of her life she has taught me not to be afraid.
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 10:45 PM UTC
"you give too much. you're a good person, really. but you give too much. you never want others to feel as alone or as unimportant as you do, so you give & give & give so they can feel good. but in the process, you're only teaching them that you aren't worthy to receive. you're giving & giving & giving & hardly ever giving yourself a chance to receive. so people get used to that. people get used to you giving so much that they feel like they don't even have to try anymore. i know all you know how to do is give... you give without expecting anything in return except genuine appreciation. but then you get sad when you realise giving so much has left you feeling empty because you've given so much to others that you have nothing left to give to yourself. you give too much... there is such a thing as giving too much. continue giving, but realise that there's limits to how much you can give others. stop giving to the point where you feel used, unappreciated & empty. give freely... but there are limits in that giving. you give too much... i think that it's time you gave to yourself."
— dear self, stop giving so much.
Oct 7, 2015
Oct 7, 2015 at 1:31 PM UTC
Who is left that cares for what's precious and finds a way?
is there an awareness that allows for love and caring to be expressed?
what ego was more important?
what winning or need to feel better was more important?
funny how the need to rush away from the most important communications distort every communication
always in a hurry to move away from
only to never really completely have what is needed for the right communication
impatient with this, in judgment of that, closing off all feelings after the next determination
all that was missed because of this cell phone or this "appointment" who truly held no self created distraction?
where nothing would have interfered with what should have been held in the highest respect for however long it took?
what was more important than truth expressed and feelings shown?
what deserved making what was precious not a priority?
What will sit there as a stone unturned and a pain to ruminate because a mis-communication was digested as truth when it wasn't. And love wasn't allowed the path to bloom
and caring wasn't mutually expressed
Funny how the only way I could ever express myself in full is to write a book because nobody involved ever really has the time, patience, open-mindedness and lack of ego and judgment to hear it without changing what it is--being taken away or held in possession of by another to shield what is complete in explaining
so why not expose everything and be without judgment, fear, or the ticking clock
why not make that the most important thing instead of the short fuse, the agenda that makes it unimportant, the hate that ends all communication
Why not love and love with patience, caring, open-mindedness for wasn't there plenty of times where love was needed for you and it was given and given and given some more?
Where is the love?
Where is the love that has infinite patience to hear and stay with friction until it no longer is? Where is what is most PRECIOUS?
But the prissy spoile friends say no, and the television personalities say no, and the opinions of others pre-determined yours, and the opinions you chose you are a prisoner of--but why is what is so precious in the overall scheme of things not the most important thing?
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 10:17 PM UTC
This is a song to celebrate banks,
Because they are full of money and you go into them and all
you hear is clinks and clanks,
Or maybe a sound like the wind in the trees on the hills,
Which is the rustling of the thousand dollar bills.
Most bankers dwell in marble halls,
Which they get to dwell in because they encourage deposits
and discourage withdrawals,
And particularly because they all observe one rule which woe
betides the banker who fails to heed it,
Which is you must never lend any money to anybody unless
they don't need it.
I know you, you cautious conservative banks!
If people are worried about their rent it is your duty to deny
them the loan of one nickel, yes, even one copper engraving
of the martyred son of the late Nancy Hanks;
Yes, if they request fifty dollars to pay for a baby you must
look at them like Tarzan looking at an uppity ape in the
jungle,
And tell them what do they think a bank is, anyhow, they had
better go get the money from their wife's aunt or ungle.
But suppose people come in and they have a million and they
want another million to pile on top of it,
Why, you brim with the milk of human kindness and you
urge them to accept every drop of it,
And you lend them the million so then they have two million
and this gives them the idea that they would be better off
with four,
So they already have two million as security so you have no
hesitation in lending them two more,
And all the vice-presidents nod their heads in rhythm,
And the only question asked is do the borrowers want the
money sent or do they want to take it withm.
