"vacancies" poems
Entry ~
You were the first man that ever broke my heart. It was the day I was born. You held me in your arms and made me a promise that would rip us both apart. You promised to love me unconditionally from the start. But time passed and over the years those words faded from your heart. In the presence of a war when you had one foot out the door. There are vacancies in my memories where a father should have played a part. Like teaching me to drive a car, or telling me don't believe boys that say I love you from the start. Instead, I looked at every boy with tears in my eyes and willingly accepted every single lie, thinking maybe if I part my thighs they'll learn to love how broken I am inside, but they never do. Just like you they leave without a single clue and I'm left alone, used, wishing my daddy would have loved me too. And I'm not writing this to blame you, or break you, or tell you I hate you. I've made mistakes too. Ones deeply rooted in my relationship with you. And I get that maybe you didn't have a clue that your daughter was struggling in the world without you. But I relied on you to set the standard for boys I would let into my heart. By the time I was sixteen, I felt like a tortured piece of art. I learned to love myself of course. Over the years of ripping myself apart I learned to chart the darkness in my own heart. I don't blame you anymore for my broken parts. I'm healed from being angry at you. I'm writing this to tell you I'm sorry for failing you, and I'm sorry you failed me too.
Sep 25, 2017
Sep 25, 2017 at 12:07 PM UTC
A bracelet of blue upon her hand
Made it easier for me to imagine
The way they loved each other;
I saw his eyes in every rock,
In emotions solidified to glistening bits;
I saw his attachment to her soul
Like pendants hanging from her arm
I saw his eyes in every piece of stone,
Now cracked;
In the midst of the serenity in a glittery blue gem
I saw collateral damage.
I saw hope in her eyes
And dry tears accumulated on the side lines
For she decided that, that is where they belong;
She clenched to a cup of tea
Like they were his arms,
Warm as always,
Soothing as usual,
Just the way it was when he was around.
I saw his imprints on her fingers
I saw him fiddling with her words,
Although they weren’t much,
For some words she decided to keep for him
Some words are just between them…
And those were the words that mattered most.
Dear martyr I saw in stone,
They wrote your death sentence
But I wrote you sentences on my bones,
I dreamt of a country for you
I dreamt that you would be in it
But all that’s left of you is stone.
Bracelets cuddling hands;
Hands that wrote on papers
The future of tomorrow.
Dear martyr I saw in her eyes,
You are safe there;
But it is very dangerous in my mind.
You have drowned in her tears
Rested upon her eye lashes,
You swam your way in between
Her wavy hair,
You have held her hands
With mugs of warm tea.
Dear martyr I fumbled on my papers,
My papers will not fade away,
My words will collapse on buildings
Destroying walls they have built to hide the truth
Unwiring bombs they have planted
As they try rewire our minds;
My voice will be ours
And your voice will rest.
For your place is in the vacancies
Between every piece
Of a bracelet
That had you
Written all over.
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 7:59 PM UTC
Sometimes face painting
another persona
becomes plain,
her exaggerated giggles
don't slouch right
upon the rose buds,
(Mama noted them first -
cherishing her eleven winter's
awaited delivery)
so readily pruned
of actuality and truthfulness
ravaging an inner shadow -
still Eight Christmases young
playing on her fruit's swing,
running dough fingers across
tangerine bars.
Before memories
commence their chorus,
pleading forgiveness and
forget-me nots,
'No Vacancies'
is rehung within
her windows
moss embroidered.
Oct 25, 2011
Oct 25, 2011 at 2:07 PM UTC
She approached me
Tiptoeing from across the room,
Although no one was asleep around us to wake;
I watched her lower lip bleed
From biting too much,
As she deciphers the DNA codes on her hair
With her fingertips,
Stroking the life out of it
Up and down-
And up and down again.
She said don’t get me wrong
But I found myself;
I found myself lurking underneath the light of your words
Bending with your o’s and standing straight with your I’s,
Because I
Got lost;
I got lost in the stories you wrote
About the girls who broke
And they felt just like me-
Dazed
By the love poems you cried down for her,
And I wondered how beautiful she must be.
I got flustered
In the blank spaces
That you chose not to write in,
And it felt like I should cut parts of myself
And add them in the vacancies
But I just don’t know what to add.
