"unsurprisingly" poems
Call yourself a friend of mine,
Forcing me to “neck” beer and wine?
Lovingly mixed with ***** and gin,
And dash of ketchup added in,
Wasabi for that extra kick -
The whole thing just makes me sick!
It’s not fun or cool or clever,
But a study in peer pressure,
Present in the world we live in,
Where for a guy or girl to “give in”,
Is expected for their reputation.
But what kind of expectation,
Is encouraged sado-masochism?
A concept likely to cause a schism,
For those who didn’t use their head,
And unsurprisingly now are dead.
I am sure as you will surely see,
And the poet Dylan would agree,
That as long as you ignore
The deaths of one, two three and four
How many, many, many more,
Are needed til we scream and cry?
“We caused too many youths to die!”
And for what cause? Acceptance.
Whose loss is needed for our repentance?
It’s all well acting free and wild,
But each of us is someone’s child -
Whose loss would surely cause sadness,
Hurt and pain and grief and madness?
And stomaching death is much harder
Than soap or dirt or grease or lard or
Whatever miscellaneous things
This activity inevitably brings.
Just saying “no” might make you quiver
But trust me; it’s better for your liver -
And living x years sans hurt or maim
Is worth > than 15 minutes of fame.
So do the maths before you do it -
Or else I bet you’ll likely rue it!
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 10:34 AM UTC
My flesh crawls, and my blood flows
As I attempt to turn to marble
True stasis
Homeostasis
Oh to maintain beauty to be gawked by muses
And to never have been alive, merely beings of retired faith
But unsurprisingly, just as pointless
I sigh…
I may parish in mind and finally body
But marble will diminish slowly
******
All while watched and attemptedly preserved
I breathe.
Homeostasis
Apr 17, 2018
Apr 17, 2018 at 1:56 PM UTC
So that I can purge
these feelings inside of me
The feelings and urges
Of recent heart cracks
That make me
Want to hurt you
The solution it seems
Unsurprisingly to me
Is to
Write
More
Words
I don't need to talk.
Talking is circles
And friends agreeing
With every view I see
Even though my view
Has been skewed
By you.
It's no secret
I'm no fool
So why do they do it?
If I could just
Gather these feelings
On to a page
Surely my rage
Will subside
And then
Like a full body sigh
Things will-
...feel lighter
And you will be
More memory
Than constant reminder
So here I am
Madly scribbling
All this time later
These words
Which allegedly
Will release me
From all the
Convictions of you
But
I write with a pencil
Just in case
The seasons change and
I should ever want to erase
These documented tears
And instead
Pick up the phone
And talk circles
With a friend
Or even
talk circles
With you.
Apr 15, 2017
Apr 15, 2017 at 8:18 PM UTC
The Picture Window
The vista view never changes but daily.
The naked eye, registers the same distances,
resting objects unmoved, modest alterations
by wind and water are noted, but for intent,
for purpose, the watercolor one would paint
be invariably unvarying as a Swiss Alp.
The subtle nuanced worldview, where the sky
stretches from ceiling to a foot above ground, as
I lay prone neath the coverlet, vista always subtly differing,
from its prior reincarnation, self-reflection demands to know.
Alive & Awake? Yes.
Breathing steady? Yes.
Toes? Still can wiggly to & fro.
My soul?
Presumably ok, as I write, because I write, the
picture window into to my insight, though oft blurry,
yet intact, making discernible the changes in light,
temperature and heart rate, as the body/soul contraption modulates, just as the gradient of daylight shifts lighter and higher, with a rising sun bringing more clarity to our interactive encounters with our environments..
The picture window internalized, much the same,as
the vista, subtle modest changes, colorations variegated,
are registered. Today is mostly cloudy overcast, and shall remain so for the foreseeable future, which be about two days hence. Not unsurprisingly, methinks, the future tends to be cloudy.
Beyond that peripheral, no one can say, our macular envisioning only gets weaker,time is a tough taskmaster
and uncertainty is it’s own principle.
But I can say, forecast from well under the comforter,
that more than less, where less is more, this picture window,
ex and in, shall remain, unchanged for the remainder of my years that fortune shall provide, and will & would grant me awakenings to the ex-sight and in-sight of a sculpted landscape, of negative entropy, where disorder minimal.
My musings end here, unless you still wish, come the morrow,
what the marrow the day reveals, what the window will spill,
new and exciting, subtly unchanged, and always different.
