"unsalvageable" poems - Hello Poetry

If misery was a gift she had Christmas every day. Her clouds had clouds and she traded the silver linings for an overstock of black mold. She once had been happy, but peace never challenged her the way chaos did. Now, the only thing she loves is tending her garden of discontent with **** rakes and spades for 50 shades of defeat. If she achieved every goal on her checklist she kept Einstein’s, Hawking’s, and Jesus Christ’s in her pocket to remind her of the insufficiencies. She complains that she has no friends and assures it with a magnifying glass of faults. The profile for her perfect man is rigid. So rigid that even God didn’t qualify. If she found a glass half-full she’d grumble that it wasn’t Cognac Champagne. She has long since forgotten the important thing - the power of light. For light heals light brings hope light always dispels darkness unless YOU become an eclipse between it and the world. [VERSION 2.0] SHE FORGOT If misery was a gift she had Christmas every day. Paper and bows she’d wrapped herself, hand signed cards To: Me, From: Me every box opened then rewrapped and opened again with tattered Scotch-tape scars unsalvageable like the excitement of a child who found her hidden presents in the closet 10 days before Santa would come. And clouds! How did you know!? Gray, snowless, pointless holidays hopelessdays all her days. Her clouds had clouds and she had traded the silver linings for black mold. They always fit her just right. She once had been happy but peace never challenged her the way chaos did. So she labors passionately in a garden of discontent nurtured year-‘round but always growing winter watering resentment and acrimony with bitterness, drawn from a barrel full of moldy cloud rain. Regardless of what she might achieve she reminds herself of others doing more comparing checklists with Jesus Christ’s. If she had fed the 5000, she would still be lacking the crucifixion. You see, nothing grows by accident in a well-kept garden including withered friends whom she weeds, though beautiful assuring they will never be more. Those she doesn't pluck, she bakes under her magnifying glass of faults. She knows nothing of content whether love, or God, or a half-goblet of possibility. If she found a glass half-full she’d grumble that it wasn’t Cognac Champagne. She has long since forgotten the important thing – the power of light. How it heals and grows hopeful sprouts, green through struggling soil. Light always dispels darkness unless YOU become an eclipse between it and the world. When you cast your own shadow it’s easy to forget the way flowers grow back on their own every spring the way the clouds sometimes break unexpectedly.

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Apr 6, 2017

Apr 6, 2017 at 1:37 AM UTC

drumhound

She Forgot

If misery was a gift she had Christmas every day. Her clouds had clouds and she traded the silver linings for an overstock of black mold. She once had been happy, but peace never challenged her the way chaos did. Now, the only thing she loves is tending her garden of discontent with **** rakes and spades for 50 shades of defeat. If she achieved every goal on her checklist she kept Einstein’s, Hawking’s, and Jesus Christ’s in her pocket to remind her of the insufficiencies. She complains that she has no friends and assures it with a magnifying glass of faults. The profile for her perfect man is rigid. So rigid that even God didn’t qualify. If she found a glass half-full she’d grumble that it wasn’t Cognac Champagne. She has long since forgotten the important thing - the power of light. For light heals light brings hope light always dispels darkness unless YOU become an eclipse between it and the world. [VERSION 2.0] SHE FORGOT If misery was a gift she had Christmas every day. Paper and bows she’d wrapped herself, hand signed cards To: Me, From: Me every box opened then rewrapped and opened again with tattered Scotch-tape scars unsalvageable like the excitement of a child who found her hidden presents in the closet 10 days before Santa would come. And clouds! How did you know!? Gray, snowless, pointless holidays hopelessdays all her days. Her clouds had clouds and she had traded the silver linings for black mold. They always fit her just right. She once had been happy but peace never challenged her the way chaos did. So she labors passionately in a garden of discontent nurtured year-‘round but always growing winter watering resentment and acrimony with bitterness, drawn from a barrel full of moldy cloud rain. Regardless of what she might achieve she reminds herself of others doing more comparing checklists with Jesus Christ’s. If she had fed the 5000, she would still be lacking the crucifixion. You see, nothing grows by accident in a well-kept garden including withered friends whom she weeds, though beautiful assuring they will never be more. Those she doesn't pluck, she bakes under her magnifying glass of faults. She knows nothing of content whether love, or God, or a half-goblet of possibility. If she found a glass half-full she’d grumble that it wasn’t Cognac Champagne. She has long since forgotten the important thing – the power of light. How it heals and grows hopeful sprouts, green through struggling soil. Light always dispels darkness unless YOU become an eclipse between it and the world. When you cast your own shadow it’s easy to forget the way flowers grow back on their own every spring the way the clouds sometimes break unexpectedly.