For every time I rest my soul
On the tip of a pen
I feel like I’ve said too much,
And every time I scratch my words
Throw away my being
Behind
Unread books and dusty light stands
I believe I haven’t said enough
For I could give more,
Be more,
If only I could start over,
And you
You seem to know me more than I know myself;
You have built bridges
Out of my paper shreds,
Tunnels out of my unexpressed thoughts-
You have created your haven inside my brains
And settled down in my heart.
You’ve managed to make me chew your words
Like breakfast
Was a poetic meal to be served
At all times of the day;
You’re an image,
I re-create you in my mind
Before I sleep
After asleep
And even during I sleep-
The thoughts of you never quit my head
Like a gamer would never quit
A game of Warcraft
In the midst of hunting season”
She took off her glasses,
And I could see the marks of them
Being there for too long.
She closes her eyes
As if she was about to take a leap of faith,
But instead she leaped two steps into my arms
And that was when
I got to ask her
What her name was.
And that was when I realized
It didn’t even matter.
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 4:43 PM UTC
out goes
software developer
web designer
computer ****
mercahndise managers
vacancies now:
virtchandise manager
cloud transformation officers
outcome aggregator
data evangelist
sensemaking analyst
sales ninja
digital dynamo
happiness advocate
online community facilitator
web funster
you ready?
Feb 24, 2012
Feb 24, 2012 at 7:19 PM UTC
Parts of his existence:
_A vessel_; is a magic that flows through its veins— the color of my cheeks and the color of his madness
_A certainty_; all flesh and bone, sutured and bruised; we can be made of cracks, somehow.
and my heart, he had it all as black holes grew in my chest (_as if the vacancies could be filled by his existence_)
_for me, he is insatiable
as I was always heartless_.
May 29, 2022
May 29, 2022 at 5:16 AM UTC
We were always bored
Looking for a piece of the action on
Ash tray floors and bong-ridden windows
Ambitious, ambidextrous fools
Trying to reach the icy heights at flaming fifteen
As we got older
Now we're too busy to just sit
And stare at the wall
We should've just stared at the wall
While we could
But we were too busy climbing
Overcoming building blocks
Now that they're stepping stones
All the doors we really need are locked
We should've stayed grounded
In trampolines and pavement chalk
Biding our time in the
Occasional tightrope walk
But to have it all when you want it
Is such a drug
So we pushed each other off
Just to feel the flight of falling
We tried so hard to make the pieces fit
But one puzzle solved
Is just another with more anguish in it
Taking left-hand paths
Just to prove ourselves right
Filling unknown vacancies
We were explorers in the night
As we got older
Now we're to busy to just
Wander in the woods
We should've just stayed in the woods
While we could
But the page has turned
The properties of sin have left us
Stranded in empty lots
Drawing straws for who and who is not
Passing notes and paper planes
We should've been holding hands
Connecting dots, embracing pain
We could've formed a circle band
Kings and queens and peasants
We were them all
But the trinity was dissolved
By geometry's laws
We tried so hard to make the language fit
But one riddle solved
Is just another with more questions in it
When genuine thoughts begin
To get abbreviated
You better pray you're not
The one who's deviated
Cause as we get older
We become too busy to
Recognize the truth
We should have recognized the truth
But it's no use
I don't know what happened to us
But I thought the underdog
Always got the glory later
So I saved my moments in a box
But the contest for youth fame
Is masked by drama's feeble gain
Cause what transpires long after
Is a race for cheap laughter
Better cross your fingers
And stand out as a loser
Lest you become a cabaret
The second you begin to change
I tried so hard to make myself fit in
But one problem solved
Is just another nihilistic moment
Nov 25, 2011
Nov 25, 2011 at 10:36 PM UTC
it was the
summer
of 13
when a city
consumed in a
Cronut crazed
heat wave
amped
the tenderloin
slicing the underbelly
of Hell's Kitchen
packing meat for
Russian oligarchs
pouring fistfuls
of petrol rubles
down the
thirsty gullets
of glutinous
developers
their distended
bellies welling
with aching
avarice
from an
extended
stay at an
All You Can Eat
zero interest
smorgasbord
courtesy of
Uncle Sam’s Diner
somewhere off the
West End
getting fat
on the land
reclaimed
and rebuilt
on the dust
and detritus
of an expired
Great Society
Bloomie's metropolis
rising on the rubble
of razed neighborhoods....