Caution: The injection of caffeine may dramatically alter
the windows perspective, as the exogenous always trumps the
endogenous.
5:50 AM
P.S. Making coffee clarifies: If the vista in +/- unchanging,
then, all my personal, own horizons are immortal as well.
Jun 4, 2023
Jun 4, 2023 at 6:34 AM UTC
weeding ‘n planting,
(ten rows of garlic, waiting to bite caressing hands)
<•>
unsurprisingly to me
garlic native to northeastern Iran,
so says the arbiter-know-it-all, Senor Wikipedia
did you know that,
amongst us,
a young woman whose back
is bent,
bent over,
weeding and weeping, while picking,
retrieving the fruit of the plain earths plane
spending days
retrieving spring-planted bulbs in the sun,
a mysterious poet residing among us
conjuring up poems and, **** even
plants questions
with granted permission
asks a strangers gasping queries
so simple she renders his
body from soul, makes him
disclose his crazy ill-at-ease
showing
his own
general roots,
slumbering deep in reddish brown soul’s earth
one whose only great escape
through the written poem
when his back is straight,
straight against the wall
backed up,
and ripe for the picking
in reparation
the favor will be returned
three inquiries will be fedex’d
if I ever learn her address
for now, in the throes of soil resting within,
my need knowings just nurturing
until the calendar declares time!
harvesting is now
when we ready shake hands
when you say
“here is the garlic tended,
and here are our hands,
bitten and caressed”
till such time I get
the answers from
the farmer herself,
I can patient wait
further research needs
original sources,
till such time,
make up tales
that will hold in abeyance
my half contented garlic dreams
for was it not written centuries ago:
Even After All this time The Sun never says to the Earth, "You owe me." Look What happens With a love like that, It lights the whole sky.
Ḥāfeẓ-e Shīrāzī
Jun 3, 2018
Jun 3, 2018 at 11:05 AM UTC
“Mistakes were made.”
I quote at least three recent former U.S. Presidents,
Who wrote or spoke infamously in the passive voice.
Here’s a bit of history:
The words spoken by automated phone systems,
Were code written by computer programmers.
Computer geeks, revered for their cold logic and impartiality;
Like scientists taught to maintain objectivity,
When studying fascinating subjects like Base-2 Binary Codes,
Disk partitioning and hard drive defragmentation.
Impersonal, the passive voice avoids sentiment,
Steers clear of pesky opinions unfounded on certainty or proof.
Unsurprisingly, the passive voice seeped quickly,
Into the language of politicians,
Our beloved rogues and rapscallions,
Hiding truth, avoiding accountability and culpability.
Practitioners of political science,
They bob and weave and spin.
Yes, mistakes were made.
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 8:11 PM UTC
"If I held myself to my resolutions, I would be twice ahead of the pack. Yet I find myself, perhaps unsurprisingly, bending the rules."
and now I think to myself that I too am in the same predicament.
and so I say, "What lofty goals of this world or the next do you aspire to? Those we share, we can accomplish together." And in the spoken language of prophets you replied: "let the shepherds of goodness upon the earth guide the hand of the ignoble, so that, in their ignorance, they may be of service to the light." But I hesitated; there was the smell of money on his breath... "Why not share our light across the channel we hold now to all brothers and sisters in need of light to shine from their eyes?"
Mar 16, 2021
Mar 16, 2021 at 2:19 AM UTC
We were young when we built our first house
Each brick was a dream of ours
And though the house was supported
We built it too big.
Too many empty halls,
Too many empty rooms,
So secrets began to check into them.
And when these house guests gathered for breakfast
Their welcome was outgrown.
So our big house emptied, one by one
And it seemed to be the end.
But of course, we could always downsize.
So we were still young when we built our second house
This time, being much smaller
But, unsurprisingly,
This home didn't last long either.
A huge storm arrived,
And tore the boards apart
Yet each gust was oh so tender,
It was as if they came from your hands.
And though I loved to be right,
I hated being right about this.
