Half truths and lies.
The poet had fallen from a brown stool,
bar mongers had just broken out in insidious laughter;
She pushed the glass intimidating testosterone, and
Stood there.
She sat;
the valley of her back-neck
searched corners for fit company.
None found,she called for a shot.
Her descending eyes met the lying man.
He got up.
Amidst all this drama,
alcohol,’you and me’ talk
the poet named her, “Abigail.”
If you look up warehouses late at
night, you’ll find iron rods
making love, and telling you gently
to break some bones before the rust sets
In.
She’ll know you better
when her child falls in love.
two hundred and fifty days into greatness
the tap in the bathroom was not working which meant
the sink would overflow anytime
He had to buy milk and oats for the children
the brown bread was caramelized
his wife was seeing someone else and
casually applied for a paper that had D written all over it with
government stamps
similar to what had made him great, only that was a bit greener, or so he thought. His daughter was ‘wrongly
touched’ in school and only that was accepted because he was HE.
Two hundred and fifty days into greatness,
life had changed, it must have.
He was sitting in his first business class.
Most of you, thankfully, do not know me personally.
On that note, it gives me the freedom to share with you my reflections, misgivings, disappointments, cynicism and very little of happiness. I will begin with posting poems. Please share if they resonate with you.
I am not particularly an optimist so don’t expect swinging bubble gums but if you have had a broken heart, a conflicted mind and a ruptured body, my writings may touch you.
Let’s share unhappiness.
ritthings 