the vertical leaps
shooting ever upward
the heady windows
framing portraits
of endless replication
offering the amenities
of the vain comfort
found in ghettos of
soulless high rises
and the billowing
gray perspective
of blanched out
street cafes
brewing $9 lattes
and big box
boutiques busy
busking the
latest rage
of sweat repelling
yoga mats and
wearable apps
America’s Mayor
Giuliani paved the way
he arrested all
the squeegee men
confiscated their Windex
dumped it down
the sewers and filled all
vacancies at Rikers
a year after Sandy
rolled up the Hudson
breaching the banks
of West Street
licking the streets
clean of urban
flotsam the
surging boom
bloomed
Bloomie bankrolled
a red carpet
for his global
fraternity of
plutocrats
unleashing a
tsunami of
shekels
washing away
the fading
memories of
Captain Sully’s
cool headed
lunch pail
heroism proving
that 727’s can
walk on water
was now passe
Lou Reed
left town
the wild side
monetized by
the belching
banality of
Urban Hipsters
millennial
babes in toy land
embarked on an endless
shopping spree
where credit limits
never expire and
giddy narcissism
greased with entitlement
orders up room service
as the next course
in this endless
movable feast
Music Selection
Philip Glass
The Hours
9/8/13
NYC
jbm
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 2:50 PM UTC
My limbs've caught fire.
Senseless, I no longer know pain
from passion from energy
from subconscious,
all are smoldering in my chest,
and my mind has vacancies
and that burning blackened lightness
flows as heaviness
through my fevered arms
and into my hands
and one of which,
palm up and hand cupped,
stretches out with fingertips starred
for the faucet in the bathtub.
Grasp, twist,
return-turn wrist.
Grasp, twist.
Toes bargained with Feet
and, upon agreement, conspired with Legs
for, what I can only hope was, a hefty price
to absently stumble and stew this body,
raw, in a basin too small for my meat,
and the cast-iron bathtub
will soon boil like a tea kettle
without a screaming spout
and I will steep my mate
without metal mesh and bombilla.
Too hot, for too long, with too little,
but I'll sip it, silently, as it bubbles.
Not a wince,
even if blood spills out my sockets
I won't close these eyes.
Watch them drink of life
as flesh drips down my lips
and reddened cave lights
emerge from the depths
and fill my eyes.
My movements were never aimless:
a body took advantage of my absentmindedness.
Sep 24, 2012
Sep 24, 2012 at 9:04 PM UTC
Stop that.
Time to rewind.
This is just the red hand
Clenching to our demise.
Again and again,
These stalking shadows
Contain nothing.
But accumulated memories
Frozen and entombed in the burrows,
Of irresistible vacancies.
These shadows filter an echoed voice
So distant and empty.
Humming his plan in disguise
Behind the shady screens of mockery.
The lack of verb.
The absence.
The silence.
The momentary whispers
Trembling and capturing the smoke,
Releasing around the barriers,
Creating an ephemeral noose.
Taking me away with the disappearing sparks that fly.
Trembling upon this noose,
Knots tangle in white rope
With a twinkle in its eye
Woven and stitched
in the last futuristic glimpse
Of setting free
And finally letting go.
Dec 22, 2016
Dec 22, 2016 at 8:52 PM UTC
What is it like..
To have someone to
Want to hold your hand,
When you shiver in your sleep,
Or when its too cold
For yourself to keep-
-warm in the arms,
Of the loving embrace,
like the light through the night.
When you're the Earth,
and they hold you into-
-place of the blood driven,
One-stop-heart motel,
As the sign illuminates
No vacancies,
Except when they are around-
-the world that shall give,
Anything but not everything,
A flawless image of imperfection,
Him, her, you.
A present for the forgiven.
So,
How is it like to feel loved,
By someone other than
The ones who taught you
Love existed?
Because I would like to feel that too.
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 11:13 AM UTC
Step 1: Legalize all drugs and treat their possession as a public health issue, as is practiced in Portugal
Step 2: Get all nonviolent drug offenders out of prison and (A) into treatment when dealing with harder drugs like meth/coke/heroin (B) get the *** growers some jobs doing what they're good at, and watch as the extra tax revenues progressively revitalize both local and national economies. (1)
Step 3: Fill the new vacancies in the nation's prison system with the entire US government and the top 1% of income earners as punishment for their hubristic crimes against nature and humanity.
Step 4: Forgive all debts and redistribute all of the assets of the aforementioned parties among the entire population, but especially the impoverished classes, to create socioeconomic balance.