Jul 31, 2017
Jul 31, 2017 at 8:02 PM UTC
no matter where i look my eyes seem to find you
in the crowd of many
amongst the plenty
you are there and so am i
but the space between is unsurprisingly wide
i don’t want to let the words that once thrived
within
begin
and continue
so stop your looking
because i'm trying not to find you
and i know you aren't trying to find me
stop your staring
your eyes draw in more than they should
and mine push away what they can't bare
because i found myself thinking about you too much
not a lot but too much
in the context
of too much too full
too little too soon
i found myself thinking about you too much
and i don't know what to do
Oct 15, 2017
Oct 15, 2017 at 1:03 AM UTC
our host fears nothing more than he fears the rodeo. he is drunk and rubbing his plain face with a coarse sponge. he thinks the presentation of blood on his cheekbones is proof of clown make-up. I side with the group labeling him as harmless. those in the disagreeable group lock themselves away in our host’s bathroom. though the group is small, its two most vocal members have been struggling with their weight and a third is quietly pregnant. I take it upon myself to worry about the amount of air the group has. when the door is unsurprisingly jammed, I keep calm and remove my shoes just as what looks like rust water floods from beneath the door and carries them behind me to where the host is not dancing after all but stomping his bare feet alternately square on a hamster. my best friend of three days wants to save the hamster but cannot believe the short length of its tail. I try to explain that I am not helpless. that I am steeped in tradition and was formerly employed as the guy who chews down the fingernails of professional bull riders.
the thing about ****** is that you haven’t done it until you’ve done it with me.
**** is a harsh word for relocation.
Sep 10, 2013
Sep 10, 2013 at 3:22 PM UTC
Come Down
by Michael R. Burch
for Harold Bloom and the Ivory Towerists
Come down, O, come down
from your high mountain tower.
How coldly the wind blows,
how late this chill hour ...
and I cannot wait
for a meteor shower
to show you the time
must be now, or not ever.
Come down, O, come down
from the high mountain heather
blown to the lees
as fierce northern gales sever.
Come down, or your heart
will grow cold as the weather
when winter devours
and spring returns never.
NOTE: I dedicated this poem to Harold Bloom after reading his introduction to the Best American Poetry anthology he edited. Bloom seemed intent on claiming poetry as the province of the uber-reader (i.e., himself), but I remember reading poems by Blake, Burns, cummings, Dickinson, Frost, Housman, Eliot, Pound, Shakespeare, Whitman, Yeats, et al, and grokking them as a boy, without any “advanced” instruction from anyone. Keywords/Tags: Harold Bloom, literary, critic, criticism, elitist, elitism, ivory, tower, heights, mountain, winter, cold, frigid
Rant: The Elite
by Michael R. Burch
When I heard Harold Bloom unsurprisingly say:
Poetry is necessarily difficult. It is our elitist art ...
I felt a small suspicious thrill. After all, sweetheart,
isn’t this who we are? Aren’t we obviously better,
and certainly fairer and taller, than they are?
Though once I found Ezra Pound
perhaps a smidgen too profound,
perhaps a bit over-fond of Benito
and the advantages of fascism
to be taken ad finem, like high tea
with a pure white spot of intellectualism
and an artificial sweetener, calorie-free.
I know! I know! Politics has nothing to do with art
And it tempts us so to be elite, to stand apart ...
but somehow the word just doesn’t ring true,
echoing effetely away—the distance from me to you.
Of course, politics has nothing to do with art,
but sometimes art has everything to do with becoming elite,
with climbing the cultural ladder, with being able to meet
someone more Exalted than you, who can demonstrate how to ****
so that everyone below claims one’s odor is sweet.
You had to be there! We were falling apart
with gratitude! We saw him! We wept at his feet!
Though someone will always be far, far above you, clouding your air,
gazing down at you with a look of wondering despair.
Mar 30, 2020
Mar 30, 2020 at 12:44 AM UTC
Unsurprisingly, I'm numb.
I suppose it hasn't hit me;
Then again, I'm emotionally thrifty
When Death swings his scythe.
So many people weep and wail,
Their arms flailing
As they cry and rail
Against the All Powerful.
Yet, I am empty.
I've been to funerals aplenty,
And I'm indifferent.
Death is inevitable--it happens to us all.
For me, it means a feast of fried chicken
And lots of finger lickin'.
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 10:08 PM UTC
Reading bad poetry,
writing bad poetry,
existing as a subpar slice of
unemotional prose.
I'm a singsong
last-ditch singalong;
ding-dong-ditch me,
***** me out.
Slice me up and
lay me out to dry.
I cut onions:
I don't cry.