Because I think they deserve our appreciation and thanks,
the ********* who go around saying that health and happi-
ness are everything and money isn't essential,
Because as soon as they have to borrow some unimportant
money to maintain their health and happiness they starve
to death so they can't go around any more sneering at good
old money, which is nothing short of providential.
4.5k
One brisk spring afternoon, a boy found himself adventuring down a local forested path. The sun beamed down through the trees, creating golden stips of light that fought their way through the newly grown greenery. The crunch of the earth beneath his feet could be heard from a distance as unimportant thoughts drifted through his mind.
He paused and set himself down on a large rock by a bubbling stream. The water created an ambiance that made a rush of calm flow over his mind. His eyes drifted around a bit, taking in his surroundings when suddenly a butterfly flittered down and flew around his face. A smile spread wide across his features as he lifted up his hand to try to catch it.
The butterfly grazed his hand, but then flew away as fast as it could, as it was afraid of the boy. He frowned in disappointment, wanting nothing more than the butterfly itself to flutter down onto his hand so he could admire it once more; But he was left in despair.
Two more butterflies of the same pattern found themselves drifting along the face of the boy, and he tried to catch them as well, for maybe they would fill in the gap that the first had left. He caught them both, but only briefly, as all butterflies were beautiful, but fleeting.
The boy tilted his head in disappointment, and sat there alone for some time, an array of butterflies coming and going, none of them filling the void left by the first.
Suddenly, a pure white moth came into view.
The boy scowled, unsure of what to make of the moth as it was nothing like the other butterflies that he had encountered before. The moth flittered around his face, and he raised his hands slightly, prepared to swipe the creature away.
The moth found itself landing softly on the nose of the boy, its fuzzy little wings tickling his skin upon contact.
He couldn’t help but smile, but felt a little uneasy, as he was only used to butterflies.
The boy lifted the moth gently from his nose, and perched it on a nearby branch. It’s little wings lifted its body from the perch, and tried to fly back toward the boy, but he gently shood the creature away. Finally, it gave up and landed itself back onto the branch in which the boy had placed it. There the moth stayed, watching the boy chase butterflies endlessly until he could chase no more.
Apr 4, 2017
Apr 4, 2017 at 10:08 PM UTC
When I walked in to biology class a couple days back,
I found a gum wrapper
sitting on my desk.
It was torn in half, with the remaining piece folded
right side over left.
It became apparent that someone had left it there,
deeming it unimportant.
As I sat there in biology class, bored as hell,
I began to twirl that little piece of paper
between my fingers.
All of the Wrigley's, printed across the outside,
became acquainted with the space between
my thumb and forefinger.
But when the wrapper fell from my grasp
and on to the floor, I realized
how easy it was
to let it.
Hours could pass, even days,
and no one would bother to look
at the crumpled piece of paper
sitting on the floor.
When I extended my foot to guide it
back within my reach, it came to me
how appealing the green box of recycling
looked too.
Here was a gum wrapper, an inanimate object
of no apparent value, forgotten by a student.
But it was not the breaking of the no gum rule
where things went wrong.
The real prize, most would argue,
was within the wrapper.
The rest should be trash.
But, despite the laws of recycling,
the wrapper was left here,
sitting on my desk,
in biology class.
I decided to pick it up.
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 1:16 AM UTC
I am just another person
Unimportant as a speck of dust
In this beautiful paradise.
But there is something I can do
And I'll do it with love
and trust and sacrifice.
I am just another face
in this beautiful world
But I will hold your hand
And feel your pain.
I am just another girl
one of life's mysteries
But I will embrace my enemy
just as I would with my sister.
I am only a flicker,
and as mysterious as life is
I will soon return to the skies
But at least I helped my neighbor
without thinking of myself.
For I know that in being selfless
There is bravery.
There is love.
There is both.
For I know that in being selfless
Is the bravest thing
in this world.
Still I am just another
And another would be born
At least I left a memory
of a heart that is warmed.
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 10:44 AM UTC