Step 5: Decentralize the economy and rebuild it along the lines of federated, autonomous municipalities, based on common ownership of economic resources, free education and healthcare, and participatory democracy. Once this is done, we can let the former government and 1% out of prison. (2)
Brought To You By: Homunculus For President (but not for very long, because being an authority figure would sort of contradict the entire essence of the society I just described) 2016
Oct 1, 2016
Oct 1, 2016 at 3:48 AM UTC
pebbles
over the eyes
beautiful vacancies
and folded hands
our true home
land of inanimate flesh
gray skin
in sunken grave beds
and operas
theater of mice
while tumbled hair still grows
we are already dead
waiting for the flaming barge necropolis; to
shuttle seas raven
vanishing point
age; a slow erasure
the mind still wreathed into the torrents of life
morals transmute into desires lost
every inhalation
a going going gone
the only savage kisses;
crypt tongues slow unwinding
allusions of a destiny abandoned
forgotten
from niggling chatter
and the price of a chicken
bathing in a tide pool abyss
of inked black teas
i hold fast
losing steps
a worn animal, waiting
till sanctuary comes
Feb 18, 2019
Feb 18, 2019 at 3:23 PM UTC
The smell of your cigarette still lingers;
Note to self: Open the window...
The things you wrote to me;
Note to self: Delete...
The blame you cast upon me;
Note to self: ******* let it go...
I don't care anymore... this heart is closed.
Note to self: No Vacancy...
---------------------------------------
"Closed for the winter season.
Will re-open in Spring."
---------------------------------------
"Hello, hello...is this Hotel Heart?
Could I talk to the proprietress,
Lily Mae?
I'd like to make a reservation for 2 weeks in April;
a double room with hot shower, double bed,
and personal room service.
Any vacancies for that time?"
"Hello...you've reached Hotel Heart.
We're currently closed,
but will be re-opened in the early Spring;
please leave me your contact information,
and I'll get back with you
as soon as the reconstruction is finished.
Thank you for calling
and have a great day."
Jan 3, 2011
Jan 3, 2011 at 6:03 PM UTC
Vacancies left by death
are realized in life.
We wander across worlds
over time, dismissing the old
but there are some worlds
which we do not leave behind
and its the collection of these speckles
that make us realize the symphonies
camouflaged under the monotone of mundane.
Its these speckles that intoxicate us into nostalgia
and dejavu .
and yet its that one speckle that covers our eye
a rising sun that romanticizes the sky
Mar 1, 2016
Mar 1, 2016 at 12:17 PM UTC
When I am done with my poem today
You might see it.
Well, if you're reading this
then you did see it.
I'm sorry.
As the fingers strike the keys
my mind is sodden.
Vacancies available, as they say.
Anyway, cast your thoughts
to those who will not see this.
Either occasional lookers
or Hello Poetry zealots
may let these pixelated words slip by.
They won't be affected.
But you are.
Now, I'm not expecting to change your life
but maybe I've got you thinking
at this moment,
when already in the past I've finished this
and sat back silently,
wishing the dull pain
of the past's barbs in my mind
away.
You are potentially similar.
Or maybe you already switched away.
****
I forgot again.
I got up to talk to my dad.
I took out the garbage.
Did you stop, leave in the middle of this poem?
It's okay because me too.
You have read this poem,
maybe considered it.
I am almost done.
I'm not sure how this is going to end.
I guess I'll just put out my poem now
for people to find and to not find.
But remember
that the small stuff
from insignificant sources
feels for you.
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 8:03 PM UTC
There are few bottlebrush trees here,
A couple grew in front of our house,
The entrance to our house they guard.
When it is season for them,
They bloom very lavishly,
Even striking is one's stem.
It was pecked upon by a woodpecker,
Thak-Thak-Thak, Thak-Thak-Thak,
The stem's bark finally gave away slowly.
By the end of October '06,
The hollow was readied,
The woodpecker moved in.
It gave shelter to the two birds initially,
The male & the female woodpeckers,
They stayed there for a complete season.
Saw their family grow,
From just the parents,
It even had chicks now.
The chicks grew fast under parental care,
I even listened to their infant chirping,
Saw the parents flying to get forage not so rare.
Then one day a snake slithered,
Until that hollow, it climbed,
The woodpeckers made a lot of noise.
They both screeched repeatedly,
But their cries were useless,
They could not scare away the snake.
The serpent then came out after few hours,
Now the crawling was sluggishly lazy,
Its mouth smeared with gooey young feathers.