You ignore me:
I don't mind.
Remember me
as a sad story and not a person.
It'll be gratifying,
albeit dehumanizing,
patronizing,
but at least you'll be sympathizing
as I'm unsurprisingly capsizing.
Right now I'm realizing
that I wanna be the hungry waves
and not the sinking ship;
the sharp harpoon and not
unfortunate Moby ****
I wanna be the brick
instead of the window pane;
I wanna be the ****** sword
and not the bleeding slain.
So the inferiority complex that's been harrowingly ingrained
inside of my needlessly idle brain
can **** off once again,
because I'm gonna be the poet now,
not the reader, page, nor pen.
Aug 8, 2016
Aug 8, 2016 at 11:44 PM UTC
Blacked out again,
unsurprisingly,
swallowing the room.
Spinning in a lucid dream,
blessed to consume.
Breaking into.
Ash shadows
drill bit chest
I am not your savior
I am a suitcase bomb
I only devour
breathing fire
and I will apologize to no one
for doing what I said I would.
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 3:07 PM UTC
I didn't want to believe them;
I wished to maintain my faith
in who I thought she was;
I was proven wrong.
Oh, so very wrong.
Over and over again.
They were right about her
and I should have listened
instead of assuming I knew her.
Word spreads much like a wildfire:
"Drunk on Ego and rather mean,"
I fear they were right about her.
"Narcissistic **** of a basket case,"
I should have listened to every word.
"Fun, until you get too close and start to care,"
it seems they knew how it goes;
"Gets under another to get over herself"
Okay, to be fair,
on one hand
everyone needs a rebound sometimes,
but,
on the other hand,
she never stops bounding
from one
to the next
to the next
and back
then to the next
and et cetera
ad infinitum;
both behind your back
and right to your face.
That ****
will never be the same;
sure glad it's not mine
to maintain.
Such a shallow temptress.
Such a public Temple.
That ****
will never be the same;
sure glad she's not mine
to entertain.
I covet not her Temple,
for few exist more heavily trafficked
that don't charge palpable admission
for maintenance; unless, of course,
that's where the copious volumes of ***** come in.
Word seems to spread
quicker than her legs
for her latest fancy,
which is really no small feat.
Word seems to get around,
just as what's said of the fair Strumpet;
and, unfortunately but unsurprisingly,
they are ******* right about her.
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 2:43 PM UTC
You
1.
used to refer to the person or people that the speaker is addressing.
"are you listening?"
2.
used to refer to any person in general.
"after a while, you get used to it"
I wish I wasn't listening
Or reading
To the broken
The mourning
The snide remarks
The boos
The cheers
I never got used to it.
The teasing
The gap
Just because
I'm Korean
We were
All
Walking the tightrope
And
I,
Disappointingly
But
Unsurprisingly,
Fell.
Book
Music
Films
Sports
Art
Dance
I went through them all,
Trying to find relief.
But none came.
I am not what you think I am.
No one knows the true me
Hell
I don't even know.
"Have you ever smiled?"
"I never seen you smile,
Is there something wrong?"
"Are you alright?"
The question bounce
Around me
Eating me
Drinking me
Consuming me
Breaking me
I lost my smile
At a very young age
I stopped talking after that
Singing
Dancing
Being ME
Was a totally different girl
I sit
With my math in front of me
After a violin performance.
Being called nerd,
Asian
Yellow
Bomber
North K
******
Gay
******
********
Medusa
I'm used to it now.
I look up, and
smile at my mother
Who loves me
And hates me
"After your homework is done,
Dry your hair and
Get ready
For your concert
On Saturday."
She kisses my head
While my father scoffs
"How did you get 2nd chair
With no skill?
You're only on book three"
I look away.
I look back.
My father hasn't spoken.
Nor my mother
They're downstairs
And
I
Just
Cry.
Dec 5, 2018
Dec 5, 2018 at 9:53 PM UTC
we were laying on the floor talking
about your perpetually ***** hands,
stained from rusty machinery, and I got
to thinking that they looked an awful
lot like terra sigillata, or marmalade
or yams or tulip poplar honey--
waxy, with a glazed finish
you brush your left thumb down my pinky
and comment on the thinness of my skin
(unsurprisingly) I mean, look at my hands! you say
and I do and you're right, your hands
are like slabs of green wood--in fact
your whole body seems like some sort
of pliable tree trunk but I don't say this
because we've lapsed into a silence or
an otherwise conveniently synchronized
thought that has billowed up around our
hips until our arms are overlapped and
extended like a petiole of our bodies with
my palm cradled in yours like some aeriform body,
birdlike and gentle. You're tracing those lines like they
mean something.
Like they
mean something to you.
you have to understand that I am too often
inside myself, awash on a shore, grown into
the sand like a clam, experiencing solitude
through a shell, keeping at bay on the bay
sending prayers up like signal flares
pumped up into the sky, silent on
the horizon, loud from in here,
so when I tentatively thread my
fingers through your hair, know
that I do so in supreme intimacy
because words supposedly say
the most (depending on who
you're talking to) but my
hands are a different language
a different place, a different time
a company of dissarranged thoughts
and emotions, rippling and swelling
trying to make sense of being touched
so
softly
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 8:27 PM UTC
Today is my birthday,
And unsurprisingly
I haven't yet heard from my family.
I texted my twin
Late last night and early this morning,
But my texts have gone unanswered.
I miss her.
I miss all of them.
I was a fool of a child,
Writing all those stories
In which I'd leave them
And start over somewhere
Completely new
With people who didn't know my past
Or care.
All I wanted as a kid
Was to have a different family,
But now all I want is mine back.
It all went so very wrong,
And I don't know if I can fix it.
I don't know if it's even fixable.
I doubt that it is.
So all I'm left with are the memories.
It hurts, you know, to be left.
I think I always knew it would,
So I dreamed of doing the leaving,
But I loved them
And some part of me couldn't leave.
So I stayed
Until they had one by one left me.
I know it wasn't easy for them to stay.
Just because we're family
Doesn't mean that we're required
To stay in each other's lives.
But I chose to stay,
And it hurts
That they didn't choose the same.
I guess I should do what they have done:
Form a new family
With the people I want to be around
And who want to be around me.
But all I want is them.
I want to feel their arms wrap around me
In a great big hug.
I want to share
In their triumphs and successes;
I want to cry with them
In their failures and sorrows.
I want to laugh with them
The bellyaching, deep-chested guffaw.
I want to fall asleep
Knowing they are near.
I want to reach out and hold their hand,
And look down to see the skin
So similar in tone.
I want to eat a meal with them.
I want to hear the sound
Of our voices melded in harmony
Sing together.
But most of all,
I want to enfold them in my arms
And say, "I love you with all my heart."
And have them say it back or "Me too."
I want to know
They are safe and happy and healthy.
I want to soothe their fears and anxieties
With a hot cup of tea
And a good laugh or cry.
But most of all,
I want to look into their eyes,
To say nothing,
Just to gaze again at the depths there.
I want to stand with them
Through everything they face,
Shoulder their burdens,
Put a smile in their eyes.
But most of all,
I want us to say,
I love you.
I love you too.
I love you four.
I love you infinity.
I love you more.
I want them to know love--
Unconditional, freely-given,
Unyielding and unwavering love.
And I want them to see
They're my family,
And that I will love them.
Always.
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 4:55 PM UTC
sitting in LA traffic,
feeling very traff,^
unsurprisingly,,
dream-haze to SF,
now, every doorway
is an entrance/exit
to the Matrix
the movie is all about
concentric circles of reality
intersecting, when I emerge
in Chinatown, me and naturally,
Neo too,
(older and cute, and edible, like my fav flav)
who finds me equally irresistible,
He asks am I real,
sore disappointed,
for earlier, making love,
there were no harpsichords,
just The Zombie’s breathy vocals,
singing prophetic these songs
“She’s Not There” and
“Tell Her No.”
my then reality was in no doubt,
but nearness breeds suspicion
as much as trust, and Neo
is a worrier, I foresee not
much future for him & me
other men have called me Shylock,
for the betrayal probability is nearer
to 1, and these words, a reality test,
a forewarning to all in my bed sojourn,
are framed, resting above my pillows:
“*If you ***** us, do we not bleed?
If you tickle us, do we not laugh?
If you poison us, do we not die?