The family had been destroyed,
An eerie silence shrouded the hollow,
The woodpecker chicks were dead.
Soon, an eagle had hunted the snake,
Hovering in the sky it spotted it,
Grabbed it when in the sunlight it basked.
Now the woodpeckers were gone,
Probably in search of a new tree,
A new tree where a snake won't come.
As for the tree's hollow,
It made a new home,
For a parrot species this time.
And time knows that change will descend,
Even the parrots will desert the hollow,
They will leave in search of the better greens.
Maybe a family of owls will come in the end,
It will be a long-time home, the hollow,
For owls are known to fill all the vacancies.
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 4:21 AM UTC
Some nights, I would set sail
To a thousand words on paper,
And one by one, they would get lost
Beneath the rip tides of your skin.
In sentience and in sleep,
Darling, you are only as real
As the last verse I wrote
On the crumpled walls of dusk.
While the world slaughters dreamers,
I watch you, begging the moon
To drop pieces of itself on sea foam.
I am a slave to your every step.
Tucked underneath crystalline sighs,
The stars would come out to put up tents
In the corner of your eyes, their light
Guiding the way for misguided missives.
Moored to your voice, I listen
As you speak in the language of waves,
Your words undulating with my metaphors,
But stirring holocausts for the heartbroken.
But you are here, and the lines between your eyes
Get tangled up with thoughts bred by midnight.
Your hair, your hair, they tessellate and play
With the colors of honey and amber.
Perhaps, if one were to crack you open
The light of a thousand adjectives
Would come seeping out of your skin.
I am but the shadow it will cast.
And in shadows, they whisper
That dreams can get lost
In the vacancies of the night.
Every night, with you
I set sail to my words
To find them
And lure them back.
Jan 31, 2017
Jan 31, 2017 at 6:58 AM UTC
Step One.
When you are taught that human beings are riddled with gaping holes and survival is nothing more than attempting to stay standing against the rough gusts of wind, allow this fact to coat the surface of your skin. Memorize the mesmerizing patterns of movement of other beings as they struggle to remain on their trembling feet despite the vacancies in their chests, and mimic them with precision. This is the dance of survival that your vacant body will learn until the holes grow too large and the remainder of your body caves. This is how time passes, and this is how time continues.
Step Two.
You are born as a vessel, waiting to be infested with the words of those around you. As you absorb the dancing syllables and learn how to breath in the emotion infused in the air, ensure that you fill yourself up to the brim with this knowledge. Hold these precious collections close, for they are the substance that ensures your body remains seen among the bustling bodies of billions. Then betray your body and allow these collected words escape through petty cracks, knowing that each freed syllable is a step towards invisibility. When you allow all turbulent emotion through the cracks of your lips, you will return to an empty vessel. The silence of vacancy is fatal, and time will persist around your deterioration.
Step Three.
As you grow your body, allow your eyes to stray towards other beings growing their own. You will notice that the curves of your body are not unique, and are merely a slight modification to a standard model. Each word that exits your lips has been uttered before, and each declaration has been confessed long before your body has made its debut. As you allow your fingers to wander around the concave of his body, understand that your body is merely an interruption to the air around it. Any body could take your place, for you are a combinations of tireless repetitions and patterns. When you have allowed this realization to poison your lungs, you will pass as all the other beings have and your time will end. Another repetition will take your place as you have done, and time will go on without you.
Sep 8, 2013
Sep 8, 2013 at 3:02 AM UTC
Love. Love isn't a rose, or a poem, or a romance novel. Love is not a kiss or a hug, or chocolate. Love is infinite, adorable, unquenchable, crazy, catastrophic, undeniably reckless.
And yet humans like to name it and control it, they try to hide it, and defend it. Love is beyond a human's understanding, love is a force and we are the bay, being kicked by it over and over again. Being washed again and again by it's beauty. But sometimes love and often love doesn't go our way. We get knocked down by love and crushed by love, and sometimes we find ourselves in love in the wrong situations. Sometimes we take advantage of love and sometimes it takes advantage of us. It's not cute and especially not at all easy, ever.
Love is a struggle, it's a mountain we climb. It's not a magic potion to solve our problems, it most of the times cause our biggest problems. Love is hard and strange. It isn't easy to handle or fun to tame. It's a puzzle, it's a novel, not a picture pic, and it's not candy, it's not flowers or cake. Every one thinks love is a disney movie, and though their classic pieces of artwork and storytelling, barely does it show real love. Love really comes after the happily ever after, when the happiness fades away people stay because of the love. We love, and love and get cracked. And we fall in love some more, because from the very first moment of our existence, we love our mothers, or whoever the hell is there to greet us as we exit our dark palace called the womb.
Love is hard to understand. Love is old, not lovely. It's bad. And painful. But the being loved and being shown love and loving another human being, despite the raw and hard days of being in loved, or not being loved. Something unexplainable happens that is sort of like a self fulfillment. The holes in our soft hearts are filled. A sort of understanding of ourselves that maybe we aren't such weird and horrible people if someone else could fancy us.
So despite the faults of love and people's poor understanding of love, it is still a emotion we cannot control, we cannot withhold our heart from. It's a wide field of dreams, a host of wonders, a deep vacancies of despair. Love is composed of hurt, mixed with a dash of adventure of being another's.
And I'm saying with love you could be a 103 and still not understand the entire entity of love. It cannot always make sense, and it will not always make sense.
So being in love is not a fairy tale, but the majority of the time a graphic novel. Love is lost kisses, lost time, broken hearts, misunderstanding, and pieces of our lives strewn together making up ourselves, pasted together by the people who we love and who love us.
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 2:48 PM UTC
We did not leave
yet novelty stood out
As if we were strangers in this place
A certain loneliness bloomed
And silence grew from it
We did not leave
yet vacancies filled in
and it's suffocating
We became a village
of foreign gazes and nostalgia
I wanna go home
Can we go home?
Feb 14, 2021
Feb 14, 2021 at 12:37 AM UTC
as human beings and consumers, we often seek for contentment
as seekers, we search for satisfaction to fill in missing parts of us we think we need
as lovers, we seek for attention, longingness and to be far off from the void
we search for what is relevant enough to be the food of our soul, and as we consume we are never satisfied
so we seek for satisfaction, wanting more
and with hands full, a heart pouring out of selflessness, we destroy ourselves
as we fall in love, we fall apart
giving and offering missing puzzle pieces that exist within us
as we gradually become into nothing, we feed off of others, consuming whatever it is they have left
we accept their love, and they, our flaws
aware that we are only body parts that are reconnecting
as we heal, we occupy their vacancies, filling in missing parts that have been hollow for too long
we become their musings, their vertebrae of support
they become our sanctuary and our hope
they become the memories that look into the future
instead of the mistakes that shaped who we are
n.j.
Jun 1, 2016
Jun 1, 2016 at 3:19 PM UTC
What do I do if I've used up all the open vacancies?
There are no more people to use as homes to hide in.
I have to go back into myself, my rooms, my hallways.
Where everything has gathered so much dust.
All curtains have stilled waiting for me to stir them.
I don't remember which doors lead where.
Or if they lead anywhere.
Are they now just ajar, vast caverns into the silence of space?
How much time as passed?
I've lost track.
I have to go back.
But I can't.
I'll sit outside of myself on the steps.
Try not to turn my eyes at the casting shadow
But everything is so,
so,
empty.
And I'm too scared to make it through the doorway.
Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 7:11 AM UTC
So many vacancies.
Vapid halls and streets.
No air. No hearts.
Vacant lands and souls.
Be a hand.
Be a thread.
Be a source.
Be love.
Be the patience.
The light . . .
the empty chair.
Where you can invite someone to sit
Spend time.
Where each other can
fill up the world again.
Willingly wise, adopting time.
Fractures will fade
Patches of hope emerge
Color of
Grass
will grow again.
Sweet fragrant spring grass.
Practicing progress
For each season
A seat for everyone.
Apr 11, 2019
Apr 11, 2019 at 4:22 PM UTC
No muses need apply.
There are no vacancies.
The muse pool is brimming
With metaphors:
*They are thieves
In the night,
Absconding stars
Of time and direction.*
No muses need apply
To classifieds calling
To The Lonely Hearts,
Whose term has expired.
*SWM desiring SWF
for Pina Colada.
Cave optional.*
Lonliness has carried them
To the gates, where
Lonliness awaits.
No. No muses neep apply.
Notes no longer passed
Between rows
In copy-book pages,
Where a returned smile
Meant Sarturday night.
No muses need apply.
Eyes have dried.
No more similies
As you depart,
No figures of speech
From muted heart.
You have left,
And that's a start.
No muses need apply.
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 10:12 PM UTC