And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?*”
tear stains, some from loneliness,
others from being held to tight,
some from my own scripts reread,
some from you, you don’t even know
when they stay over, I give them
one of two matching robes, both
Barbie pink,
those that laugh and grab it on,
they’re the keepers, they are for real,
just like me
by the way, so many of you have drunk
my crazy words, it’s inexcusable that I’ve
not thanked you yet, individually like the
Queen Mother teaches, repeat reminds,
preenly informs, nothing better than
a hand written thank you note, so
considered yourself served and appreciated!
am I for real?
the very question I ask myself daily,
to my morn mirror who magic replies,
more than real, crazy unique special, so so
different, otherwise I wouldn’t stick around,
and I thank the mirror with a lipstick kiss,
and it blushes from the love so real, and
cracks
a smile and says you be careful my genteel,
lady princess, your pale skin is exposed and
the California sun is a burning torch and it
touches your perfect body like all the others,
whose fingerprints evaporate in time, so husband
your love, give it slow and precious, for you are
more than mere real, after all,
you are Brandychanning
Dec 20, 2023
Dec 20, 2023 at 12:16 PM UTC
the last time I shared about my affair,
i spoke of the end.
yet here we are again.
the devil,
so loving
so cunning
so addictive
so noxious.
for a moment,
i found myself no longer feeling affection for him.
no longer wanting to attend to his every want & need.
no longer caring whether or not he noticed my absence.
'I hate him and if I see him, I swear I'll tell him that.'
lies.
all. lies.
i knew he was ruinous, detrimental to my health.
however..
to my heart, he was the universe.
to my body, he was the crème de la crème.
to my soul, he was all i craved.
but to my mind..
he was poison.
infecting my thoughts daily..
every second of the day.
yet i still played it cool and kept my distance.
one day, it hit me.
like a baseball was pitched at 90 miles per hour
aimed right at my head.
and then i missed him.
i missed his smile,
his laugh,
his voice,
his smell,
his touch.
i missed *the way we ******
the way he never failed *to make me ****** a thousand times.*
the undeniable skinship we shared.
i missed his mind.
a never-ending labyrinth that i had no problem getting lost in.
a dark yet beautiful & comfortable place.
i knew that reconciliation was an option.
but as usual,
my mind & heart could not concur.
ultimately,
it was what i wanted.
and so it was.
unsurprisingly,
he accepted me with open arms.
'I miss you too baby.'
sigh. he knew it was inevitable too.
he isn't all bad.
he isn't all good either though.
after all, he is still the devil.
and i am hopelessly & irrevocably in love with him.
[r.r.r.w]
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 11:10 AM UTC
Ignorablity is by far my best quality.
I could be in a room full of people,
Screaming in pain or sobbing like a baby,
And still be ignored.
I'm practically invisible
Sometimes it's good,
But mostly
It's a curse.
I've been crying every day this week,
But unsurprisingly,
No one has bothered to ask me why.
I'm slowly crumbling into myself,
Dying,
Alone,
Afraid,
Starving for care.
Yet,
Unsurprisingly
No one
Was
There.
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 12:23 PM UTC
You want me to be me,
but the me you envision.
After all you're always right.
...
I maintain my own balance with the world,
but again my imperfections are brought to light.
Unsurprisingly I let you down,
Not because I refuse, but because I cannot fight.
I am not allowed to be me.
...
You expect me to be more. Everything at once.
To take care of my self, others left unattended.
To maintain the enviroment, other aspects let down.
I'm slow, I don't understand, I run out of time. Doesn't matter.
...
You miss the attention, the dedication, that I used to give.
You want the little things, the gifts, the cuddles, the affection.
I with to provide, but often cannot, the hell if I know why.
...
I've come to live in fear.
Reluctant to return home from work
Not wanting us left alone.
...
The easy seperation isn't an option, too many depend on us.
I don't want that. I never would have started if I wanted an end.
But I don't know how to heal. Or if we can.
...
Always on the negative, never the positive.
Providing motivation out of fear not desire.
Meanwhile I'm dying inside.
...
I've had to learn to resist depression
and to repress who I am.
I've given up dreams of a future
and am left to see what happens.
...
So much sacrifice that cannot be undone,
starting to wonder what I gave it up for.
Jun 3, 2017
Jun 3, 2017 at 11:27 PM UTC
The house shifts and sighs trying to settle into place
But it’s impossible to get comfortable
With all those stomps and smashes beating from inside
Like a cracked heart pounding against a proud chest
Trying to forgive and forget but instead fettered to emotion
Unsurprisingly the house only knows how to creak.
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 11:37 PM UTC